Thomas Seeks Belief - edit 2

Thomas lifts his hairshirt, touches, gently,

the lesion beneath. As he stands beside the diligent bed,

hidden in the tall, thin shadows

cast by a crooked lampshade, he recalls
how his chest was once wound free.

That was when he was young, blithe,

inhabited the Tao moment,

uncluttered, free of the need for belief, the future –

a thread yet

to be woven - unhindered, unkept.

Then came the children.

Now his heart is constantly exposed, a deep gash
unable to heal - a place for all manner of things
to visit, to perch
on fleshy lips or enter and touch
the heart within.

Thomas lies in bed, bare-chested, misses
the kiss at night when his naked wife
would lie by his side. Her wound and his
shared solace as they
wondered what the children were up to.

His wife buried, children grown
into their own spasms

to navigate. In the dark, Thomas slips
his hand into the gap and touches, gently,
his own beating centre.

He stares, opened-eyed, up at the unseen
ceiling, seeks assurance, a belief
that all would be well
with his children and theirs
long after his time has been and gone.

The magpie’s canvas

Before the curtains are drawn

and light can enter the mind -

the day fresh and uneaten;

before the lover’s hand

can alight upon the shoulder’s blade

and stir sleep into action,

the feathered artist

warbles aural paint across the world.

Ears fill with the gravity

of a planet returned, a promise fulfilled.

The eucalypt are greened and greyed,

the sun given its yellow haze;

the sky, with each trill and cadence,

returned from night into blue.

Head upon pillowed dreams,

I hear the artist’s work;

know the world

is made whole in the dawn.

Thomas Seeks Belief - edit 1

Thomas lifts his hairshirt and

touches, gently,

the wound beneath, recalls - as

he stands in the tall, thin shadows cast

by a crooked lampshade beside the diligent bed -

how his chest was once wound free.

That was when he was young, blithe,

inhabited the Tao moment, free

of the need for belief, the future -

a thread yet to be woven, unhindered, unkept.

Then came the children.

Now his heart is constantly exposed, a wound

unable to heal - a place for all manner of things

to visit, to perch

on fleshy lips or enter and touch

the heart within.

Thomas lies in bed, bare chested, missing

that kiss at night when his naked wife

would lie by his side, her wound and his

seek solace as they

wondered what the children were up to.

His wife buried, children grown

into their own wounds to tend, their own

spasms to navigate. In the dark, Thomas slips

his hand into the gap and touches, gently,

his own beating heart.

He stares, opened-eyed, up at the unseen

ceiling, seeks assurance, a belief

that all would be well

with his children and theirs

long after his time has been and gone.

R.I.P. Seamus Heaney

Great poet, a friend of mine Michael Keaney first put me on to him in the 70's. 

North is my Favouritte collection

and I loved his collected prose work  Finders Keepers.

St Kevin and the Blackbird

And then there was St Kevin and the blackbird.

The saint is kneeling, arms stretched out, inside

His cell, but the cell is narrow, so

One turned-up palm is out the window, stiff

As a crossbeam, when a blackbird lands

And lays in it and settles down to nest.

Kevin feels the warm eggs, the small breast, the tucked

Neat head and claws and, finding himself linked

Into the network of eternal life,

Is moved to pity: now he must hold his hand

Like a branch out in the sun and rain for weeks

Until the young are hatched and fledged and flown.

*

And since the whole thing’s imagined anyhow,

Imagine being Kevin. Which is he?

Self-forgetful or in agony all the time

From neck on out down through his hurting forearms?

Are his fingers sleeping? Does he still feel his knees?

Or has the shut-eyed blank of underearth

Crept up through him? Is there distance in his head?

Alone and mirrored clear in love’s deep river,

‘To labour and not to seek reward,’ he prays,

A prayer his body makes entirely

For he has forgotten self, forgotten bird

And on the riverbank forgotten the river’s name.

Thomas seeks belief

Thomas lifts his hairshirt and touches, gently,

the wound beneath, recalls as he stands

in the shadowing lamplight before bed

how his chest was once wound free

but then came the children and now his heart

is forever exposed, a wound that cannot heal -

a place for all manner of things to visit, to perch

on fleshy lips or enter and touch the heart within.

Thomas lies in bed, bare chested, missing that kiss

at night when his naked wife would lie by his side,

her wound and his kissing, seeking solace as

their hearts wondered what the children were up to.

Thomas is old now, his wife buried, children grown,

having their own wounds to tend, their own spasms

to navigate. In the dark, Thomas slips his hand

into the gap and touches, gently, his own beating heart.

He stares, opened-eyed, up at the unseen ceiling,

seeks assurance, a belief that all would be well with his

children and theirs long after his time has been and gone.

Is There A God For The Beard Worm?

Before wood became skin

I went for a swim in the ocean

but my stone for a heart

anchored me to melancholy.

I sank so deep

I befriended the beard worms,

allowed my feet to become buried

in the sand at the world’s end,

lifted my face in the darkness

while from above fell

the histories of plant and animal;

fleshy manna - the saddest sight

my wooden eyes had seen.

It was in that darkness,

with my face lifted up

and my wooden lips praying,

I first began to doubt.

Cove At Newhaven

Between rocks the colour of dried blood -
the colour of her lips - the cove recollects.

Empty shells drag across the brown sand,

writing messages eyes will never read.

Waves gather to the cove's heart; she
embraces each prodigal laughing as he 

races into the sandy bosom then retreats 

with flooded memory of why he first fled. 

There is a time and a place for everything - even regret.

We parked the car. Slipped on our bums down the dead
grass slope to the lip of white foam water pursed
to spit us out no matter how many times as pale seals
we dived into the underworld and laughed in explosions
of surrender. We watched the drops of seawater -
speckled diamonds that hung in the watercolour blue sky
to catch the sunlight from your turned away eyes - fall;
languid fingernails of a god’s sad hand as he lays down
his trident, collects stories as seaweed to stroke between fingers
lost in a time, lost in the erosion of once powerful words.

The small cove, naked between mangrove’s hunger
and rock’s anger, a kiss of sand, a memory
of what has passed, a soft invitation to stop the journey
and immerse forever in salt water’s promise to cleanse.