The forest birds know not to trust

I proceed on the outside with my daily life, all the while taking mental or handwritten notes. These observations saved ‘for writing’ often echo personal revelations. The regularity of this continues to astound me, especially as I re-post poems from this blog’s archive. It is sometimes said among writers that we are called to write what we are called to

A short poem from the wood

They are tall and have green eye-lids. See how they blink at the sun. trees — Being amongst trees makes my soul so happy. There are a number of woods where I live in London and I consider it my commute to work to walk through them when I have time set aside for writing.

Afloat

Onto my raft of plaits I shall step, with dreams of Alsation-men. — This short poem dates from the last quarter of 2013 when I did indeed have a dream about a raft of plaits and Alsation-men. Perhaps it was a subconscious mash-up of my plaited rag rug  (A craft project that’s still incomplete!) and

An address from a lectern

Here ‘fore me, plinth of polish For the tree to rest on wood In flat sheets with fastened thoughts Set forth as marching words.   Heralded tonight and often They are by crest announced. We cluster! And applaud. It is a shared experience.   Now, to – I must address:   From nothing written from

Benefactor of the Blind

New paths will take you through the wood: A diff’rent route you’d not expect.   From there you’ll see things – like the lake – from points of view you’ll not forget.   A green bench here. Let’s sit a while. The blind, we benefit from this.   Dec. 2012 — Another poem triggered by