Sheep wool entangled
in the barbwire
on the Downs
at the top

and you and Jane
laying there
taking in the sun
and the blue of sky

and white of clouds
the soft grass
beneath you
she pointing

at birds overhead
naming them
laughing
when you got

the name wrong
her moving fingers
the hand waving there
and you talking

of the dullness
of London
by comparison
it unknown to her

the big city
the traffic
the noise
the smell

and she there
beside you
her grey skirt
tucked about her

her white blouse
open at the neck
the impression
of *******

her profile
as you turned
and gazed
the dark hair

embracing
her jaw line
the eyes gazing upward
her white socks

the old shoes
the sight of legs
from shoes
to hem of skirt

the beat of heart
your heart pumping
the sight of her
the closeness

and her voice
in the air your
hand reaching out
to touch her arm

inching outward
your fingertips
and her fingertips
feel and fold

and entangle
and release
and entangle
and she said

that cloud formation
is like an enormous god
opening arms
you looked

and frowned
and that one there
she said
is like an angel

with white wings
you gazed
at her lips moving
that one there

you said pointing
is like Santa Claus
running naked
to the beach

and she laughed
and there was the echo
of her laughter
all over the space

of Downs
her fingers
holding yours
touching

not quite Michelangelo
as art
but at least
some union

of heart
moving heart.

My oh my , dear oh my
Why sole me , deliberate shy
Arrouse me in meself inner sanctum
To cause penises go wild erectum

Why me frail and naive
Touched and grabbed feels so tactile
Breached and pinched gets me unleashed
Fortold and shadowed narrows me leached

Oh how i humble and crumble for pain
Pleasuring may not be enough, but not in vain
Showering me until it rains
Pumping my blood through my veins

Widely and unique i scorge and emerge
Make me *** till i purge
Bright and shiny i humbely traverse
For a non-stoping reverse

And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.

I once read
that if a poem
hasn’t got anything
meaningful to say,
it ought to,
at least,
rhyme.
This one doesn’t.

On this sacred soil
I water with tears
But in this ground
I bury my fears
And on my knees
I carefully prune
Weeds in my heart
That choke out the tune…
Of a new song