ZEN TODAY

What can be stolen
From he who has nothing?

SWAN

When will the tension between

The status, grace and wisdom
Above the surface
Become resolved
With the paddling beneath?

 

Will there be a time,
Will there ever be a time,
When the glide really does come easy,
When the surface, still as mirror,
Reflects the whole soul,

 

Seen and greeted as for the first time,
Acknowledged in raw beauty, whole, anew?
Will there come a time when 
Efforts cease
And consciousness flows as water

 

Going the easiest route,
Pooling resources,
Oozing through life’s meadows,
Relaxing in ripples
Of self- acceptance?

 

 

GULLS

 

 Gulls are tearing at the newspaper

Scrapping to get a morsel

Even if there isn’t  one.

A wild, competitive confusion.

I don’t know the collective noun.

A flap perhaps?

Those gulls -

Those desperate, hungry gulls.

On trains, in rooms, in meetings.

ZEN TODAY

Help?

REFLECTION

Isn’t it about time

After a lifetime of paddling,

I went to the river?

Sit by the untroubled water

And just be?

See who’s written there

Upon the clear surface?

Do nothing but look?

Meet me there?

ZEN TODAY

No me
No mine
No problem.

WHAT THE KINGFISHER DOES FOR CHRISTMAS

Nobody knows

What the kingfisher does for Christmas

Whether, perhaps, holed up in Klosters

With champagne and smoked salmon

Or if, unknown to the tax man,

He has a hideaway in Mustique.

Hibernation seems unlikely.

The bulldog, on the other hand

Ought to be predictable:

A pie and a pint in the local,

The Queen on the telly,

Turkey. Sprouts. Gravy.

But, no.

He’s skiing in Val d’Isere.

Which makes you wonder

If the kingfisher

Is in Barnsley, or Basingstoke.

ZEN TODAY

We'll see.

ENCOURAGEMENT

"With a mind like yours, you should write," she said,
"You know, books."

"No," I said.
"No. I don't think so."

Excellence enacts devotion.
Devotion enacts excellence.

FLAMINGOS

We go to Maguelon,

The sky dark with salt,

Black in the south,

And the Middle Sea tearing at the shore.

The pink question marks

That are flamingos

Unfold into exclamatory flight -

Prehistoric dashes in the grey air,

Red certainties punctuating turmoil.

By the canal, boat debris,

And a café for travellers,

Shut for the winter.

We are here when my questions

Do not find answers.

None found in the cold cathedral.

And, in the etang,

The flamingos land,

Becoming question marks again.

BONSAI

Once, I sent a bonsai,

And the man who got it

Brought me to his home

Where the bonsai was on show,

With all its leaves, midwinter.

When I saw it he coughed

And his wife said they all fell off

But knowing you were coming

I made paper ones

And stuck them on.

That, to me, was love.

And I’ve had loves where the leaves fall off,

But no one makes new ones.

Some trees lose leaves.