Raindrops on windows
The sky sad in its greyness
Winter has arrived

*
Now the trees are bare
Now the days are short and dark
Now we long for warmth

*
I dig the garden
Watched by the bright eyed robin
Spring has arrived

**
The dry curled leaves
Falling from the fig tree
On the new wood floor

Then there is time,
remorseless as Panzers
on the steppe-
killing everything it meets.

There will be no
renegotiation,
the deal is done,
was done so long ago.

All of us
little victims
of the clock.

You are Pascal
the ghost in my dreams,
and you are Emil
the spirit of my aspirations,
then there is Thomas
the visiting thought
that drifts uncalled into
the mystery of my being.

So here you are
a sorry bunch hiding
in the dark corners
of my mind.

Do you think Pascal
that you are wiser than me?
And you other two,
what about you?
Silence is what you are
for I know you
have answers
or none perhaps that
I could understand
And I cannot command you
though I should.

Its the not knowing
About going,
The timing,
The means.
The dragging on
Or the sharp surprise.
There is no point
In lies but a word
To the wise,
Be ready to go,
Dont think you can stay.

So,
this is where we are,
hiding in this house
from what?
Mortality?
Uncertainty congealed
in sickly moments,
knowing one thing but
also another.
And then, of course, the not knowing.
The universe seems so still
but it ripples constantly.
Yes it does.
Everything moves and yet
seems unreal.
We are hiding but
cannot hide from this:
that no meaning will emerge,
no purpose will appear
and time will deceive us all.

High sounds of
Jet engines,
Hot sun on
Hot skin,
Dormant minds
In dormant bodies,
Stranded animals
In soulless sleep.

Purposelees
Pointless
Beings come
To nothing.
No day is different
And our salvation
Still deleayed.

Ghosts walk on Great Blasket.
The gulls and the wind
scream over the rocks and across the waves-
a wild sky a wild wind
lives lost
lives saved
lives lived-
but no more.
the language of the angels
no more the small boats-
a time and it's beings gone-
gone forever.

There are spaces between
do and dream
have and want
being and becoming
intention and result

Spaces,
emotional spaces
room for love.
What is not
still becomes.
Two cells become
a being, on and on,
again and again,
coming and going.
Being and unbeing,
Where to go
and what to do
with this heart of mine
and love of you.

from green to red thw leaves have turned
as sunlit summer turns to winter grey'
Cold ashes of garden waste we burned
drift on the breeze. nothing learned
just sadness for another year gone away.

For me no counting of the hours
no totting up of days and weeks,
life is short, just ask the flowers.
Over us all dark death towers,
he will always find what he seeks.

No beginning without an ending;
as runners finish others start.
The race goes on, still sending
hope to all of us. There is no amending
this, just carry on and play your part.

White shoes in the middle of the room,
Waiting,
White shoes marked with use,
Waiting.

Nothing stays the same,
all is change
and though it seems strange
it is so.
And time
compressed into a moment
drops out of sight
like a waterfall.
Fades,
daylight into night.
Endings can be beginnings,
redoings, remakings
as life offers its mad encores.
The same songs over and over.
At the end we are all
waving goodbye and
leaving for the dark side,
the blind side,
the lost side, or
just leaving, no more

I will let you
chase me across
the dance floor of dreams
where every dance
is a message to
the future.
And if you catch me
we might tango into
some delightful and
suggestive liaison,
twined together for now
and maybe for then.
The music moves
in the air like dust,
shimmering in the
brightness of our being.
We can dance, or not,
it will make no
difference whatever but
we shall never
move like this again as
we did not then.

Off we go
in tango time
off we go.

To be with you
in a warm summer dusk,
somewhere by the sea.
We will be wide eyed
and bright eyed,
close to each other
in bodies and love,
gazing at the happy stars,
being one with each other
and with everything.

And then to go away
and be no more or just
the faintest whisper
like a soft breeze,
a falling petal,
like a wave breaking forever
on an infinite shore.

While listening to Schubert,
the string quintet,
I lazily picked dead leaves
from the oxyalis.
I cannot listen to music
and pick dead oxyalis leaves
at the same time.
So,
I lost a few bars of the
quintet to inattention
though the oxyalis was happy.

Here we go again,
over and over,
up the ladders and
down the snakes.
Virtue losing,
vice overpowering.
No nirvana
now or ever.
Do we keep on trying
not crying at our fate.
Never too late to be
better than we are
yet not enough to
make the escape we
have been promised.
The melding with the all,
the consummation of
our goodness
the celestial dream
the perfect salvation.
Ah,
we must start again.