The ice-cold stream calms me, It takes my breath away. Thoughts become unfettered, Fixing my mind on far horizons, Teaching me how to fall and rise again, To recall and to forget.
I am not fathom cold, Merely in stationary orbit, Torn from the lattice-work of life, Exorcised from the warmth of the day, Closeted in the cool of my inner thoughts, Like a care-worn child receding into sleepy calm.
We may not breathe these things, In case they vanish and are lost. Wrapped so tight in inner thoughts, Pain-free, I may yet un-nerve myself, Falling off the tightrope of my mind, Again…and…again…and...
The Bead of Nectar.
A bead of honeyed nectar Falls from a flower Bleeding down the blue-green vase Descending slowly Like a tiny globe of melting ice Down a frozen window pane.
Moved by its gentle descent I contemplate it's Slowly rolling effervescence Searching for a meaning Satisfying idle speculation
And as I watch It slowly ends its journey On the polished table top Spreading across the lacquered surface
Laying A dark magnifying stain. Leaving me to contemplate Such minor miracles Seeking subtle explanations For this gradual fall from grace.
With graceful power And gently swaying gait Huge wrinkled feet Compress the soft Red-ochre earth With effortless Titanic force The grey questioning trunk Flexible as an Agile instrument Probes the wind for inspiration
Black acacia-eyes fix the distant horizon With ebony intent
Embossed translucent ears Flap above the vast belly Marbled sheaths of extinctive ivory Protrude from the bulbous head Obstinately guarding an Ageless inquisitive wisdom
Sonnet on Love Lost
The sleepless heat of night has fled away The curtains are half-drawn the boards are grey The bedroom strewn with life from yesterday Her hair falls on the pillow where I lay As through the window comes the light of day With piercing shafts that dance and sway Yet I am lost and very far away Facing thoughts that sleep can’t stay Suggesting truths too hard to say As our love ebbs and almost fades away Like gentle breezes blown through autumn hay As staring through my sleepless lids I pray That we find time and space and make them pay There are so many ghosts we have to lay
My life holds its secrets ….. as the sea
Waves gliding across a sandy beach Crashing against granite cliffs of prescient memory Eroded by surging thoughts Buffeted by stark reality And turbulent existence
My life holds its secrets….. as the sky Lifted on high ideals and aspirations Propelled aloft by amiable inspiration Soaring high above pure reason Aware that peace of mind May never be achieved
My life holds its secrets ….. as the earth
Dark and mysterious Burrowing beneath mere existence Open to subterranean ideas Lacking linear perspective
My life holds it secrets …. as the wind
Buffeted by endless thoughts Borne aloft on wings of erudition Thunderstruck by memory and loss Holding only cryptic keys To solid understanding
My life holds its secrets…. as the sun
Consumed by passion and opinion Volatile and boundless An elemental energy Forging a path through existence To raven infinity
Su On Line
“It’s really an art work” She said “Having seen it from upstairs just now I’m going on line at last With a message to the world It’s going to make me a million In some fancy international art competition!”
And there it was Revealed to all
Her ready-made art-statement Spelt out in multi-coloured clothes pegs Hanging in tastefully arranged ranks On our (former) state-of-the-art Swirling Symmetric Aluminium Clothes-line In the yard
She said: “It really matters which way round it spins you know. Right now - for instance it’s spinning anti-clockwise Which isn’t so good!”
“And if it goes the other way?” I ask:
“So so!” she said Her look was far away and sad
Time and chance Play a part Apparently - whichever way it spins.
Perhaps it will circle Like some backyard Afghan prayer wheel And blow away our sins
Or contact the remote stars Just like some tiny domestic radar To broadcast her message to the universe
Who cares! (It’s in the Tate Modern now) And she’s “the artist formerly known as Su.” Contact her on Suonlineatlast@clothesdry.com
Like Kafka’s insect-man I am morphing Into a computer application
A cyberspace bug Down-loaded from the Web
Fearing imminent system-damage I have taken myself off-line Powered-down my systems Compressed and stored myself in An external hard-drive Isolated myself from the motherboard Disconnected myself from the server Configured and auto-saved myself to disc For remote storage and transportation
Archived and backed-up I remain on standby For a possible return to life While my off-line status Buffers me from the main programme Repeated error messages Suggest that All systems Are not yet safely closed-down
Is my back-up still operational Can I safely re-boot From my Master Cache
What are my current on-line protocols Am I case sensitive And properly justified
Am I emotionally compatible
Or is my remote data corrupted And liable to crash Warning
Syntax error detected Aborting all systems
Please wait Until all data is saved to disk
It is now safe to turn off your computer
Have a nice day!
Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas. ‘Plato is a dear friend, but dearer still is truth.’:
(Ascribed to Aristotle)
‘Truth’ So some say
Mixes Veracity Candour And Honesty
With Accuracy Rightness And Verity
But Applying Its Bright Purity
Copyright 2011 David Lewis Baker's Political Economy Site. All rights reserved.