He sits there in his favorite rocking chair
Gently it sways back an forth
It's wood aged from its years of service
Chipped and faded
He sits an stares
Thinking of his old self, me
His eyes past there prime
His face saggy
Riddled in wrinkles
Gathered over the years
They tell a story of his age
Ears hang low, spikes of hairs peek out
He stares out
He would tell you the world is grey
With a complacent look on his face
He imagine his once true love next to him
Her once blond hair white as snow
Her crystal blue eyes
Dulled from the decades
Her skin now saggy like his
She sits in a matching chair as his
There chairs rock in unisons  
She would always disappear in the breeze just before she smiled
He sits in his favorite rocking chair
Even though he's old now
He still remembers her
She's everlasting
He finally looks to the sky an smiles
And just as the chair stops
So does his heart

I

after a bath
and the window open
I was touched
by an air of autumn
against my body
not quite towelled
hardly dry but ready
nonetheless to feel
something of the season’s
change against my fragile self

(an autumn air)


II

so very green
and multitudinous shades
holding the late afternoon
in greenness
only the towpath
measured out in sunlight
and the seat of a bench distant
providing a goal
a sensible place to aim for

we set out with her guiding hand
clasping my weakness
when a dragonfly
intricate in full sunlight
moves against a backdrop
of dark-shadowed trees
poising at eye-level
to look us over
and is off away

on our return
(from that distant bench
our goal our aim)
there a kingfisher
flashes past
and into a canal-side bush
we wait and wait hoping
to catch again the trajectory
of its miraculous flight

(canal side)

III

to whom it may concern

presumptuous I think to wish for anything
beyond one has and holds - anything
in regard to property or possessions
I have no wish to consider further
Who has what of me I disdain
and whatever it might be can only be
in my gift and surely that must be freely given
Should there be the slightest hint of dispute
I hope some Almighty Hand will
remove all and everything
to the very darkest depths

in friendship


(a letter of wishes)




IV

begun as joyous celebrations
of musical art bright and lively
on the page welcome
to the ear as to the eye

so often full of dance gentle
reflections sonorously sounding
out in playfulness
and reasoned movement


(Beethoven’s Op.18 string quartets)




V

with only the bare essentials
the most limited of means
this music grips and stirs
springing out of unisons
octaves bare chords of the fifth
and a play of rhythms
straight and straight-forward
four-square angular tight
against the beat within the bar
a simple subtlety and space
between two instruments:
the legato violin tempering
the insistent piano - always
movement no repose a constant
unwinding thread
of perilous invention
hardly a breath taken
a pause made

(on hearing Shostakovich’s Sonata for Violin and Piano)



VI

he types:

the post-box is too far way
as I must (e)mail this note today

so with no maker’s mark
this message will forego
the papered page
ink’s curved line and flow
the fold the sticky edge
the stamp well placed
the stroll with the dog
to the box along the lanes
in evening’s light
sounds of roosting birds
and flittering squeaks of bats

(an email from a former student)



VII

aware of my fragility
his gracious manner
moves me to tears
In speaking
he places every word
with infinite care
in practiced deliberation
. . . and I am crying
at his understanding
that he knows my loneliness
in dying and how I wish
to rise above
this momentary upset
to assure him I can
and will cope
that I am in his hands
He just has to say . . .


(visit to the doctor



VIII


Daily I curate the contents
of this window sill
a changing exhibition
backdrop to a sedentary life

Today: Japanese wallpaper c.1925.
Mead Cloth by Matthew Harris,
Hokusai – Mount Fuji and six cranes ( two flying)
Post card from the Pyréneées
An earthenware blackbird and thrush in a cherry tree
David Hockney, April 25 from The Arrival of Spring
Un passé plat empiétant tapestry from Madagascar.


(exhibition on a window sill)



IX

being twenty-one
seems no great age
but I remember it dimly
when adrift in my life
it came and went –
a spring and sunny day
a watch from my parents
a few cards . . .

but for you
a family day at Kew
a meal with relatives and friends
altogether a good time to remember
I so hope you will . . .


(at twenty-one)


X

To members of the London Symphony Orchestra
Ralph Vaughan-Williams is reported to have said:
‘Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the man
who writes my music.’

Unfortunate this, as his copyist Roy Douglas
had the job of deciphering the composer’s appalling
handwriting, the result of a natural
left-handedness being corrected as a child.

For me, the person who has written my music
so faithfully for fourteen years rarely dealt with
illegibility but had instead to cope with conflicts
of musical spelling.
Is this a sharp? Should this be a flat?
Do we need a cautionary accidental here?

Fortunately, he and I were not espoused as Stravinsky and
Elgar were to their long-suffering copyists, who often berated
their husbands for their inability to spell chromatic pitches
correctly. Stravinsky had an excuse: the vagaries of the octatonic scale
he often used and loved. Elgar was just ******-minded! Poor Alice . . .


(saying a warm goodbye to my copyist)


XI


to talk about yourself when
dead and gone How strange!
This need - to put in place
to sort the detail now
and so avoid confusion
What then?


An indeterminate wait
until the moment comes
the eyes won’t open
on a woken world
ears not hear
the sound of traffic
from a nearby road


there will be
an emptiness sublime
a finishing of tasks
and all those earthly
mysteries solved
and deemed complete


So this is what
we recommend
It could be this?
It could be that?

and every which way
it’s yours to choose
for rightness sake
Amen


*(the interview)

Did I ever tell you that I saw you?
Did you ever hear my breath as you journeyed through the darkness with your pleasures?
Did you sense my body feeling the covers move in unisons with your misconducts?
Did I ever tell you what I saw?

My vision was possessed with the shadowed illustrations of your daytime dreaming
And the flashing lights revealing your silent movements while you lay to rest
I was in my own private screening of your devilish fantasies
Yet, I was pulled into the canvas, and subjected to a catatonic state, feeling everything, but limited to just witness.

I saw her in red, as she slid in between the streams of light
And she melted into the floor and ****** up onto the bed
I heard her pleasure, and I saw your lust
All I could do was lock myself away, trying to cover my inner eye.

Did I ever mention that I caught you?
Did you see my gaze read you like a children's book?
We're my cries enjoyable to you and your ever changing company?
Will you ever empathize?

Your words, so deep and loving in direct meaning
We're squashed I between your finger and thumb
Your eyes always looked through me, as if in search of another in my reflection
I was transparent, I was water.

I flowed continuously, swept away with love and distractions,
Yet, as water, so did I flow, never broken by your rocks and twigs place in my way
You pushed me over the waterfall, but I was not hurt,
With the tide I grew stronger, and I crash down upon your rock and sticks

And now, I am far out in the vast ocean,
where your rocks sink, and your twigs break down.
I take in the warmth and love of the sunshine, I sparkle incomparably under the bright moon
And I spread this, honestly, without need of a finger and thumb to hide.
I am real.

Raindrops are music on gray -
days
Satan practicing a wicked arpeggio
Hour after hour the tune plays
The wind howls with a mind to -
stack demonic notes
A wicked instrument mastered
by rote
Triplet after triplet
Eighth bend , quarter bend
Unisons , octaves , unbridled screeching
Eerie
Beelzebub's slant on musical theory ...

You might think I am strange
but I am no stranger than a leaf

Nor wilder than the flowers
who grow across the desert

Nor am I more alive nor less alive
than a rock

I know I, too circle
in unison with Rilke
"around the primordial tower"
we circle
with no need of knowing
if its been a day or  thousands of years