Un silence profond.

Pour un instant
tout mouvement cesse
et mon esprit achève
le sommet
de la solitude.

Et puis
tout à coup
le bruit recommence
comme un ruisseau
brédouillant.
Le vacarme assourdissant
remue
les enchevetrêments
de mes pensées.

jusqu'à ce que. . .
jusqu'à ce que. . .
jusqu'à ce que
la paix
revienne.

Et c’est une
situation
qui se répètent
sans cesse.
Comme un robinet
qui coule.

Les gouttes de la
mémoire.
Les gouttes des espoirs.
Le bruit exaspérant,
épouvantable
qui monte,
qui fait revenir
des expériences
qu’on a cru
bien cachées.

Et après
recommence
la lutte.,
la bataille
entre
les souvenirs joyeux
et les chagrins.

Et
au moment où
je me sens crevé
. . .
un silence profond

I try to draw an angel
drawing on the wall
with wings outstretched

drawing patterns on my chest

painting the sun
in a trance
and drawing down the moon

I try to draw your face
from memory

Until I draw my final breath
death
shibboleth of shirt
worn outside the pants

INDEBTEDNESS

Because you did not hesitate to give
Your heart and soul wholeheartedly to me,
Because you helped to keep my dreams alive,
And were wherever you had need to be,

I shall remember everything you said
And everything you did on my behalf,
It will remain for me the fountainhead
And be my beating heart’s oscillograph.

And reaching back across the passing years
Of trials and sufferings and loss untold,
I’ll not forget how well you stilled my fears,
A willing prisoner to your stranglehold.

The most beautiful words
ever spoken
emerged from a heart
that was broken.

What can she know of love
who never love has known?

So finally they’ve been forced to confess
that they have found a complication,
that they will now have to redress
and will require procedural reflation.
Calling it a procedure is less worrying, I guess,
than calling it an operation.
And if it ends up in a mess
the end of which is a cremation,
there’s no need for that to depress,
at least it will provide a point of conversation.

And so I finally can say “goodbye”
to monstrously distressing twenty-sixteen
reflecting back with inward shrug and sigh
on happenings that never should have been.

But I have lived through all that could be thrown
by Nature with insouciant disdain.
retaining sensitivity alone
that I have sought to disregard in vain.

And now as these last few hours pass away
I sit with solitary glass of cheer,
ready to greet the dawn of a new day
that is the harbinger of a New Year.

And I reflect however bad may seem
the slings and arrows of life’s jesting style
it does no good to rant and rave and scream;
such immature response is juvenile.

Better by far embrace the positive
though hard to find in the twelve months now gone,
there’s always much denial to forgive,
and clemency comes easy when alone.

So let me cast aside self-pitying malaise
discarding too the self-indulgent sorrow,
and echoing the mundane Scarlett phrase,
I’ll put it from my mind until tomorrow

The symbols of arriving springtime have come late this year
in north-west London.
The blossom on the apple tree outside my bedroom,
heralding the anticipation of renewal
and the promise of life to come
has been delayed by several weeks.
And the flowering is less profuse than ever.

I try to seek the metaphor;
the concatenation of my personal survival
conveyed by the tree’s own growth.
But what does the linkage signify?
Another year?  Another life?  Another death?
Or none of these?

And if I yearn for signs of immortality
then I am doomed to morbidity,
as the tree is programmed to portray
a slow, inexorable but unmistakable decline.

And still I know that morning light
will daily draw me to my bedroom window
and the forlorn desire to see some sign
some hope, some promise, some assurance
that there is no inevitability
of change,
save that it be change itself.
Instead of which I am presented with
a demoralising symbol of uncertain hopes.

Spring should be an optimistic season;
the blossom on the tree should herald
a renewal, not a death.
But this poor springtime growth has
merely served to reinforce
the fears and sadnesses of
Winter’s  tribulationary concerns.

ENVOI
Five days the blossom stayed
and then was gone.
Nor were concerns allayed,
but hopes were thus betrayed
and possibilities undone.

Sow the seeds of kindness
in the meadows of your life;
and reap the harvest of love
in the orchards of your heart.

We thought that we could have it all;
we were wrong.
We were naïve
to believe
that love would keep us in thrall.

We thought that we would simply scale
those mountains of deceit;
that should we fail
we’d merely use
our own ejection seat.

We were wrong.

It is a perfectly formed teardrop;
or the gold of an autumnal leaf;
it is the first apple or peach blossom
of spring.

It is the sight of a rainbow to a child;
or the sight of the child itself
observing that rainbow
for the first time.

A miracle is the sight of a loved one
beside me when I awake.
It is her hand in mine
to still that ache.

Yet Hume would have us believe
that miracles do violate
the laws of nature.
O, so not so!

For me the laws of nature
are the miracle.
To know that season follows season
is the awe.

And those who despise reason
to favour faith
are merely
self-deluded fools.

Not for me the accusation
of the psalm that would
make me a fool for
disbelieving god.

That I abandon faith
and choose instead
to reason with my brain
thus verifies belief.

It is as hard for the believer
to abandon a belief
as for a man of science
to discard old laws.

But moral values are self-evident.
I do not need an act of faith
to emphasise
A moral code.

It is enough to know that I am one
with all humankind and
whatever touches another,
touches also me.

I seek no vague salvation;
no sweetmeat in the sky;
it is enough to hold most dear
what is simply “I”.

We’ve wandered far from miracles,
from acts of faith and such,
but life itself’s miraculous
e’en to a worthless wretch.

Many years ago
I had a dream.
I believed in innate goodness
and considered myself
an optimist.

Alas for Nature’s
nasty habit
of bringing one
face to face with
reality.

In sport
the arts
and politics . . .
Indeed
in every aspect
and area of my
existence
idols crumbled;
beliefs disintegrated;
hopes evaporated.

And now that dream is gone.

When a fish swims,
what is its destination?
When a bird flies,
to whom is it flying?
And when you leave me . . .
when you leave . . .
Where?
Who?
Why?

My candle burns as brightly as of yore.
“Your what?” the punster gaily asks.
Oh, please do not be such a bore,
I’m really not up to linguistic tasks.

There is no verse that I adore
enough to don one of those casques,
and do not carelessly abhor
The adulation in which Millay basks

It was
a nonsense time.
A time when
hope and opportunity
failed to mesh;
a time when
chance and comfort
came afresh.
And took what little pleasure
piqued my life
and turned it round,
at such a time
when summer had no end
and winter came with snow
and was a friend.

Where is it now?
Now with my hopes
and aspirations
turned to dust?
What sense is there now that
the buds have sprung
their open traps;
that trees have now released
their rich green sap;
thus striving to revive
that withered frame
with fruit and wild flowers
and perpetual peace.

I love the susurration
of sibilant sounds.

The word “bliss”
is blissful.

The word “fuss”
is fascinating.

The word “stress”
is surprisingly soothing.

Tennyson has long enchanted me
with his sibilant Lotus Eaters.
His land of streams,
some like a downward smoke,
slow dropping veils . . .

His sweet music
that softer falls
than petals from blown roses . . .
and music that brings sweet sleep
down from the blissful skies.

I am enamoured
not with the sounds of silence
but with
the sounds of sibilance.

Widgets and gadgets
gizmos and apps.
Whatever happened
to cause the collapse
of my simple world?
What happened to the
simple pleasures?
The joy of simply living;
the joy of simply loving?
All consigned to the limbo
of a thousand electronic
gizmos.

I used to love a lass.
I gave her all I had
in time and space
and multiple delights.
But it is not enough
to satisfy her nights.
Without apps
she snaps.
That *****
needs her gizmo.
Without widgets
she fidgets.
She must have
her gadgets.

I’d like to bury hatchets
in her gadgets.

Why is it that
the foliage of the trees,
with their multi-faceted
shapes
and multi-coloured
hues,
that mask my bedroom windows
from the doubtless uninterested gaze
of neighbours,
endure for eight months of the year
and are absent for four,
and yet those eight fleet by
while the following four
persist so boringly long?

Is there a parallel
with my own life?
Each day is boringly long,
and yet
the preceding eighty-six years
seem to have vanished in
the blinking of an eye.
And those past boring days
seem also to have
disappeared
without a ripple to disturb
the historical calendar
that preceded them.

Every freebie
has a tariff.

When you pray for rain
be prepared for mud.
When you pray for sun
be prepared for drought.
And when you pray for peace
be prepared for war.

Every granted wish
carries a price.

I do not celebrate this pagan feast,
But others do, I know,
And some may call it Chanukah,
Or worship Christmas snow.

But call it whatsoe’er you will;
Light candles, deck your tree,
Or merely give your heartfelt thanks,
Please read this homily.

You do not need a good excuse
To celebrate a feast
You only need to have your fun
Before you are deceased.

"[A season message to all readers]"

I do not celebrate this pagan feast,
But others do, I know,
And some may call it Chanukah,
Or worship Christmas snow.

But call it whatsoe’er you will;
Light candles, deck your tree,
Or merely give your heartfelt thanks,
Please read this homily.

You do not need a good excuse
To celebrate a feast
You only need to have your fun
Before you are deceased.

"[So, whatever is your preferred option at this time of year, please have a wonderful time and a very happy New Year to you all.]"

I love the English springtime:
the lambs that gambol
in the sprouting grass,
and budding flowers
that spread their scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate the sneezes
and the running nose
and streaming eyes
of allergies
in English springtime.

I love our English summer
that warms but rarely
overheats my thirsting
body.  And I love
its cooling breezes.  
But oh . . . !

I hate those wasps
that buzz around
my honey-covered toast
at breakfast-time outdoors
in English summers.

I love the English autumn.
The russets and the golds
that tease my eye;
the orchards and their
apple scent.
But oh . . . !

I hate that mud
that ***** my walking boots
from off my feet
on country rambles
in English autumns.

And then the English winter
that never can decide
which of the seasons
it most likes to emulate.
But oh . . . !
Thank god there are no wasps!