I, poet, may write of love

and in that moment feel

a meaning clear:

yet my soul knows love

my hand will never pen

You, reader, read that word

and think to know my mind  

              I say you cannot know the love

my heart placed behind that word, only

your sense of the love you thought you saw

The poet can never truly speak

and have his reader k...

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Unknown reader, be glad that I have opened the door and let out

the dust of my verse for you to see an age after the words first found form on the screen, or

perhaps I have let in your imagination so, turning, you can see a single almond

blossom, pink amongst its pale russet leaves, to tempt your words out

Unknown traveller, on this day, stay, venture out

and, before they fade,...

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My rhymes form in clouds

over the arm chair

beside my note books

and the fire

My lines are captured

and preserved

in the remains of the forest

immortalised on its pulp
 

My words are held captive awhile

in the bright prison cells

where machines etch their pain

on smooth white sheets

My once quiet thoughts crash

noisily onto the leaves

again and ...

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To you, readers, I say

I am no writer -

these words

placed themselves

on my page

to tell a story

To you, writers, I cry

I am no chronicler -

these tales

spun their web

through my mind

to make a memory

To you, poets, I sing

I am no rhymer -

these lines

etched their pattern

on my paper

to form a psalm

To you, who come, I whisper

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what spills onto         the page

falls from                  my mind:

it tells of                   what is there

it tastes of                 my thoughts

so they are                spread here                      with care

                                                                        as verse

the page                    becomes

my mind                    bared

...

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Impulse is the best linguist

So Mr Thoreau thought

And often what is written here

Is spoiled by what is later brought

Yet

All I write and sometimes rhyme

Falls on the page untaught

So needs some tender love and care

Before you see it as you ought

So

The lines you read from any page

Should by your ear be caught

As best words ordered to flow well

With...

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The sound of one hand clapping

Who said that?

But I know what it means, now:

It is the lost beat of one heart loving

Not waving but drowning

I know that one:

Both origin and relevance now:

It is no pleasure, but one soul's need

No man is an island, entire of itself

Sung, used, re-used

The obvious is no less poignant

Now that I've found and lost my land

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