Which day and which place,
we're still never sure,
but yet this interminable
greyness of being:
bare trees and old boots
that never quite fit;
bald, empty roads
with no-one to meet,
landscapes to view,
not places to visit;
just aimless wandering
and chance dispositions
- giving words to some
(and numbers to others),
giving dance to you
(and thinking to me) -
that determine positions
and fashion perspectives,
that fill baskets with sand
and carrots and whips.
That safety of promises
we know we can't trust,
of 'Surely tomorrow'
and weary regret.
(Some say we are Lucky,
aiming to mollify -
pigs on the ropes of
those that walk blindly.)
And the stories of thieves
and tree-nailed salvation:
meaningless twaddle
or ultimate Truth?
There's easier sense in
the nonsense of lawyers
and golf and philosophers
and skating and stones.
But we don't dance the Net
or the Scapegoat's Agony,
or believe what we see
or admit what we know.
We don't hold on to
the purpose we glimpse:
rare jewels like dew drops
on cobwebs at dawn.
We bicker and argue
and try to remember,
each day like dream's ash
as memories flicker.
So this then is it,
the sum of our stories,
us stumbling, tumbling
and bumbling along:
God's nonsense riddle
of living and dying,
of life made sense of
in poems and song.
YOU ARE READING
Fragments And Reflections
PoetryPoems looking at everything and anything not in my other collections. Here you'll find life and time, wild oceans and lonely coast paths, busy streets and empty hotel rooms, wild concerts and late night writing. All just fragments and reflections, l...