fruit of labour often unseen
but faith in loves solicitude
guarantees it is not in vain.

(Title taken from Sara Etgen-Baker)

In this little island before my house
I hear not a sound not even a mouse
muted trees of valor stand still in grace
I think I almost won the race

Tracks of history live here on this island
I recall the day you took me by the hand
nearer to forever I feel so content
no leaf is stirring inside this tent

A silent symphony plays on in my head
needling my heart like pliable soft thread    
In this little island before my house,
I hear not a sound not even a mouse.

The bygone collider
Tingling you're spine like a spider

Every facet of the past
Now nailed to the mast

All decision now made
Comes at a price already paid

Or

The wings of  hummingbirds
Complex patterns
Of straight lines and curves

New infinite patterns emerge
1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55
The honeycomb inside the hive

Can be bitter,
But it liberates.
18/5/2024

Spectacular birth in a mundane time and place.
Childhood a half step lower than the middle ground
But happy in the lack of knowing it was so.
Sparks of brilliance catching a teacher’s eye
And the dice rolled out a better score for me.
Escape became adventure and knowledge a goal
But half a loaf was not enough and I was hungrier
For newer vistas and more shiny possibilities.
I almost made it happen, but the deck was stacked
Another way and years eluded efforts to that goal.
A glowing bridge let me cross over tracks behind me
And the Glossy years flew past on silver skis.
Achievement and creative life gave birth
to a shining hope that melted into painful failure.
A phony guru led the way and everything upturned itself.
The world slid right to left and ended upside down .
Exciting once and later not so much at all.
The changes added to the passing of more years
When happiness came often wrapped in guilt.
Making do became the mantra, along with getting by
Until the other shoe crashed to the floor
And left a painful footprint on the golden years.
New vistas were the only hope and proved
To be salvation and a challenge to adapt.
And so the years rolled on some more and here I am
At 85, and wondering what I do now.
All those years that came and went somehow
Never satisfied my needs, leaving me to ask myself
For the fifty-seventh time this week:
Who knows where the time goes.
Who knows where…the time goes.
ljm

If you know no one will read it anyway,
It doesn’t matter what you write.
You can be too honest to fool yourself
Or any of those who know the answers.

You can shout epithets at the heart of the cosmos
And whisper sad fables to the marigolds.
You can spread thin slices of your wounded soul
On buttered bread with the crusts cut off.

You can climb up a rock to see where you’ve been
And spray paint graffiti on the walls of existence.
You can carve up life’s meaning like an over done turkey
And hang velvet flocked wallpaper over it all.

If no one will look at the words you have written
You’re free to sing lullabies in quiet places
Or ***** up vitriol that scours the surface
Of the mirror reflecting the world that should be.

You can tap-dance across the bloodied shards
Of what was crystalline and you.
You can pull a plug and watch the swirl
As synonyms for hope pour out onto the ground.

You can fold the page into itself again
And yet again, and it will never disappear.
The ink may fade, but still remain enough
To make it possible to never deign to read the lines.

Was ever there a freedom such as this.

                                   ljm

I want to be your playmate
Dancing on the bubbles of our joy.
I want to be your everything
Providing all you need and more.

        I want to be your hiding place
        When storms of life surround you.
        I want to be the face you see
        When you wake up forever.

                 I want to be a steady beam
                 To light the ways we travel.
                 I want to be part of your life
                 As long as God will let me
                              ljm

Dancing on the tightrope of a breakdown
I wonder just how good my balance is,
I teeter on the wire one careful footstep at a time.
I don’t look down; the solid concrete waits for me below
I can’t look left or right for fear I’ll lean and tip.
I focus on the other side but it’s not clearly seen-
Is it my eyes or has a fog rolled in to trick me-
To leave me stranded and precarious.
I’m developing a cramp and one toe has gone numb
But still I slide the other foot along
And grip with every particle of strength I own.
I have to make it all the way across
There is no net below to save me.
But the other platform seems so far away
And my umbrella feels as though it’s made of lead.
Why is there no cheering from the crowd-
I guess they’re fascinated by the clowns down there
And never ever bothered to look up.
ljm