As I was reading
the work of another poet
I thought, ‘I could have written that.’

But I couldn’t,
it was hers, not mine,
it was she who burgled my house
not I who burgled hers,
it was she who left her prints
on the light switch,
her feet light on the stairs,
her hand on the door
entering the room where
I was quietly reading,
it was her voice whispering in my ear
and her tears in the words she wrote
mingling with mine as I read them.

Why is nothing working anymore?

Maybe it’s because the Gods want something different from us now, something new, something fresh, something we haven’t thought of before or once knew but have forgotten.

But nobody is asking what it might be, just applying the same old same old, things that set one against the other, seek security and certainty where none exists, things that place wisdom in the hands of others and not in our hearts, our beautiful human hearts.

Where are the prophets, the visionaries and the peacemakers? Not the leaders of men but the leaders of light?

So death is out
walking our streets again,
don’t follow him to see where he goes,
don’t catch his eye or touch his clothes,
just look away and let him by
and pay your respect with a silent sigh.

Know that in time your heart will soften,
you’ll recall the person, not the coffin,
and in their place new hope will rise,
it’s always the way when a loved one dies.

The night bus
dropped me off here
nearly seventy years ago,
I watched it go, it’s warmth,
the smell of diesel
and it’s golden windows
disappearing into the night.

It wasn’t long before
the dawn came and I could
see where I was, but it
took me much longer
to work out why I was here.
I’m not complaining,
by and large  I have
risen to the challenge,
it wasn’t always easy
but I’ve had a lot of help,
now when I sit in the evenings
I sometimes think I can hear
the old bus coming to pick me up,
growling over the distant hills.

It’s got a way to come yet
but still I find myself
checking my pockets
to make sure I haven’t
lost my ticket.

Sometimes
I look over at you,
or I hear you speak
and I think,

‘I hardly even know you.’

But it’s not in the way you look
or even what you say
that the knowing
exists.

I know your heart
and how like
to my own it is.

When the trees started growing
the first thing the stars did
was to teach the leaves to sing,
how be like them, how to be in harmony,
together and apart.

The stars knew that one day
their brothers and sisters
would want to visit the earth,
but they worried that when they did
the sheer beauty, the power and drama of life
might cause them to forget where they came from,
and this is what happened.

So now they send the breeze
to whisper in the leaves
and remind us
who we are.

Don’t tell me,
don’t talk to me,
don’t stand in my way.

You think I don’t know
that even on a good day
I am morally ambiguous?
That’s because I need to see,
to find out for myself what is
and what is not.

Don’t ask me to
agree with your views,
believe in one thing,
behave in one way
or join your gang.
I can’t, I won’t,
it’s not for me.

I don’t believe that God
favours Clubs or Churches,
or Temples or Synagogues anyway,
or lives in signs or statues either.
I believe God is in the wild places
the difficult places, the places
where His Light is needed.

And the most difficult place I know
is my own heart, a heart that trembles
with fear and anticipation
in the face of what life brings.