#1968
Looking back at life brings on a shiver:
landmarks and stygian fragments,
radiant corrosion.
Will my feet still carry me home?
The morning breaks,
turn the blue skies on!
we're committed now,
guided by a God few know.
On Earth the math is made up,
8 billion people
and 1,000 questions,
out here the days
are numbered differently.
But in the ether aura
there are silent obligations:
we're trading passengers midflight
--the jester and the acrobat inside the LEM,
Marco Polo on the rocketship,
we're eating the survival kit,
making postcards of the trip.
All spoils for survivors.
Post signs for a near perfect disaster.
You are on my mind.
You are in my heart.
Are you in my blood?
I would die for you.
If this is goodbye, remember,
these things happen...
Jan 15, 2025
Jan 15, 2025 at 8:39 PM UTC
Until Mother came back
from the hospital
saying you had
cancer of the lungs
did we know
how ill you were.
Too late to operate
Mother said
in sombre tones.
I had just seen you
two days before
and should have
guessed then
how ill you were
my father substitute
my hero man
amongst mortal men.
What to say to that
and what words to say?
I went up to my room
to lay and weep
and pray your soul
to keep.
On the Sunday morning
the policeman came
to relate your death.
The thread that linked us
in life was cut by death
and you were dead.
How surreal
the policeman's words
and how young was he
for such a task
and he seemed
as wrecked by it
as we.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 1:50 PM UTC
Father's coffin
lay on chairs
in the front room.
There was a sweet smell
in the air.
A single light
lit up the coffin
in the chilly space.
I gazed at him
lying there.
His hair seemed darker
not so grey.
The lines on his forehead
had gone: smooth
and waxen white.
I expected(or hoped)
he would open his eyes
and smile.
But nothing;
just that unmoved face,
eyes closed, deep peace.
I looked at the clean shaven
chin and jaw: no 5 o'clock
shadow as before.
I kissed his brow;
my young lips touched;
wanting him to wake
some how.
So much I wanted to say,
but too late to tell.
I whispered an:
I Iove you,
to the air,
hoping he would hear
some how there.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 2:24 AM UTC
The woman in the office
sittng there
working out
the time and motion
at the factory
and I stand
at the small hatchway
with my slip of paper.
She sees me
and comes over
to the hatch.
So how long
were you on the job?
she asks.
When last night?
I say.
She blushes slightly:
no I mean the job
in the factory,
she says,
eyeing me.
I show her
the piece of paper.
She looks at it:
you haven't put
the job title at the top
nor when you finished,
she says,
what have you
been doing?
When?
Just now
what job?
Drilling holes in poles
for camp beds,
I reply.
When did you finish?
she asks.
Just now,
I say.
Time,
I need the time from you,
she is annoyed.
Anytime is ok with me,
I say.
Time on the job,
she splutters.
I gaze at the wall clock:
5 minutes ago.
She is flustered:
when did you start?
she says.
A few months ago,
I reply.
NO THE JOB
YOU ARE ON NOW!
she bellows.
I gaze at her;
her eyes are large.
I gaze at the clock
on the wall:
45 minutes ago,
I say.
She gives me
the piece of paper:
next time
write the times,
she says.
Sure,
I say.
She walks back to her desk
and sits down.
I wander back
to my drilling machine
and Joyce gives me
the next job lot.
I write down the start time
and begin to drill
Getting the woman
in the office irate
gives me a thrill.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
You made from wood
and skill, a music stand,
where I could write music
and arrange and orchestrate
the music scores in neat
musical notations all by hand.
You helped nurse me
back to health when my nerves
had shot through and out;
gave advise when asked;
joked about the music that I heard,
but listened none the less
when Coltrane played
or Couperin's ***** mass
was filling the afternoon air.
I visited you last four days
before you died, in that hospital ward
where cancer wormed its way
amongst them all,
and you no longer the dark haired
strong man of my childhood days,
but thinner, drawn,with dark hair
stained with greys.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 2:19 PM UTC
The matron of the nursing home
took Benedict with her. She wanted
to let him see a death so he would
know what to do if it happened on
his watch. They came to the door
of the room. She opened it and a
care assistant was sitting in a chair
by the bed. She rose when she saw
the matron. No change, don't think
she'll be long, the woman said.
Ok we'll take over now; you go off,
the matron said. The woman went off
and Matron closed the door. Benedict
looked at the old woman in the bed.
It was Edna the Yorkshire Lass as
she used to call herself. There's trouble
at mill she used to say jokingly if there
was something going on in the home.
Now she was on the way out: no more
trouble at mill. The matron indicated
for him so stand and wait. Wonder what
it's like to die? What one feels or thinks?
Maybe we don't. The old woman breathed
heavy.; her face was white and clammy;
her eyes were closed. Won't be long, Matron
said in a whisper. He nodded. No more
trouble at mill, Edna, he mused silently,
watching the slow rise and fall of the old
woman's breast. Then suddenly the breathing
stopped; her breast was motionless. She's gone,
Matron said. They waited for a few minutes,
then the matron felt for a pulse. Nothing.
She moved the old woman's arms across
the breast; tied a small bandage around
the jaw and over the head and placed
the eyes down with sticky plaster. Watch
carefully, the matron said. Benedict watched.
The matron took cotton wool and filled up
the nose and and ears and then pulled down
the blanket and uncovered the old woman
and put cotton wool in the other orifices below.
He looked at Edna packed up and ready to go.
Later the undertaker would come and whisk
her away before the other old folk knew
what had happened. Next time, Matron said,
you will know want to do. He nodded and they
closed the door and parted. Just like that.
Done and dusted. The Yorkshire Lass is no more.
He moved away giving one last look at the door.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 3:57 AM UTC
The short monk
in black robes
limped up the aisle
of the church
like one half
of a comedy act
at the end of a pier,
I later learned
he was a theologian
and at work
on a book
on the benedicta trinitas,
sunlight in between arches
in the cloister
shadows elsewhere
and a monk stood
gazing into the sunlight
arms inside
his long sleeves,
hoc est corpus meum
Christ said
at the Last Supper
the institution
of the later Mass
fai questo in memoria di me,
c'est mon sang
shed for you
He said
drink from it
the tall monk
raised the cup
then sipped from it,
flowers
in the flower beds
around the outside
of the cloister
in the garth,
I weeded here
the bell ringing
each quarter
la voix de dieu
the French monk said,
I stood in the semi dark
during the office
of Compline
the voices chanting
plainsong
il mio cuore è colpito
dalla sua bellezza,
my heart
is also struck
by the beauty
of the incense
during Mass
parfum de dieu,
the raised host
between the fingers
of the monk
with Parkinson's disease
shaking as if caught
by an invisible wind,
I stood like one
who had misunderstood
and had sinned.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
After my father died
they brought his body back
in an open coffin
to stay over night
in our chilled front room.
He looked peaceful
lying there
no longer racked by cancer
no longer in pain
just at peace
no lines on face
no furrowed forehead
from worry and anxiety
just wax like smooth
and a sense of calm
unknown since his life began.
I stood looking down at him
taking in his waxen face
his dark brows neatly trimmed
his sealed lips pinkish white
his greying hair combed
into a neatness as if
for a wedding or funeral.
I kissed his
chilled forehead
with lips
sensed him loss to us
in another place.
I moved back and stood
and stared and said goodbye
with love and tear in eye.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
I followed the thick set monk
along the silent cloister
him white robed
hooded against the cold
hands hidden
in deep pockets,
in tasche profonde
hands formed into fists
to hold the cold in check
as I entered the work shop
where a tall monk stood
bearded un invité à voir
he said smiling,
smell of incense
and baked bread
and monks,
feel of rope between hands
rough pull down
Dom Peter said
then let go
so I did
son de cloches
in the afternoon air,
I gazed at the cloister garth
from the common room window
pacem and my hand
on the radiator
a book by Marmion
before me resting,
Deus caritas est
the old monk told me
as we sat on the seat
under the shadow of the tree
ipse novit nos he added,
I walked the cloister
towards the refectory
for supper
my hand against
the orange brick
as I walked past
rough and smooth
on my finger's touch,
ascoltare Dio
the Italian monk said
as He listens to you
listen to His voice,
Dom Joe(dear Bunny)
spoke of simple things
in simple things
we find Truth he said
vérité dans
les choses simples,
silence in the half dark
before Compline kneeling
watching the red light
at the altar end
and a peaceful feeling.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Tall bell tower
caught in moonlight
Moorish design
I stood and looked
as bell tolled for Compline,
campana suonò
per compieta
smell of incense
as I entered the church
with only altar red light
and Dom Peter crossed
from cloister to bell tower,
sans Dieu nous
ne sommes rien
the French monk said
as he came to the guest room
to talk of the monastic life
to me I sat in the armchair
he on another chair
in his black robes
hands folded together,
manos juntas
skin on skin
prayer mode
knees aching
with kneeling,
we are nothing without God
Dom Charles said to me
as we picked apples
from the orchard
after lunch
in warm sunshine
a turn of the hand to pluck,
die Menschheit ohne
Gott verloren sind
the Austrian monk told me
before supper walking
from the cloister together,
stars in the evening sky
the moon bright
as a polished coin
chill in the air
standing waiting
for Compline to begin,
agnus Dei
that time in Mass
sensing the host
on my tongue dissolving
segno esteriore
di grazia interiore
Bruno said each
outward sign of inner grace
the sacraments
sacramenti,
monks chanted
the night office
and I stood and let it
flow over me
like a pure sea.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
Dom Thomas
sat in an armchair
and smiled
his large eyes sparkled
parlare con Dio come si
fa per me he said
I said I would try,
smell of incense
in the cloisters
after mass
as I walked to the library
to help sort books,
the tall thin monk
shaved wood slivers
off the block in a vice,
I watched his hands
grip the tool he said
le travail de Dieu est
tout bon travail,
the work of God
is all good work
I mused later
mowing the grass
behind the church
and the monks' cemetery
sun above me shining,
la luce del sole
che splende su di me
birds in the surrounding trees
making song
molehills among the graves,
molehills entre las tumbas
the Spanish monk said
looking beside me
in the cemetery
he walked off
shaking his tonsured head,
pour moi la prière
est une poussée du cœur
St Therese wrote
so I read in the book
in the common room
at the abbey,
rain on the roof
of the church
as seen from the guest's room
black and shiny
as black leather,
sans amour les actes
même les plus brillants
comptent comme rien
Thérèse de Lisieux,
acts done without love
count as nothing
I recalled Therese saying
and my deeds
seemed so then,
bell tolled for Matins
I walked down
the creaky stairs
to the door
and Dom Matthew met
and unlocked
the church door
and I gazed
at the 5.30am church
in utter silence
and listened
for God's breath in my ears
to drive away
bad thoughts and fears.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 7:10 AM UTC
It was the meet place,
sea behind noise making,
dull sky threatening rain.
Enbright walked beside Bill,
white rain coat open,
hands in pockets.
Told them you
were best for the job,
Enbright told,
feet on damp sand,
shoes making tracks.
Where's the job?
Bill asked.
Looked past Enbright,
saw gulls,
beach deserted.
Enbright passed him
folded paper chit,
watched as Bill
opened it slow with fingers.
How they want it done?
Bill said,
watched gulls take off.
Accident kind of thing,
no leads back
to the Agency,
Enbright said,
eyeing Bill,
his pale face,
dark suit.
I am a pro
I know what to do
and how,
Bill said moaningly,
eyes on the sand,
ears cocked
for Enbright's words.
Not saying you're not,
just making it clear,
Enbright delivered,
pausing,
eyeing Bill.
They both stood
and looked at the sea,
took in gulls,
incoming waves,
no one about.
Heard your father died,
Enbright let out,
looking at Bill.
Yea gone,
Bill said,
Mom's taken it bad,
she was close to him,
I wasn't.
Enbright nodded his head,
breathed in the air,
grey skies,
sea rush.
Bill said nothing more,
silence enfolded them,
chilly hush.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 5:00 AM UTC
That tall thin monk
dark and angular
reading in the refectory
from in sancti Benedicti regula
he reminded me
of a teacher at high school
whose name eluded me,
I took in the high bell tower
orange bricked
straight up pointing to heaven
misty clouded
I viewed from my window
in the abbey,
colui che ci ha creati
senza il nostro aiuto
non ci salverà senza
il nostro consenso
sant'Agostino
an Italian monk said
quoting St Augustine,
I read in the common room
leaning against the radiator
Abbas Marmion
black covered book
well worn
heat from the radiator
warming me up
against dull cold day,
parler à Dieu
the French monk said to me
talk to God that is part
of prayer
partie de la prière
and I talked
in my own fashion,
bell tolled from bell tower
la voce di Dio
the bells calling
to work or prayer
Dom Joe said
sitting in the old armchair
in the guest room
where I stayed
they guide us
la cloche parle,
loved the cloisters
the medieval sense
wind there in the day
or late in the evening
after Vespers
moon light in cloister garth,
voices along the passage
from other guests' rooms
some one spoke
another gave
a hollow laugh.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:21 AM UTC
Incense in the abbey church
old monk in choir stall
mediating in the stillness
and silence
I watched
his tonsured head
bowed,
Ipse primus in pace
et tunc alios
quoque pacem
Thomas A Kempis
in Imitatione Christi
so I read,
common room
warm and cosy
book case
old sofas
stood looking down
into the cloister
just the tick ticking
of the clock,
la foi croit quelque
chose de vrai sans
preuve ou preuve
the French monk said
in the guests'
breakfast room
after lunch,
if there was proof
or evidence
we wouldn't need faith
the Colonel said,
plainsong Vespers
sensing the world
beyond the high windows
voices chanting
from choir stall
to choir stall
back and forth,
prayer è operazione
spirituale
con il Creatore
del Cielo e della Terra
Italian monk said
quoting Spurgeon
as I helped him
**** the cloister beds,
a spiritual transaction
is prayer with God
he translated for me
his fingers covered in earth
his dark eyes on me,
cloister in evening
walking with moonlight
causing shadows
where moon left untouched
and peacefulness
and a feeling of sanctity,
faith is accepting
without proof
Dom Joe said
and I conjured
these thoughts
like a *****
in my young head.
Jan 17, 2017
Jan 17, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
From the cloisters
the moonlight created shadows
across the garth,
a monk pulled
the cloister bell
for supper,
Dio è vicino
e lontano
the Italian monk
said to me
in the workshop
repairing a chair,
Dom Charles took an apple
from the tree
and twisted it just so
it came away
in his hand
and he rubbed it
against his black habit
to a shine and said
that's how it is done,
Dom George machined
the habit seam
as I watched
his tonsured head
shone in
the overhead lamp,
le opere che si fanno
possono essere l'unico
sermone alcune persone
si sente oggi
Francesco d'Assisi said
so I read,
I take my place
in the refectory
stand there
waiting for grace
to begin
studying the wooden floor
and how the overhead lights
shone there,
hoc autem qui parce
seminat parce
et metet et qui
seminat in benedictionibus
et metet
Paul of Tarsus said
Dom Joe told me,
who sows little
reaps little
whoever sows much
shall reap much
I mused,
orange bricks
browny black
in moonlight,
bell tolled
against evening sky,
I walked the cloister
wondering why.
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 3:55 AM UTC
Footsteps
down the corridor
a swish of cloth,
there was a knock
on the door
come in
you said,
Dom Higgs came in
an old monk
wrinkled face
tonsured head
he spoke
of the monastic life
he smelt
of aged sweat,
monasticae vitae
he said
you listened
uno con Dio
he added,
it rained
the black tiled roof
shone like black liquid
as you watched
and saw,
per guardare
e vedere,
refectory rectangle
long benches along
each wall
monks sitting
in silence
another read,
you sat on
the guest's bench
gazing at faces opposite
God's chosen,
ceux que
Dieu a choisis
black robed
pale of faces,
high windows
coloured glass
light in upon floor
and tables
the reader reading
lectio Divina,
plainsong sang
in abbey church
monks lined against
opposite walls
in choir stalls,
if God calls
you may enter
Dom Joe said
as you walked
the abbey grounds
soft wind
and bird sounds.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 3:32 AM UTC
Dark evening,
trees swayed
by hard wind,
taxi lights
lit up
the abbey church,
domum Dei,
I stood
on the forecourt
peering at
the shadowy church,
I monaci sono
in chiesa
an Italian said,
I followed him
into the church
and we sat in
the side pews
in semi-darkness,
è Compieta
he said,
I nodded
and stared ahead
at the one red light
at the altar end,
a monk
dressed in black
walked
from cloister
to the bell tower
genuflecting
towards the altar
end first,
Dom Peter
the man said
pointing
at the monk,
other monks
came in
and genuflecting
took their places
in the choir stalls
either side
of the church
and stood facing
the altar end,
then once all
the monks
had settled
the lights
went out
and a voice
chanted out
converte me Deus,
other monks
chanted on
in the dark,
the world outside
living it up
and down,
here
just darkness
and chants
and an embracing silence
accompanying
the chanting.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
I'd drilled the holes
for the tubular poles,
and went along
to the office
to register
the work done.
Edna slid back
the glass shutter.
How long was you
on the job?
She asked
It could have
been quicker,
but she kept moving,
I said.
Edna smiled a bit;
I meant the work
you just done.
15 minutes,
I said.
Slower than last time,
she said.
You remember?
I thought after
that last gin
you'd not recall it,
I said.
15 mins, then?
She said,
going red,
you must keep
to the work in hand
she said.
That's what
the call-girl
said to the bishop,
I said.
Edna looked around
at the office behind her:
the manager was out
on the shop-floor
snooping round.
I am a happily
married woman,
she whispered.
I am a happy
single guy,
I replied,
taking in
her neat sweater
and red lips.
You need only
tell me
the work
you have done,
she said.
Ok, just the holes
bored through,
I said,
all in 15 mins.
She sighed,
and looked at me:
what was the job
before that?
She asked.
Putting the elastic
into the side holes,
I said.
And how long?
She said.
About 6 inches
I said.
She slammed
the shutter shut.
I walked back
to the work bench,
and Joyce handed me
some more 6 inch
elastic pipes to thread
through the holes.
Put it in
like I showed you,
Joyce said.
I said nothing
to that,
and threaded
the elastic through.
What else
was a young guy
oversexed
to do?
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
Pinolo said
he never came
back for me
why's that?
I asked
how do I know Johnny
he just never came back
I sat on the window ledge
for hours (we had one
of those old fashion
window ledges you
could sit on)
so that did you do?
I asked
I waited a while
then thought to myself
well he ain't
coming back
Pinolo best get
another man
but make sure
this time
he's going to stay
and did you you?
I asked
she smiled
well apart from you
Johnny no
she said
well there you go
sometimes you have
to wait for the right guy
to come along
I said
o Johnny you
are funny
do you mean you?
no Honey I mean
sometimes you have
to wait for the right guy
to come along
until then you'll
have to put up with me
and she laughed
and I smiled
and said
come on
back to bed
my pecker's
getting lonely
so she left the window
and the moon and stars
and came back to bed
and we made love again
she dreaming after
and I listening
to the hard rain.
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 2:33 AM UTC
Despite all the terror, we’ve seen,
Cleaned our hands, while others speak
We dreamed of a better world
Swirling, twirling, killing, and dying
Our eyes will forever be opened
To the crime that was set aside
As our mothers cry, behind closed doors,
Pouring out the ashes of a boy they once adored
A Forgotten subject
That we bleed with the intent of being healed
Sealed up in caskets, like little puppets
Stuff like were magic as we stand there like targets
But those aren’t words anymore,
Just noise ever since, my brother died
Letters used to bring me joy,
Until I grew up into nothing thought of as a boy
The toys they give us, pain, and suffering,
Buffering the idea, that our hands are still clean
We cling to love, as if hate was shoved into our faces
Running scared, to breathe the air
There is no way Ill cut hair
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 11:10 AM UTC