Letter

Dear Katherine

I see you have left out an apostrophe on wild birds song.You should be old enough to know your grammar
You only use question marks or hyphens.You will never succeed with such carelessness or laziness
I may not be a success but at least I never make a mistake.
Unless it’s the ultimate mistake, having no creative ideas nor urges I never write anything down
I see how stupid this is, like never having any relationships in case I commit a sin by feeling desire wrongfully and I never married in case I should commit adultery or an act of violence
So I might as well have died as my fear of errors has paralysed me and Jesus mixed with sinners,I wish he were here with me now
Anyway,I hope you understand my feelings and you could learn
grammar too for my sake

Yours anxiously yet sincerely

Mr Niebody

Oh, wild bird

From Dover to the East there are white cliffs
The little path is bordered by wild flowers
We saw the Lighthouse looking in good shape
And lay down nearby on the grass, sweet hours

But now alone and troubled by my sight
I shall not visit cliff tops nor high towers
I stay in woods or gardens or green lawns
I hope you will not think I am a coward

Even little ladybirds or ants
Enthrall me as I watch them in their bowers
And when it’s wet I watch the clouds pass by
And sometimes in the heat we enjoy showers

Vision narrow focussed may be wrong.
With mind relaxed, we know the wild birds’ song

Air strokes our bare skin



When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin
.When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all the ground’s forlorn
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born


.When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
When through the soil the first green shoots will break


.For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know

Gesticulate

In the July grass we lay down deep
The lighthouse painted white was by our feet
In winter gales the whole place was destroyed
The lighthouse disappeared into the storm

So life seems more uncertain,death awaits
Even what we hope will keep us safe
I shall not walk on cliffs now you are late
Your ashes in the wind gesticulate

We need our myths and narratives so words
Can keep us safe and block out the absurd
And hell is other people,not just me
The noose, the rope, the hangman and the tree

Yet I shall lie again on sun warmed grass
Reliving the psychosis of the Mass

The waves

Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves
That come and go on beaches , wet the  sand
The sea is always moving  as is love

The unconscious is a language dark engraved
We cannot read unless we can descend
To rhythms as natural  as   the  rippling waves

Rich and strange   so different from above
What we find is  not what we intend
The sea is always moving  as is love

What’s   in authentic nature  that should save
As colours interact, by brush  to  blend?
Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves

Yet ,in a poem, what  part of us  can bathe
The mind , the heart, the soul, the writing hand
The sea is always moving  as is love

The  golden seas, the oceans can command
The ships that sail, the   whale, the hidden ends
Poetic rhythm is natural like the waves
The inner sea is  moving , tender love