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Old Lovers (A Four By Six)
OLD LOVERS
That curious rhythm
Stitched us to its branchings
Caught up in its weaving
Gladly surrendering
Gambol, Gambol
GAMBOL, GAMBOL
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.”
Gambol, gambol, little lamb
How I wonder who I am!
Dancing, prancing, high then low,
Never knowing where I go.
Unresolved And Ongoing
UNRESOLVED AND ONGOING
Truth or dare but a party game; yet solo
who dare reveal these truths unshown
beyond these so private hallowed walls,
unshared with anyone beside oneself;
unknown in fact even here within
for truth to tell unquestioned, left unexplored.
Awareness – unspoken – wordless – unborn.
Old bedfellows Truth and Lies lie side by side,
sing “noli me tangere” in tango tempo, like
the Magdalene still endures the bad-rapping
despite the dissension, the fervid support.
Wife, best friend, reformed prostitute or what?
Let’s be honest now who really knows?
True truth unrattled by untruth’s pretension
the inner world has never been hyphenated.
To Whom Is Home?
TO WHOM IS HOME?
I am
Am I not?
I am
And wander
And wonder
And wander
And wonder
Who wanders
And wonders
And wanders
And wonders
Who wonders who wanders
And wonders
Who wonders
Who wanders who wonders …
And wonder
Who wonders who wonders
And wonder who wonders
And wonders
And wanders
And is
Wielding
WIELDING
Does a pen know what words to use?
Surely it is only the wielder of the pen.
And does a writer know what tale to tell?
This wielding business when examined
Surely begs a few questions of its own.
Self-publishing
SELF-PUBLISHING
Looks like it’s not sufficient to be clever
You can still end up in the lost-and-found
You can split the scene or stand your ground
It’s been that way since forever
No rock solid link to Spirit whatsoever
None of our conjectures are too sound
You hit multilingual traps, rebound
Somersault screaming, “Never!”
Yet how to survive in a dull world while sharp
And not end up in the lost-and-found still
Whether giving in or refusing to budge?
An open verdict, an absentee judge
Endlessly replaying “The World According To Garp”
You can read on the scoreboard the result: Nil Nil
Leaf
LEAF
This leaf in my path
It was not there yesterday
Which of us has changed?
Books are made from trees
Who is it recognises
That books have leaves too?
Wind blows through all things
Leaves, paths, books, trees, observers
Who causes the wind?
