and in the morning

You are warm and lovely besides me -

your breath comes soft and even;

gently you sleep

and in the morning to wake to another day.

Just a breath

In just a breath 

there is life or death 

and the turning of a feather

Packed and Wrapped

She speaks to me silently

but I know what she says;

each unspoken word

felt through me;

known by mood,

known by her presence,

known by being “me”

and “not me”

both at the same time.

A shadow self -

a second-self within -

not wholly me,

but me differently.

Sometimes she is silent

but sometimes

she embraces being “us”

completely.

But then she can be driven out,

driven into hiding,

driven into fear,

by the pressure of others

for me to be

only what they see I am -

what they presume

I should be -

packed and wrapped

by a label “man”.

Thoughts

Storm waves blown on a great ocean:

But tonight the moon lies reflected.

A boatman leaves ripples from his oars.

Opening to you

Opening to you by small degree -

unfolding,

revealing,

discovering;

each day new born

in the eye of the other:

more known,

but unknown;

more understood,

but intriguing;

more sharing,

but exposing -

as each the other

we undress.

and then lost

Sitting, waiting for my life to change -

an airport lounge

an arrivals board

times of landing

delayed

delayed

delayed

wondering

questioning

watching

people

cases

bags

luggage

faces

faces

faces

then from behind the steam of bodies

one face both know and not known,

but to be known -

and then lost.

In the confusion of the moment

In the confusion of the moment
when I thought I was someone else
your touched me
and for a second
we stood still,
you and I,
shorn of everything

The last breath

I looked down and it lay between us gasping its last breaths.
You turned and beat it once more on the head with your club -
such words, such cruelty.
How could you not think it would die,
culled like a seal pup?

We dragged it home and propped it up in the corner. 

Now and again you try to give it resuscitation, 

but I know as you beat its chest that that it is dead. 

Can you not smell the stink of its decay?

I come into your arms

I am come into your arms

because that is what we want -

the shelter of each other's being:

Touching, that we may be touched.

I am come into your days

because that is what we wish -

the symmetries of each other's minds:

speaking, that we may be known.

I am come into you storms

because that is what it is sharing -

the taste of each other's calm:

soothing, that we may be soothed.

I am come into your nights

because that is what it is giving -

each with the other unguardedly:

naturally, because we can be no other.

I am come into your life

because that is what we need -

the warmth of each other's presence:

loving, that we may be loved.

Slowly something deeper

In the stillness of the silence

words begin to have no place,

seem hollow,

seem shallow -

prattlings against the coming of the void,

against the peace that wants to come in

but will not for fear of the self.

Then,

slowly,

something deeper.

Understanding

Scratching with words on the face of the darkest matter:

we see our words for a time -

and then they fade.

nor the harvest that it yields

The banks of a stream do not own the water that flows past them,
The cliffs do not own the waves that break on them,
The birds do not own the wind upon which they ride,
The corn does not own the summer in which it ripens,
Nor the harvest that it yields.

Watch

I watched the leaves fall
and I watched them come again;
now the blossoms fall once more.

you are not you

you are not you

but all of the things said to you

you are not you

but all of those places you have been

you are not you

but all of those people who have smiled at you

you are not you

but all of those people you have touched

you are not you

but all of those people you have loved

The Castings of Deeper Love

The first fires of love forging a future with their white heat -
when they cool?
perhaps no more than dust to be blown away by the wind,
perhaps no more than wishes to be washed with tears,

but perhaps something more solid and lasting,
perhaps something of gold and iron wrought strong
or something of great worth not recognised
until cooled in the ashes it is found.
 
These, true founded,
stand the test of time,
for these are the real
castings of deeper love.

Exile

The weeping heart of exile -
a longing that comes from deep inside.
You send me post cards
of where we might have been,
but where we are not

In a mirror reflected differently

In a mirror reflected differently:
each in the other's eyes;
weaving two people -
with wonder
with questions
with seeing -
and amazement that this could be.