Clarity,
Office 17622,
PO Box 6945,
London.
W1A 6US
United Kingdom
Phone/ Voicemail:
+44 (0)20 3287 3053 (UK)
+1 (561) 459-4758 (US).
The attack wasn't carried out by an armed thug
but the youth who delivered milk. He met up
with unsavoury characters who led him astray.
So the barber said when he shaved my head. “What good
to pay taxes when nothing is done to lower crime?
Why put up with gangs hanging around the streets? Our home
isn't ours any more.” And undoubtedly he charged too high.
Outside the wind lifted leaves
and litter skipped along the road.
I would never distress an old woman
because I thought my need greater than her right
to keep what she earned. I hate the coarse minded,
dog droppings and thieves who take more from life
than what they put in
too lazy to put rubbish in a container,
unable to hold a child tenderly
or listen to guidance away from harm
that can’t keep their noise down
when everyone is asleep.
A gust bends branches over an abandoned shrine
not that I’d use it any more
light is found
in night-time sojourns, the right word
in the heart
love
in the visitation of self-same giving,
solitary worship beside the lake
communion
with butterflies and the expanse behind the sun.
Against the force of the wind
I close the door.
If a few coins dropped in my lap
I would restore this sanctuary,
flood it
with incense, repaint the walls
and sills
name it anew.
Rain spatters the windows
days and years end
in absence, wishes
in clouds, verse on a peak.
In shadows of a missing altar
I’ll let unwanted visitors know a place
of repose, lift sentiments above the planets
intoxicate the Heavens
with need for rejuvenation
not judge miscreants with the eyes
of a seer,
embroil the many
in the far flung paradise of an individual
encounter demonic cries
for release in the same tone and weight
of anger.
but the youth who delivered milk. He met up
with unsavoury characters who led him astray.
So the barber said when he shaved my head. “What good
to pay taxes when nothing is done to lower crime?
Why put up with gangs hanging around the streets? Our home
isn't ours any more.” And undoubtedly he charged too high.
Outside the wind lifted leaves
and litter skipped along the road.
I would never distress an old woman
because I thought my need greater than her right
to keep what she earned. I hate the coarse minded,
dog droppings and thieves who take more from life
than what they put in
too lazy to put rubbish in a container,
unable to hold a child tenderly
or listen to guidance away from harm
that can’t keep their noise down
when everyone is asleep.
A gust bends branches over an abandoned shrine
not that I’d use it any more
light is found
in night-time sojourns, the right word
in the heart
love
in the visitation of self-same giving,
solitary worship beside the lake
communion
with butterflies and the expanse behind the sun.
Against the force of the wind
I close the door.
If a few coins dropped in my lap
I would restore this sanctuary,
flood it
with incense, repaint the walls
and sills
name it anew.
Rain spatters the windows
days and years end
in absence, wishes
in clouds, verse on a peak.
In shadows of a missing altar
I’ll let unwanted visitors know a place
of repose, lift sentiments above the planets
intoxicate the Heavens
with need for rejuvenation
not judge miscreants with the eyes
of a seer,
embroil the many
in the far flung paradise of an individual
encounter demonic cries
for release in the same tone and weight
of anger.