The Heart of Things
There is a vital darkness
Ringed with jealous flames,
A place of utter stillness
To drive a mind insane.
To feel that shimmering presence,
To touch that luminous ground,
To clasp the vital essence,
There’s nothing more profound.
We call it pure creation,
A place outside of time.
We call it adoration,
A glimpse of the divine.
In every earthly domain,
Across the tumbling seas,
Over each hill and mountain,
Among the towering trees,
All around the globe
And across the astral plain,
Wherever life arose
This heart it is the same.
It beats with love and kindness
And touches us with light
With joy, though tinged with sadness,
And warmth against the night.
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Inspiration
The romans believed ‘genius’ a daemon
That visited the artist from time to time.
In those moments of inspiration
Every brushstroke, every rhyme,
Would be sublime.
And then they’d say
The artist was with genius that day.
But when they slaved away
Without much luck,
With each word stuck,
Colours mixing to muck,
One wouldn’t sneer,
It was simply clear,
No genius was near.
How much more wise,
To my eyes,
Is this view,
As someone who
Knows what it’s like
To try and try and do and do
And yet see not a jot of bright
Divine inspiration shine through.
Who’s sat and wondered what’s wrong
To be without luck for so long.
Only to find pruning trees,
Cooking food,
Watching bees,
Clearing weeds,
Or feeling the breeze,
Sudden serenity and ease,
Gentle satisfactory peace.
The genius of the moment is here
And true inspiration is near.
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Underground
Huddled into myself,
A curl against the world,
A feeling of frayed health.
In my chest a void swirls
Painfully round and about
I want to keep the world out
But it climbs back in,
Sits under my chin, grinning.
Tell me what to do,
How to break free,
Who to call,
How to shed
The weight of it all,
Stomach the dread
Pass through the wall
Of pain,
Stand tall like a tree
Today and tomorrow again
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Nightfall
Sweet sunset dereliction,
When striding through forest,
Cold climbing cloud-thick moon
Unveiling her face, a pearl undressed.
Tall space looks massively down
On little you, a tree dwarfed speck,
Among the leggy brambled undergrowth.
Remnants of the day play
Something like the last fiery notes
From a long, deep, old,
Forgotten, mortal-forbidden tune.
Of which these faintest notes float
Somehow through your ears
And you shiver at the half-caught
Thought which suggests with awe
And perhaps a little fear a sublimely clear
Harmony, maybe, or something more.
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Dear Water
Open up your window
Breathe the wet caked air
Mud clods and bare willow
Grassy stretching field fair
Hear and smile at pitter patter
Drops that splash and spatter
In momentary crowns and baby drops
Rippled puddle plips and plops
Sound of rain blurred into murmur
A gentle carpet of a din
Look up at the sagging clouds
Watch listen smell breathe in
All the valley’s in a shroud
Nothing to be seen from here
But you know the budding crowd
Of thirsty flora drink that clear
Draught that blank tasting elixir
Of quick and quickening through all the years
Always near
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Tell me something
Tell me something
I don’t know
I’ll be listening
I love you so
Yours is mine
Mine yours, too
I’ll be fine
When I’m with you
Please stay close
I need you here
Feel like a ghost
Without you near
And summer ends
In falling leaves
But can I mend
What I aggrieved?
A rose in bloom
Will wilt away
Will love go soon
Or will it stay?
A broken stone
Will not be whole
But twigs resume
Their growth quite bold
When it is past
The winter cold
Can our love last
Will it hold?
Make a wish
It will come true
I’m sure of this
Anything for you
But all I ask
The wish I made:
That once it’s past
I’ll know you stayed
And if this wish
Does come true
I’ll give a kiss
And will ask you
To tell me something
I don’t know
I’ll be listening
I love you so
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Little Fires of the Heart
Where do they come from?
Little fires of the heart.
The moments when we feel some
Measure of being a part
Of a greater whole, is it?
Or some wider truth?
We feel a flow and go with it.
We need no further proof
Than just that inner glow -
A little fire of the heart.
Where else do we need to go?
This is our ending and our start.
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Human too
I am human too
All too human, too.
I have come to think of
The true human spirit as light
As innocent and free
Not weighed down, like me.
Perhaps it is the most blessed thing:
A human happy in innocence who
Knows just enough, but not too much.
Who knows just enough for a tinging of sadness,
But not so much as to despair.
Can my spirit ever be light again?
But it is worse still, my spirit
Is not burdened but ill, cut up and
Constrained into the tiniest space
It is barely spirit at all.
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To Exist
Sometimes I try to make
Sense.
But sometimes, like now,
When
I am not sure what sense
There
Is to be had, I simply try to
Express
What it is like to be me in a moment like
This.
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The Girl that Glows
The girl that I chose, glows.
Even when her eyes are closed
She glows, though if she chose,
Perhaps she’d not be a girl that glows.
But she is not a girl that knows
That she is a girl that glows.
How it is no one does see
How pleasingly she glows, but me,
Is yet a greater mystery.
And often would I puzzled be,
Of an eve, to think how she
Is glowing so mysteriously
And not a soul take note but me.
Others see her twinkling eyes,
‘Tis sure, and when she smiles wide,
Its not just me that sighs, I’ve spied,
Or tries to stroke their pride
By summoning another grin, to glide
Between her nose and chin, or slide
A little smirk to the side
Where a rosy cheek resides.
But this girl that I chose, she glows.
And all I just described is prose -
Is like the leaves but not the rose -
Because my experience of her shows
This girl that magically glows,
Inspires a feeling that grows.
Whose measure, I suppose, is not enclosed
By a mind like mine, since it blows
Like the wind across the scales, those
Which weigh, in kind, the close
Decisions of the mind. How does
One weigh the wind? Who knows?
Sometimes heavy sometimes light, so goes
The measure. What is this feeling that grows
And grows but changes like the weather?
I do not know but wish to be with her forever.
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When Writing Might Be a Salvation
Being immeasurably strange is one of the things that makes me just like everyone else.
However a combination of my strangeness and the circumstances of life have taken me down a dark path.
Perhaps writing about my experience will help me sort out the tangle I find myself in, or show others what not to do if I suffer further ill fate. In writing, I might find the key to my happiness that has been eluding me, or uncover one that will fit the lock on the door to someone else’s secret garden.
We are all searching for our secret garden, full of delightful smells, where the best of all seasons is ripe and fresh at all times.
I suppose this is a mission statement of sorts.
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When I’m at the dentist getting my teeth cleaned people are standing looking through the door. And I’m like, ‘What would you do if someone was staring at you while you were getting your teeth cleaned?’ So it’s a work in progress. When I meet young fans I understand them because I was like that too, but it’s the real life day-to-day run-ins with people who sometimes don’t really know how to act that make me feel weird, and I don’t like it.
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