Your face is map enough for me
Your gaze, your smile, your frown, your glee.
If I want to know the rest
The shape your posture’s made is best
For showing how your life is now.
A look, a gesture, this each show.
Till all you are is well disclosed
And I am in your arms enrobed.
Love vanishes when analysed,
And thinking too by Love’s despised
Use the means to fit the end
And then I’ll be whom you intend
Integrity, what does it mean?
Whole, with no sin hid unseen?
We know we can trust’em,
Because they confessed’em.
Integrity, the truth is what’s seen
Those little words invented as we loved
Now have no other speaker but myself.
Lost, unique, the man so well beloved,
Those little words sprang from our deep, sweet love-
In my own speech, these words no longer live
I cannot use our words, that loving wealth.
The chosen words invented as we loved
Now have no other listener but myself.
When Oscar sits on the windowsill And sees someone within, His mouth opens wide in soundless cry, He gives us his cat grin. Oscar rubs around my legs He's such a friendly soul. He then rolls round upon his back And waves his long striped tail. But after Oscar's greetings done, He's off to do his rounds. He sets off from the white door To the long thin gardens end. Every inch of soil and seed Is subject to his nose. The garden looks one way to us, But he can see much more. I wish that Oscar cat could talk And tell us what he's found. Ten thousand spider's weaving webs, A slow worm on the ground. A million ants climb up the rowan, I sometimes watch them too. I see the striped wasps and honey bees In this small natural zoo. The hedgehogs sweet have long been gone, but we have diverse birds. Oscar sits on my tall stool. He watches them for hours.
The man who never listened to the troubles of his wife fell down the escalator at King's Cross station. No-one met his eyes, as he lay sickly on the concrete, though someone did push his shiny briefcase towards him as if hoping that was enough. He phoned his wife but she was out complaining about him to a neighbour instead of painting or cooking dinner. As he lay down there on a level with the feet of the commuters he noticed no-one polished their shoes anymore... well,no-one could polish trainers of course.., though you can wash them---- he saw the way people leaned forward as if pushing themselves against a gale. though it was a still warm day. It seemed as if they were battling against a huge force, not relating to the feeling of their weight upon the earth. It was some spiritual force which was pushing them back towards the Underground,hot and turgid with sweat and dust. A sanitised Inferno,where the hell is in the collective mind . The force seemed to push them in and they pushed back and did eventually make it into the street outside and into Westminster, for we all need our rulers. He lay there all morning musing, until a tramp came over and asked him to buy a copy of the Big Issue. And he stood up and bought it gratefully, taking strength from the acknowledgement of his humanity. He phoned the office, went home and told his wife he'd like to know how she had spent her morning how she felt,how he wanted to learn to talk and listen, and recommends now that if you can fall off the escalator without breaking a leg you might be glad to see life from the bottom up; for he'd always looked from the top down and was above everyone. These reversals,though fearful, can give us a new perspective especially on women who are so often on the underside of society He's wondering about changing his life from up to down.. and down to up. Mothers always said,it's good to have a change. I don't think it was their husbands they meant.. though.........who knows? A game of musical chairs might be good on the weekend, if you live near a good escalator. Escalating... it's not for the beginner at falling.
Where I had lain for many dreamy hours.
But when I dressed this self-same sun had fled
Like a bulb in winter soil seems dead
I lay inert, a lifeless withered flower
This sun enticed me from my winter bed
I lay in weakness like one who’s been bled
But with my heart, I wished for summer bowers
Though when I dressed, flirtatious sun had fled
What is shown us, sometimes can’t be said.
The language of the heart its truth declares.
This sun aroused me from unmoving bed
Who can’t be pushed may yet be gently led.
The language of the body plays its share
Though when we dress, unfaithful sun is sad
What do bulbs feel when they reach the air?
What do flowers feel when they are first bared
Warm sun entices all from winter beds
And when we dress .let’s muse on flower heads.
How my heart sings 