There is something about that empty swing
which speaks to me of spaces left unfilled
by little people who no longer cling
like climbing vines nor grow like daffodils.
Some other void usurps their playful place
(where laughter once concealed the hammerblow);
now ominously haunts the interface,
while dangling hollow chairs sway to and fro.
Some say sonettos throw you in a cage,
imprison you, your back against the wall;
claiming they herald from a bygone age —
a time of courtly love ‘Neanderthal’.
Poetry, they feel, should always run free —
stream of consciousness, never bow the knee
to any structure pre-prepared, rigid,
or written verse is bound to be frigid.
In all my many tangletimes of love,
I never have relinquished all control.
In sensing peril’s pall (as I adjudged),
I never pledged the last ounce of my soul.
God knows I wanted all the tongues of fire
which beckoned me in flames to form a whole.
Yet never would I give what was required;
(I hadn’t met the other magnet pole).
Where is the open heart I vainly seek
who will not flee from love in startled shoes;
who, when kissed, will show her soft undercheek,
for whom defensiveness is not a ruse?
Where is the forthright face, unspoilt, wide-eyed
whose stratagem is only beauty, peace
and truth — whose countenance cries humbled pride,
whose mystery unfolds without a crease.
Advice: always settle for second best
Do not imagine you can find your dream
Reconcile yourself to being like the rest
Always compromise, non carpe diem
Cauterise your grand imagination
Rebuke yourself each time you think of She
Know you’ll never find that soul-vibration
Content yourself to be fulfilment-free
I have no words. Well that is how it feels.
Yet here are lines of letters on the page
which make themselves the cruel shape of a cage,
imprisoning my heart and my ideals.
I am my own worst enemy. Too true!
But someone has to take the role or else
I can no longer satisfy myself
that I have protected my soul from you.
I wander slowly from the battle-scene;
no turning back to see the debris fall.
Filled with red light warnings in place of dreams;
I miss your good intentions most of all.
Crossing many ages on a mission —
shadowing angel visions from the past —
a stratospheric mid-air collision
became a question rather than a blast.
If stars were my thoughts and the sun my sigh,
I’d reach up and give them to you, my friend.
My heart in my head, my hands in the sky.
Purest intention — no lover’s lament.
If birds were my voice and the wind my words
my hurricane wings you’d have, my angel.
With arms on the breeze through parachute shirt,
I fly to your side, our cords entangled.
You said that you always feel safe with me;
I wish that I could feel the same with you.
Of course we want each other to be free;
but what of all the crazy things you do?
For freedom in relationship to work,
it needs a firm foundation based on trust.
“Freedom to” is often the road to hurt;
but “freedom from” will keep us free from dust.
I thought it would be you beneath that stone
but when I turned it over it was me!
The only state that I have ever known:
Both drawn to and fazed by intimacy.
Everyman’s dilemma, a paradox
defined, is how to be absorbed in her
in body, heart and mind (with flowing locks)
while also defending his barrier.