Not only do they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,
but they’re cutest best buddies, times by treble.
The perfect antidote to a long-old day,
these bunches of fluff have made my soiree´.
On a good day I see in the flames
a dancing horse, swishing tail
head upright, ears aloft,
prancing to the heat of the fire,
soul alight with joy.
On a bad day I see in the flames
a devilish anger that burns down
all my hard work, a ghoulish glee
that turns my dreams to ash,
hope depleted, plans destroyed.
Stand tall, stand true.
Find balance in what you do.
My four diamond holes
to help find what you extol.
My three central blocks
to stay firm against life’s knocks.
The column at my core
to align with what you adore.
The security at my base,
to remind you to live with grace.
Tides come, tides go,
time shoots its arrows.
Stand true, stand tall.
One day you won’t be here at all.
We’re broken and bruised,
battered from birth,
we were built so fundamentally wrong.
The world makes life so bloody hard.
Just give up trying to
create or belong.
You break my heart
with your wounded ways.
We’re not defined by our past.
Yet you’ve kept me stuck for five decades
with your sneers, your pokes,
my sad little un-started drafts.
Too right there: I get my kicks
when I sit on your shoulder,
sabotaging all that you ‘write’.
You’re far too old for all that hope
now in life you’ve reached
That’s enough! I’ve had an idea
about wounds and abuse and stuff.
If I begin to transform all of our pain
into fables strong and true,
you’ll lose your hold over my head
and my heart will take the reins.
It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me
of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.
Like torchlight from an invisible source,
it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,
illuminating the darkest part of my garden.
The new-grown laurels have taken root,
wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.
They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench
with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:
a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.
The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth
amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,
their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial
of any future state of wither or decay.
An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.