When I am as

a rusty frame resting

in the dump

of it's own miserable present

I can but hope to become

dung

for a new spring.

Where the winds blow;
where the roads roam;
where the sun drys;
where the waters flow;
where the mountains soar;
where the towns lie;
where the oceans swell;
where seeds grow;
where the rains fall;
where the flowers bloom
You are there!

Where to go from here
on this most intimate journey
towards eternity?

I do not know
but my faith remains firm
in trusting Your most precious wisdom!

While celebrating
the late hours
in a silent, white
and sleeping village -

an Elizabethan Serenade
enchants a heart
playing solitaire.

Winding up by the sea

Even the grown-ups appear content
as the first paces of evening
bring a freshening breeze with them.

Time for packing,
beachballs to deflate,
togs to wring out

and uncomfortable grains of sand
to wash away from the nigglies of one's toes
by the cold-water tap
at the local strong smelling
convenience.

Windows and gardens
are gradually transformed
into the threacherous abysses
of thoughts evoking fear -

there are avenues ripe for exploitation
as reluctant and innocent
fanciful minds are laid permanently bare;

fatalism in the face of an accelerating
and inevitable sense of doom and dust.

Without You
I would have no anchor
and would be left drifting,
aimlessly, in the endlessness
of a sea without shores.

With the ever increasing tempo
of time sprinting forward,
like a thoroughbred gone frantic down the course,
the years of yesterday
dress in both the most alluring colours
and the most heart-rending sorrows.

With the mind
turning and twisting
in the agony of a heart
squeezed dry like a sponge with despair
I pace to and fro
in a bedroom's dimly lit silences
as a caged animal
hungering and thirsting
for the scent of a liberating oasis.

With this darting pen
the meandering streams
of my associations
become clear rivers of thought

before being engulfed
by a sea of unadorned paper.

Writing.

None of this
is important.

The poetry
of flesh-and-bone characters,
immunization from what is -

a comfort
in the recognition of ourselves
and realization
that we are not completely
alone
in our aloofness.

Writing in memory
and distance
of those rampant
fiddles and flutes;
of those swaying dances
over drunken floors
and sailing seas;

the jigs in heaven,
rock and roll,
ups and downs
between a nod and a wink -

the forever being,
cynically, hopeful
in the flux of things
that knock us flat
or cheer us on.

Yet again
the stars
are out
in all their
stupendous
glory;

as ever,
a silent
fireworks
of constant
dismay,

while
You knock
on the door
of my heart.

Please enter,
quickly,
that I
might
convey
to the world
with candlelike
signals

something of
the joys
of Your
workings
in, through
and  around
humankind.

You are like a well
of fresh water
in a desert
of desolation.

You are like a warm flame
in the cold night
of dark nihilism.

You are as a compass
in a directionless universe.

You are as a revealing flare
in a sea of distress.

You are as sense
in a maze of absurdity.

You are like a purpose
behind apparent chaos.

You are like an answer
to a long list of supplications.

You are like a surefooted guide
through the muddles realms
of space and time.

You are as a cool dawn breeze
after a night full of fever.

You are as a shining star
in the essence of our beings.

You are like the finest cut diamond
that sparkles in our souls.

You are like the best of wines
that brings solace to our hearts.

You are like a lover
who gives his all
in anticipation
of nothing.

Your heart here
is like a beacon
guiding burdened mortals
from the surfaces of ever darkening waters
to the shores of a safe place of shelter.

For Marie Shine.