Unsummoned Thoughts

 

What causes my thought’s directions
From where do ideas come

Insouciance and nonchalance
Two words I rarely use
Both jumped at me this morning
Sprang unheralded
Into my mind
As if from a nowhere
Hypnogogic state
Ambushed my thoughts
Set me thinking
Why?
Where did they spring from
How does my hurting waking brain produce them
dredge them up from some subliminal dream
From my subconscious being
Is it the sound they make
Their sibilance
Their warmth
They don’t frustrate
Not threatening
They’re gentle
Just a glimpse of stillness
Of satisfying peace
Gentle
Smooth
Crying out to be used
To be spoken
For me to use
To be indulged

Aaaah!
But that is the nature
Of dreaming
Solace to a shrunken
Unfulfilled
Mind

 

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In Memoriam

‘The Crypt . . . Pen  –  WHB 2020

In the crypt
Which is my mind
Lie the tombs
Of those I’ve known
Entrenched within
Each treasured niche
Embalmed in memory
And swathed in love alone

Wife and parents
Beloved friends
Lost loves and lovers
All met their ends
Before I had
a chance to say
I’ll love you till
My dying day

There they now lie
In peace while I
Guard their memories
With a sigh
And rarely lift
Their coffin lid
Remind myself
Of what they did
Of what they once
Had meant to me

For only the blind
Can truly see 

 

No Nonsense Now

If you were defeated in trying to make sense of my last published ‘poem’

(‘GO WITH THE FLOW’ on Monday 18th November), my meaning, if it had any, is hopefully disclosed in my poem, ‘No Nonsense Now’,  below . . .

‘A Poem should not mean

But be’     .  .  .  .  .  .  .   From ‘Ars Poetica’ by Archibald Macleish

 

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No Nonsense Now

 

What a load of nonsense
what a stream of tosh
I hope you weren’t too stretched
devouring all the text
wondering what was coming next
searching for meanings that were not there
twiddling thumbs
tearing hair

Just stream of consciousness unleashed
roaming the mind
making free with the world of words
fishing from a goldfish bowl of ideas
draining the well till empty
and all invention ceased

Perhaps I did a service
reminding my poetic muse
that words alone
do not atone
for laxity of thought
or those too easily wrought

And sense is only sensible
when verse is finely honed
bolstered with truth
taut of structure
worthy of my judgement
and of your time

 

Night Fears

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The night has its fears,
It is fraught with mistrust;
I lie in a mist,
My mind swathed in dust.

When sleep will not come,
When rest is denied,
My mind is a playground,
Sense cast aside.

Struggling with thoughts,
Unbidden, intense;
A barrage of cares
That hardly make sense.

Then fears invade, 
Not something I sought.
What happened to reason,
To logical thought?

So I wait for the morning,
The return of the light,
To banish the tension 
And put fears to flight. 

Memory’s Half-Truths

Memory’s Half-Truths

Half-truths abound in memory
Reflections from my maculate mind
Those part-remembered escapades
Seem partly sighted, partly blind.

Did I when young once ever dare
When roaming in the hills
Explore that damp disused mine shaft
And risk entombment for the thrills?

Was it alone that I did climb
That thrusting rock, that mighty drop,
Without a thought for life and limb
To view the valley from the top?

And when we found that dark Blue Lake
Did I join others for a swim,
Or did I watch whilst others dived,
Afraid to join them? Memory’s dim.

That time, when rambling, I explored
Deep into that hillside cave.
Was I alone and did I dare,
How was it I could be so brave?

And did I once, my memory fades,
Spend a night upon Cass Rock
Light a fire, sleep on the stone,
Or was that all just poppycock?

My youthful escapades were many,
Risky games and daring pranks.
I’ve boasted that I once was brave,
Ever the one for breaking ranks.

I’ve told myself so many times
How bold I was, adventurous child.
And yet I know, if truth be told,
I always was but meek and mild.