and I on the ground
beneath you, loving you with my eyes
Can we not find each other’s surprise?
conceal, the days
…we used to run through grass
only time has passed; no strangers
to each other now
the same delight, the moonlight, the beach
we cannot reach…into..somehow…
And I on the wave
You in the sea, for me for me for me
And you, yes
my love I’d do anything for you
you for me, save
the days now faded in time
For we have still to find our way
in ceaseless entwine
the days ahead
the same delight a changed insight
and love, my Love, I’m only so new
Will you see us now, no longer me
and us on the tide of time just starting to be free?
They dart like shadow upon shadow
Content in their regulated, placid world.
Enclosed from above by fluorescent light,
Behind them a wall that’s more that wood and plaster,
A mile wide yet paper-thick, which is strength enough.
The wallpaper endures no tricks from the light
That is diffused through the veil that is a curtain
Which will never seek audience.
Morning, and behind the wall, a world of voices hurting
Without precaution, while I am forced to listen
For fears, of detection, or of curiosity?
I won’t go, where were you, I was depressed, two days?
The echoes hang and then absorbed through the wall
For my benefit.
The wall, that separates the tranquility, ignorance, bliss,
From the harsh oppressive reality of marital mistrust.
All’s quiet of the home front: the smile falls with the face.
(Note: refers to a time when, awaking from chaotic dreams of medieval chaos and ruin, I recalled a happy memory to calm me. I remembered a time at the lights in Newmarket with my lover, when she asked for her ‘drug’, and I kissed her, thinking impulsively she meant ‘me’. Two guys in a van behind us clapped – such romantic spirit? My lover explained after that it was a cigarette she meant. In the poem this memory is translated into medieval garb from the dream traces).
Carrouselled past Shavian
Flowersellers, to days of when
Medieval knights and damsels
Fled from evil sights to castles,
And past bombardment of quaking towers
The last enchantment, for waking now,
My dreams have gone, and I’ve lost the battle,
And streams of consciousness now grapple
With thoughts of sleep and safety’s shore
For fraught with deep pangs greatly more
Of love and loneliness, my mind
A dove on a lonely quest to find
Of when we
Reminisced when, on trusty steed,
The damsel was kissed, when just such a deed
Was requested of the prince, who confused the words
In the message rather, since it amused the bards
In the minstrel troupe behind, who clapped for more
And the damsel looked blind to what the kiss was for.
Not a kiss was the request for the task, nor a hug,
But for Turkish cigarettes when she asked for her ‘drug’.
And awakening to memory, I welcome reality.
In taking you with me in my dreams, you are in me.
1, 2, 3, 4
When will the rain with the wind wash down.
The death toll sound in this peaceful town.
Clouds in the south lie limp on the line.
Watch as they wash over memories in time.
It was the flight of the Icon Tester.
I was taking it for her first run.
When I thought of how I missed her,
And flew into the sun.
The video hummed by my side,
The technician’s hands were wrung.
He said, ‘Look man, you can’t commit suicide,
We just can’t let it be done.
That Icon Tester’s brand new,
It’s worth a heavy sum.
And top-grade pilot’s are few,
We can’t afford to lose another one.
I said, ‘You try and stop me, for
I’m looking after number one,
And life’s not worth living anymore,
I’m making the final run.
My wife died two days ago,
And life’s no longer fun.
And now I’m going to join her, so
Say goodbye for me to everyone.
The pain I felt grew more and more,
But the instructions couldn’t be undone.
The last thing I saw was the white of the core,
As the ship and I melted into one.
5 -7- 80
Tree of the cascades
Visage swathed in green
The robe of winter’s queen.
How the night wind races in your memory,
Though the darts of dawn
Silver the dew
Adorning your limbs.
Deep-rooted memories echoing
Like lyric strains of birdsong
Filtered through your leaves
That shimmer in the breeze.
When once you ran you cried ‘Diana!
My limbs are like the wild wind.”
And, green nymph, your legs would ache,
Your body taut
While stalking prey.
In dewy youth
Summer’s song was golden.
Now your supple leaves are falling.
In their wake you find none forming
A royal wreath
To still your aching heart.
12 – 11 – 82
Falls in the water,
Whether he is
To feed the little mouths,
To sexually arouse,
To be a good man around the house,
To keep my fury doused,
To stay with you til home come the cows.
To heal the bitter rows,
To fill the day with wows,
To keep wearing the trous’,
To convince you of my powers,
To be with you to wile away the hours.
To appreciate your vows,
To work on being good pals,
To be tidy as a mouse,
To forego the mood that sours,
To praise what’s inside your blouse.
To work to have what’s ours,
To remember to give you flowers,
To in your mind take a browse,
To make sure old skin sloughs,
To heal you of your ow!s
To in love-making nip your brows,
To show you now the hour is
To remake our mutual vows.
Life (unfortunately?) is not a linear progression of continual transcendence.
We loop-the-loop in periodic cycles whose zenith
Is the acquisition of higher consciousness given as grace or guidance,
And whose nadir is the sacrificial ordeal of the redemption of lower consciousness
And the gift of initiation.
A catalyst kicks it off, a season of the soul.
Looking back I can reflect ‘that was the period of my life when..’
How did that one begin? What started the wheel to spin?
We were on a roll, a spark ignited, something fired the imagination,
And we got caught on the rising tide, the movement of transformation.
The ‘New Age’ is largely a solar cult, fashioned from sunny California.
The sparkle of spiritual images from the commodity capital of Hollywood.
Bought in the marketplace we must make them our own,
Bringing image together with shadow to become real,
Find what is uniquely ours from all the ideas that appeal.
A calling turns us inward, beyond the public domain.
What got us kudos was not enough, the outward expression is flagging.
What was once professed we must now confess we know not where it came from.
And we ask in declining days of summer if we might humble ourselves to listen
and accept the lessons of the guiding ones.
Grace is the gift of those who have stopped seeking or struggling.
Outward confidence becomes the inner ability to confide in oneself.
Something nudges us from our certainty and calls into question
The mission we thought we were on.
Sweet season of touching the future self where it’s already all been done.
A crisis takes us full circumstance, opposite where we began.
We must enter the underworld embrace and allow an understanding.
Every aspect of ourselves wants to be accounted for and included.
The stretch in ourselves as we remind ourselves of the light while in the shadows.
It is the shamanic ordeal to use these tools for transformation.
And in that said period of your life, wasn’t there the determination,
To break several cycles of similar fate to gain an initiation?
The gift you receive becomes your service to see where others are caught.
What gold did you uncover? The rhythm and pulse of life discovered.
Seasons of the soul beyond which realization is sought.
~ Tony French 1998