poetry

Belief / Belive / Befree

If I could con-

template my sacrifice,

I would con-

template my sacrifice.

I would con-

template my disappearance

in trance-like state of

final igno-

miny tiny magicked me:

the incredible shrinking

reliving of relief.

But I see that now

I have no choice: not

Hobson’s at all – something

curiously different: almost as if

I’ve been managed into a

space I needed to realise I had

no choice at all

in this matter I describe,

observe and recall.

The choice isn’t who:

there never was any doubt.

The choice is the what: whether

to make a choice or not.  But

I cannot live my life in the

darkness of imminent

discovery: I live in free lands,

green lands, hilly mounds:

the mounds of your beautiful

selves which all draw me, a peaty

charcoal-like precision, every

morning I wake up

from my terrible slumbers: a coma

I’ve been in of grammatical

nature: no longer do I want to sleep

in this way

but live in our home and bring you

my love and kindness and

ingenuity on a tray which I’d

love you with – and sometimes be

afraid of, it’d be so

good a way of being

and seeing

and doing, my love: but most of

all, loving my love

that you are.

Standard
poetry

“… love love together, for as long as forever lasts …”

Love love, and life will take care of its

self.

Love love, and life will take care of your

self.

Love love, and life will take care of my

self.

 

For without love of love, life will be nothing but

less than un-

lovely games, to and fro-

ings gal-

or-

e,

sexual moments snatched despe-

ratingly

to be measured in the cold light

of dusk’s special

in-

fa-

my slowly dying desire to even be able

to see.

 

But love love as I suggest, and life itself

will take care of our

self – that joining of

souls.

And love love, and life will take care of our

being

together.  And love love, and life will know

where to look

inside our hearts.  And love love, and love will

make

both of us one.

And once we are one again, the only loss will

come when life’s parting through death

wrenches our one into

two yet again.  But until that bad day, our love will

anoint and example a world:

for by my hand and yours, the rending

is ending.

The beginning is

starting.

Let battle commence.

Let loving life be our tri-

umph-

ing boom.  And let your skin and mine,

in candle-lit room, in ardour’s scents,

wrought fine by these minds brought

alive by their reaching,

remind us why love between two

was in-

vented and

ex-

claimed by poets and artists:

by lovers and

good people who

still popu-

late this rock, even though it’s

damn tardy

to stop all this pain … even though the

pain for some souls will still

rain like thundering belief of

injustice lying through self-

exa-

minating

over-

analysing

intellect-

u-

all-

wising the life and reason and

goal of this game: for it’s no game at

all: for it’s only because

we’re choosing to be: together

for as long as forever

is to

last.

Standard
poetry

chOOsing not to

ChOOsing not to

sing out loud, or sing at all,

is a choice we make, can take,

and may pro-

ceed to nurture; tend; grow

where we can, and water without or

within.

And all that was needed

was a

better under-

standing of my own self

and being: that foolish desire to

sire a man who might lead through

a kindness or two; an empathy

felt for another soul out there.

But that isn’t easy; maybe isn’t right.

To take a de-

cision which breaks with the past

is hard work indeed for the kindly.

 

Or maybe the story was quite

another thing: maybe they’d typed me

as an unkindly man: maybe their

number-crunching crunched h-

orrible numbers: maybe the

truth is I needed to be crushed under-

foot of heavy clay and other

boots of concrete

nature.

Maybe it’s just fair I should end

up chOOsing nothing more than a

corner of keyboard and chair.

If respectful I remain, what train of

thought could I follow ever which might

leave me without the reason or rhyme

to wallow a tad self-indulgently in

queer questions and

queries

of curious about-

turns, and seagulls that flap noisily on

waters darker than stern

remonstrations?

None, I imagine.

None, I am sure.

Nose clean.

Democracy disengaged.

Forgetfulness reigns.

Forgettable, our fate.

 

And it’s not too late to re-

verse the clock of time but it is

too late for

this verse at least.

Standard