In this small cathedral we meet I sit here waiting for you and it is not long before our joyful reunion. I weep tears of joy being wrapped in your arms feeling your creative energy flow through my mind into my fingers and back out on this small screen.
I have missed this intimacy that fills me with poems and lines along which you travel from me into the universe. Those lines pierce my heart and it overflows with life and love because you have entered.
This is a sacred space for here I bring all the trials and pain and lay them out for your creative plunging being, plunging past the terror and hate without into the deepest part of me a chamber of reunion.
Since this time last month (May 2021) I have been suffering some intense pain in my back due to spinal disk degenerative disease that hurts most intensely when I sit and a bit less when I stand. So that sends me to bed of the couch where I can recline and allow my pain killing measures to take effect. I can really understand how people get hooked on pain killers. So this month has filled me with compassion for those who suffer chronic intense pain. I still await a more permanent or at least a longer lasting solution to this problem. The medical profession sometimes moves slowly. I have missed writing and this morning I forced myself to sit here, meditate, journal, and allow my muse to enter the small space of our garden room where my little computer sits and I can enjoy the feast of green life around me and through the windows AND the feast of creativity – inspiring this my first poem in more than a month. It is amazing how the creative impulse arises when we just stop and allow it to do so. I have missed you all and your poetry, your spilling out of your soul life. I hope I can force myself to return to this small cathedral more often even though the pain continues to nag and pulse. Peace and poetry to all of you, my dear friends.
I'm being slowly pulled away, half unconscious, astray. My morals converted to lust, certainly lost in those lips, on those hips, on those thrusts. Drop by drop I fade, reducted to dust, your eyes on mine, those sighs, never out of my mind, a ***** heavenly sight.
My pen has now run dry No longer does its quaint ink paint dreams of childish wonder or giddy hopes that maybe time might turn back and the bygone days, (their memories made sweet with pain and with grief dead-within the sheaths of past) might come back alive
No longer does my pen burn with the same flame of angst or soothe my grieving soul of the pangs of it's misery or provide comfort to a wounded heart as a catharsis (setting aside the mythical Sisyphus stone)
No longer do ideas flow through my pen No longer does it conceive aspirations of a new dawn; No longer does it's silent mouth whisper to my soul of the void and emptiness of life of words devoid of all meaning and of those silent thoughts left unspoken
The clouds in the sky moved apart like a lover dwelling on fears unsaid the stillness of the night and the silence of the stars hung heavy in the atmosphere and suddenly the moon shinned forth from the tip of my pen.
Like the weeds uninvited In a meadow near perfect Violence and envy Cloud over our minds seamlessly We bicker - We brawl Pouring out an endless stream Of slurs from our mouths Staining our hearts crimson With hatred and deceit Dividing the indivisible Into shallow factions and ideologies So often we split Our hearts into two One trying to relinquish Over the other Like broken pieces of glass Trying to mend Perspectives - distorted
Boged down by apathy To nurture joy is a struggle It is a struggle For the flower of compassion To bloom in hearts - barren Rife with selfishness In absolute darkness A lonesome light Whispers hope into ears - parched
Terror stuck eyes, weave vivid dreams cast in fire burnt hands-gripping over stifled matchsticks and ash sore throats-choked on explosives gasping to breathe-fading into smoke burning pyres-burgeoning graves screams hushed into wet tissues neon lights-cast a shadow over the glow of our souls tinted perspectives-exalted lies apathy reigns over our minds
Sometimes beloved I feel that We're all stuck in our matchboxes closed in from all sides searching for a light living out in constant dread only to be vaporised someday leaving behind-luminous ash and a spark of perseverance for the travellers - weary.
Empty meaningless words hastily scrawled over half torn - bits of paper Still reek of a heart, long lost to despair prey to twisted tongues and shallow sugarcoated taunts (reminiscent of an innocence relinquished by years of growing up)
Sometimes by the moon light, a pale trembling hand still reaches for them instinctively (trying to resurrect a poet long dead.)