Lucky

You are the seven colours of my rainbow,
The seven days within my week,
The seven wonders of my world,
The only prime number I seek.
You are each of my seven continents
My seven deadly sins
You’re the seven seas I travel, the seven notes I sing.

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The Invitation

By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn’t interest me
what you do for a living.
I want to know
what you ache for
and if you dare to dream
of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me
how old you are.
I want to know
if you will risk
looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesnt interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened
by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know
if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.

I want to know
if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you
to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations
of being human.

It doesn’t interest me
if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear
the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know
if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live
or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me
who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me
where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know
what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know
if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like
the company you keep
in the empty moments

Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-invitation-by-oriah-mountain-dreamer

Damage

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I tried to reverse the other day.
I found looking backwards difficult,
The scratch on the surface
Cutting deeper than you’d imagine,
Leaving marks that won’t go away
For all your optimistic talk.
Even moving forwards, I have discovered,
Is fraught with complication
And kindly old men
Who perhaps see the scuffs
And damage already there,
Take pity and let me on
My way.
To where?
And sometimes I just get locked out,
Left to wait on my own
For someone who might pick me up and rescue me.
Fix the damage.

Looking Down At The Cathedral

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Walk out with me upon the hill and feel
Words which are like this place I could not find.
Let me root you in the roots of my youth,
Now you cannot go and leave me behind.
See the stalagmite spire as it rises
Majestic, monument to our worship.
There’s ancient magic here in this place
Prayers and spells that hover over our lips.
Looking down we feel like the Gods we forget,
Anything possible in this moment
Because we are alone in paradise
Where love lingers immortal, heaven sent.
Fields of green fan out like fate far below
You’re already mine, I already know.

Waterloo Station

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I like looking at the people:
Grey, gaping mouthed, headphones in, aimless in their hurry,
Disembarking strangers; embarking lovers…

I imagine I see two years ago us
As I stare from the window of my train.
We are shiny and new against the pallor of everybody else’s everyday dullness.
We stroll side by side down the platform.

I am on the wrong side, of course,
To truly picture the scene
But then I am always on the wrong side,
Wanting to step out into that remembered picture,
Hold the hand that wasn’t held,
Kiss you on the mouth, on the platform,
In full view of the me
Staring out from behind the glass,
On that other train
That idles here. Waiting.

La Rosa Separada

An Easter Island poem for Easter time by a poet whose timeless poems are fascinating for their beauty and their power.

La Rosa Separada – a translation of poem 1

Easter Island and Pablo Neruda

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I

Today is that day, the day that carried
a desperate light that since has died.
Don’t let the squatters know:
let’s keep it all between us,
day, between your bell
and my secret.

Today is dead winter in the forgotten land
that comes to visit me, with a cross on the map
and a volcano in the snow, to return to me,
to return again the water
fallen on the roof of my childhood.
Today when the sun began with its shafts
to tell the story, so clear, so old,
the slanting rain fell like a sword,
the rain my hard heart welcomes.

You, my love, still asleep in August,
my queen, my woman, my vastness, my geography
kiss of mud, the carbon-coated zither,
you, vestment of my persistent song,
today you are reborn again and with the sky’s
black water confuse me and compel me:
I must renew my bones in your kingdom,
I must still uncloud my earthly duties.

The Next Last Time

The next last time
I spoke to you
Was the next last time
I looked into your eyes
And for the next last time
Got lost in them again.
That next last time
Should have been longer
So that for the next last time
When you kissed me,

When you kissed me…

It could have turned into the next last time
You felt my hands searching
For the next last time
To Touch you,
For a next last time to
Take you in my mouth and
Make that next last time
Even harder.

Anticipation by Amy Lowell

I have been temperate always,
But I am like to be very drunk
With your coming.

There have been times
I feared to walk down the street
Lest I should reel with the wine of you,
And jerk against my neighbours
As they go by.

I am parched now, and my tongue is horrible in my mouth,
But my brain is noisy
With the clash and gurgle of filling wine-cups.

Lent Heart

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Ilya Repin: Tempation of Christ
Created: 19th or early 20th century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You gave me up.

By Wednesday I became ash,
A cold, grey snow of
Scattered fragments,
Melting into nothing on the wind.

You took back your lent heart
And for forty days and forty nights
Retreated into the desert, deserting me,
For silent penance and prayer.
Pray for me

Your daily devotional.
You are my chosen one.
I am the worshipper at your temple
Or else I must be the devil
Who would, all things give to you,
If thou would only fall down and worship me.

Juxtaposed

Happy national poetry day 2019! This year the theme is change, or so I am told. So in the poetic spirit here is a poem I wrote a few months ago about things changing. It is totally bonkers, I was going totally mad when I wrote it, but things change and get easier and despite its total weirdness, I really quite love it.

Things I learned today:

That cupboards with different doors on 
Are still the same but
Look like different cupboards
Just less unhinged.

That looking back can help you look forward and 
That I haven’t changed much,
Sadly.

I realised 
You are the first person that I have loved so completely
But maybe you won’t be the last… 

I have learned that at one point in my life, 
Someone else really thought they loved me and that love was and can and should be exciting
But somewhere along the line I settled for safe.

Fuck that. 

I was reminded that 
You are not the first person to quote me poetry
Or, 
Even, the first person the write me poetry,
Although, yours is, or was, more meaningful and beautiful than any that came before.

I found out that my virginity cost me 110 euros.
This made me laugh –  
I must have been worth the price
At least once,
Although I’d pay
The price for you a thousand times over.

I see 
I have become fitter, thinner, more, or less, assured with age.
I have become braver, yet 
I still don’t have the courage to say 
To your face,
Exactly what I want.

I still try to hide when I cry.

I realise I can throw things away
That mean whole lifetimes 
Because they are broken and taking up room and I also know that
I can fill that void with something else
That wants to belong.

I need to belong.

Did you know,
Tiny splinters hurt more than you realise and
So does the cold?

But, 
I am reminded, that despite this,
I am kind,
That I do not always start the fight
But will probably try to finish it…
This made me laugh.

Apparently, 
And I take this with a pinch of salt
For I feel misunderstood,

I am a bad influence.

I cannot believe it.

I am juxtaposed,
I suppose?
Who knows…