Walls

Thoughts on the splendour of things

In this land there are wonders

I have touched, tasted and devoured them – heard them call, sing and scream too

In their joy and in their sleep

their beauty and horror astounds me.

All about there are green hills and leafy valleys

Birds singing, water falling, animals calling

Life and its death all about – in the woods and on the streets

I run with all of it; time’s show

All through the land and the space

gold and brilliant painted letters tell stories about the beauty

The tales pull us in – painted on glorious shimmering walls of jewels

We gather, drawn in, and read – as fools

Like you (and me writing) through these words we learn and get to know

of all of the things that, if we would only stop, turn and look

and see all about – our words, like our thoughts, merely confine us

Turn around.

Magpies - Jack

What is that song - no not that one (Climbing up on Salisbury Hill)

Climbing up on Whitehawk Hill,
I could see the city streets, winters freezing, I stood still
6 magpies pecking at the Downs.

1 for sorrow, 2 for joy, 3 for a girl and 4 for a boy, 5 for silver, 6 for gold - 7 for a secret never to be told.

Took me back through time, and its further each time, to the day when you were born, beautiful boy - 13 magpies in Markfield Park.

Poem - thank you

Thank you for your words - your poem.
A short journey to read; life for you to seize - and it too beguiles me.
Words, songs, pictures and the smell and taste and touch of all - and your words more so - as a gift held up, a little exposed.
A little exposed; innocence in richness.
The more we see the more we may feel jaded - but thats not your way; not my way either.
There is more - follow that insistent tug; life wants you, all of us who will run with it, run faster, run slower, run.
And, thank you for the poem and more.

Light fantastical

And - oh, I just start writting, thats the plan.
In her eyes there is light - in everything there is light.
In everything, in every particle, at the heart of everything, there is light.
Thats what she said.
Unlike me, she reflected on her words, they had meaning, they could be seen and heard.
When I was asked to repeat what I had said I couldn't,
I had not known what I would say and I couldn't recall what I had said when asked to lift the things up to be seen more clearly - the words were dead before they were formed.
I think people find this unsettling.
We open a box with words, dig about, stir stuff up.
I don't know when I'm going to do it and when I am asked "why?" and "what?"
All I know is that whatever it was has gone.
I think that this what this stuff does to me.
All of this thinking, all this talking - symbols and stories fishing about for a meaning that has no meaning.
It stirs things up, words, like long spoons glooping around in the soup.
Essential things that don't fit words come to the top like those wierd fish from the ocean floor.
Bug eyed, big teeth - dying (quick - gone) before our bewildered eyes.
We always see them dead or as they take their last breath.
Like the workings of the day or the innards of a cat - laid bare, dead.
Light is light, I think - and the dark is when there is not enough of it for me to see.

Tell the children to behave

I told you to put your bottom in your pocket and leave it there!