A new notebook
with a beautiful cover
beckons me
to open it and to use it,
make it my own,
to explore my own hidden thoughts and desires,
to set myself free.
Yet I am frightened.
For what if I started to write,
branded it with my purpose
and then could not finish it?
What if my purpose deviated?
It would be a book of confusion,
damaged by its first love.
A beautiful ******, ruined by change.

Soon, the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And maybe in your dreams discover
Words and lines to keep.

For the darkness is a tunnel
Straight to Heaven’s door,
There a thousand poets wait for you -
A thousand gone before,
Before their works were finished,
Before their jobs were through
Now creation of the masterpiece
Is solely up to you.

Hear their spirit, poet!
Listen very close.
You’ve been chosen as the protégé
But do not brag or boast
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like hell-fire, burns you up,
Leaves you thirsting for some water
And reaching for a cup,
That crumbles when you grab it.
While the water turns to dust,
But still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

Feel their breath, oh poet!
Cool upon your skin,
Though sweat and perspiration
Reveal the torment trapped within.
For the masterpiece consumes you,
Like a pen that’s out of ink,
Leaves you reaching for a pencil,
And needing time to think,
But both ends are erasers
Now your passion turned to lust
So still you keep on reaching, reaching,
You must, you must, you must.

For the darkness is a tunnel
A tunnel straight to Hell
There a thousand poets wait for you -
At a long abandoned well,
Before their works were finished,
The waters all ran dry
There will be no masterpiece
If all the poets die.

Shh, soon the masterpiece will come.
Shh, soon you’ll fall asleep,
And a thousand poets after you
Will search for words and lines to keep.
Phil Lindsey 6/9/15

the old man asks his daughter
would i be a burden
when these hands can't feed by its own
this body is almost an inanimate mess
by its own can't move place
these feet can't walk to the toilet
on bed release involuntary waste
sit on soiled cloth and foul smell
would you come to my room
a hell smeared in ****** gloom
where now lives your father
who would just won't die
but in his eyes write a poem
from a piece of sky

His love was
this non demanding
kind of silent presence
That did not seek attention
That did not seek acknowledgement
That did not fight for lime light
in her heart
That did not compete
to hold her, to hug her
That did not seek to be captured
in photographs with her
That did not seek pedestals

His presence in her life was always there
Yet with a distance
that he did not seek to concur
His presence in her life
was like the sun
Always afar....Always ablaze
Yet warmed her world, Nevertheless

And part of her died
Turning in to crystals of ice
With Sharp edges, cold
That would externally thrive
Inside her......When the sun died

I am not made to lead
Nor be the barer of responsibility
But neither am I a sheep
Who follows sheepishly
The closest thing that fits me
In our current stretch of humanity
Is being a sage

I climb the limestone stairs
through an arch in rock,
into the earth’s womb,
pass through to a surprise:

George loves Lisa painted on a wall.
I wonder, did he ever tell her?
Did she ever know or think of him,
raise a brood of screaming children?
Did they kiss near wild ginger
above the stony apse?

Did lady’s slipper orchids
adorn their meeting place
where deer drink from rocky cisterns?
Did their love wither like maidenhair fern,
delicate as English Lace?

The symbols have outlived the moment.
There is only today, only
the murmur of water underground,
my finding one trickle into a pool.

I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot long ago.

In love I fell, within me,
With the void, the vastness.
In love I fell, I learnt to just be,
With my silence, the emptiness.

In love I fell, with space,
With the cosmos, the writer of fate.
In love I fell, needed no symbol, no face,
With spirit universal,the natural state.

In love I fell, with nothingness,
The truth I realized this way.
In falling in love with that which is not,
In love I fell with everything there is.

In this love I can simply be,
Without a point, without a trigger,
In this love I am blissfully me,
No reason, no person, no figure.

It seems colder this time...

I mean, sure, I still have a warm body
to lay next to but I'm still chilled
Of course, the fire that burns
hasn't been tended upon
Nobody to cut the wood
No body, no body to cradle
Snowflakes like crystal tears
drop gently from my fears
little tiny rivers of dread
icy rivlets creating endless years
to be skated inside my head

So cold have I become
as I lay me down to sleep
you were once upon a time
the body that once sought mine
now just an empty husk
where I get to warm my feet