Lingering waste

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Imagine wanting to hold
to try and taste
such worthless lingering waste.
What value
what relevance
could such bits and pieces
hold for anybody in their right mind?


I felt just like
lingering waste
repulsively useless
good for the drain.

But there you were
giving me a second look
a first thought

with your brilliant and kind
loving
left mind.

Ego trip

I have decided to sell myself
shamelessly
happily
hopefully

here.

Christmas on my walk

Going for my usual walk -
my half hour of freedom -
I look for signs of this time of year
Something I might pick up
a specialness in the air.
Well, it's a glorious sunny day,
small hawks are hovering about
always alert.
Faithful watch dogs
are watching out for strangers
turning round and round
barking from their square of concrete ground
outside the master's mansion.
Down on the footpath
a woodlouse scuttles along
humbly minding its business.
It could be any day...


But there,
getting into the car
Not so happy people
off to visit some relative
because it's December 25th.
Tradition and religion
are just a burden they bear
their body language doesn't lie.
Here, a homeless guy
tries to sell Santa's hoods
to slightly impatient drivers
forced to wait for the green light.
On the windows, occasionally,
a baby Jesus with open arms
and an almost smug expression
competes with clumsy Santa
who is hanging
rather than climbing
the dirty building's wall.
Down the road
billboards announce
fabulous discounts
if only you're gullible enough...

And that's it,
That was Christmas on my walk:
weak gestures,
worn out symbols
lame excuses
and more useful objects
than there are uses.

Sensuous stuff

Pleasing syllables
soft and smooth

arching adjectives
aching to be stroked

adverbs adjusting
to a surface

easy-going conjunctions
making themselves
comfortable

interjections
stretching slowly

voluble verbs
purring gently

nebulous nouns
naming the world
in silent circumspection

as pronouns
pronounce
the unpronounceable

all this sensuous stuff
is so delicate
and yet so intense

that it feels like
present, past and future
could merge
into one single tense

and the words we exchange
for their sensuousness
are already romance.

Private exposure

Funny and odd
that this need of exposure
should spring from a desire
to be secretly intimate
That this need to be cuddled
should make me
drive you away.

Funny and weird
that this craving for emotion
this thirst, this hunger
for lusty devotion
should make me blush
when faced with your words
today.

Odd and frustrating
to need care and medication
when one is a nurse

to find one is transparent
underneath
so many layers of verse.

Gone

You sweet and tender one

with your blissful essence,
a unique, soft voice
and your purposeful -
albeit sometimes erratic -
presence

you're gone
for the time being...


Gone to higher places,
a brighter sun,
gone to spread your grace
and your witty good humour
around everyone.

Here
remains a shadow,
a scent,
an echo
lingering by.
And feeling lost,
forsaken
slightly incomplete,
alas,
am I.

Take a small step

breath in
then let go
reach out
for something to hold on to
take a small step
- that's it -
grab my arm
come along
- there -
see? it's easy
(I know how difficult it has been)
but you're here now
don't look back.

The Power of Softness

(To Jeff Wilhelm and Bruce Novak)

Yes, I felt it.
Because language is there for us,
making it all possible,
I felt that spark of magic
coming towards me
from somewhere lost and gone
into my here and now.
Yes, I understand.
And it makes me wish you were here
and I could listen to your voice,
look into your eyes
touch your arm
to make sure you exist.

Yes, I hear you,
I am with you,
right here!
Please... ?
Can't you see?

It's beautiful!
I get it!

Oh, why do I insist...




(Note: I am currently on page 68 of your wonderful and inspiring book, Teaching Literacy for Love and Wisdom.)

"Re-creation" suggested by Gabriele Rico

After "Writing in the Dark" by Denise Levertov (1987)


Such an inspiring sight
such blissful absence
of light!
A vision felt with passion,
eyes closed,
in a blind man's fashion.

There, the helping hand.
A sense of achievement,
the exhilarating joy,
even when the vision
is irreparably lost.

When I open my eyes again,
there is a gain
I sense with pride:
a new bit of me
inside.

Words

Words -
you've got to love them
for their permanent freshness
their nonchalant, disconcerting gaiety
their light, exquisite beauty.

Surprising, suggesting, playful words
ajar, albeit and galore
exotic, rampant, prevailing
prickly, landscape, awe,
lo, capricious, ashore...

However ruthless and unjust
words are never ever responsible
for the mess they might make.
After drought,
an earthquake
tsunamis,
you might curse the sun, the sea,
the earth's bowels or crust -

but who would remember to blame
their innocent, accidental name?

There but not there

I know nothing about your pain
your confusion
I cannot begin to imagine
what you feel each morning
whether you manage
or can't get out of bed.

All I know
is that I'm with you
whatever the path
you choose to tread
and whether or not
you want me there.

I may be blind and deaf
and dumb
silly and useless
and there may be nothing
you wish to share.

Still, out of stubbornness
(you might think)
idiocy, lack of common sense
or something worse
(I would call it friendship)
I hang on.
And on.
...

Contradiction

Far and here
there and close
strange and comforting
intimately unknown

like a wind
deeply felt inside
when it blows.



Mine but alien
always never

like a magical ancient object
which might both unite
and sever.

In the early morning rain...

Around the sun

Around the sun
time and again
euphoric, slightly uneasy,
dizzy from the very light
that life was first made of.


Round and round
restless and brave
circling the one star
that might burn you.


Come down,
descend and be still.
Perhaps it hasn't scorched you yet,
But it will.

Happy birthday

The day you were born
I wasn't around.



Yet I rejoice
today
for what I have found.

No presents
no gifts
to be worn,
treasured,
or put on a shelf
can be more valuable
than yourself.

Cryptic fun

So, you're having fun.


You find my words are cryptic
but amusing
You like coming here
to be puzzled
by little shreds of thought
painfully ripped
from my tormented soul

to you they sound like  music...


Well,
Enjoy it while the flavour
lingers in you mind.
Savour
that comforting sense
of feeling that the key
is not for you to find.



But this riddle,
my friend,
has but one solution
which I declare now
plain and out and open:
whatever it is
that you read into my words
is exactly, precisely
what I want to say -
there's nothing you have missed.

Because your reading them
is their motive to exist.

Waiting

You inspire me.

Without your presence
your prompts
Nothing worth writing seems to come out.

No feelings, no thoughts
Justify their weaving
No joy deserves believing
No pain is worth a shout.

Pilgrimage

To what sacred place
does devotion take you
for no man can live
without blind belief?


Whom do your prayers
invoke late at night
for no man can sleep
without wild dreams?

Where shall your steps
lead you tomorrow
for no trip can last
without destination?

How can you find
the faith to believe
what no other man
seems to conceive?


Mysterious pilgrim
unknown to your shrine
travelling light
this moment here
the next moment gone
out of my sight


be blessed:
I proclaim you divine.

Linda Rose - Bob Acri