Thoughts of Love

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With a single breath, millions of seedlings are loosed

into the roaming air. Each one carries

its quiet design, its tiny, perilous hope.

Wind, sun, rain will choose their futures;

most will settle, root, and soon become creators

in their own right.

Such is the labour of life,

obvious to the world;

and the labour of love,

oblivious in its scattering.

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From this same air, wizards rise:

conjurers who steal silence from libraries,

slip musicians into my breast pocket,

astonish me with their marvels,

the soulful, the mercurial, the malicious.

They make space for any wanderer

who knows where the hidden door is

and dares to step to somewhere.

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In my mind or just beyond;

lie remnants of my cracked, stony memory.

(Which has been ground into dust.)

Yet in that old, twinkling kingdom

of axon and dendrite,

sparks still leap the synaptic sea,

lighting serotonin tides,

sending dopamine waves rolling,

nudging me forward.

I’ve crept off the stage of supermen

and wonder women,

who, with their extras and glittering co-stars,

their princelings, their valets,

their lustrous sex-stars,

crowds their world with its own majesty.

Still, within this restless people-scape,

artists keep vigil and time.

They begin with rhythm, blend rhyme,

and whisk melody through meaning.

Raise the wings of emotion

into a rising rhapsody.

Forge music that remembers.

Through it, passion takes to the air;

it bears us skyward where spirits soar,

where rapture and remembrance mingle,

and where lust sparkuates like laser-light,

bombplodes like thunder blooming in the bone.

Troops may march, the young laugh,

the old weep,

and lovers conjugate to the spell.

Whales and dolphins pity us –

the landlocked;

birds look down on our longing for heaven.

So I, earthbound too, keep watch

for the loveless,

even as I hunger

for my own small share of sky and solace.

Then came she

and in her hand she held

my tears, my poems,

my hurt and tiredness,

my uncertainties, my balls,

my expectations, my candle,

my gifts, my music,

and yes

my gratitude.

We are all prisoners of one kind or another,

yet she slipped through the bars of my cell

as a bee wanders into a flower:

engrossed, unhurried,

and unaware

of her uncommon power.

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A gust of breath breezes millions of minute seedlings into the atmosphere.
Each precious one carries the design,
the template – each one, now alone and dependent upon the vagaries of
wind, sunshine and rainfall to fulfil its destiny
most seeds will settle into the earth and themselves become creators.
It is what life is and does (obviously).
It is what love is and does (obliviously).

Wizards may produce other worlds
from thin air, conjure libraries and
musicians into my breast pockets,
astonish me with the spectacular,
the soulful, the mercurial,
as well as the malicious.
They can also create space
where those who seek escape –
(and who know where to look)
may find succour.

Somewhere, in my mind or beyond;
is where my cracked stone of a heart was pulverised into dust.
Yet I imagine, among my endorphins and axons and dendrites, there are sparks
electrifying through the sea of serotonin and dopamine,
causing me not to weep as I creep off the stage of supermen and wonder women
acting with all their co stars and extras,
princes, princesses, valets and sex stars!

Somewhere within this ever changing people-scape
is a place for the majestic – artists and poets who love.
They start with rhyme and rhythm, then stir in melody and poetry and whisk up the wings of emotion into a melange of music and lyrical rhapsody.

Via you, passion may take to the air,
bear you skywards where spirits soar,
where rapture and remembrance flow freely and where lust sparkuates like laser lights and bombplodes like booming thunder.
Troops may march, the young laugh, the old weep and lovers conjugate to the magic.

As whales and dolphins pity us, the landlocked, and birds look down upon the flightless,
so I seek to comfort the loveless
even as I yearn condolence for myself.

She gripped in her fist
my tears, my poetry,

my hurt and tiredness,
my uncertainties, my balls.

My expectations,
my candle, my gifts,
my music and –
my gratitude.

We are all behind bars yet
she cavorted in and out of my cage
as a bee visits a flower.
Engrossed and unaware
of her uncommon power.