In my deepest silence
I continue to hear
the persistent noise of my being
The cost of peace
What’s the formula for peace
within the blood
what’s the note of music
that brings peace into the ears
what’s the touch of skin
that gives peace to the body
what’s the balance of blue and green
that draws peace into the eyes
what’s the cost for peace
to find a home within the heart
Hugs
With the death of my brother
a million years ago
I have no one I can hug
we were bears
crushing anything within our grip
now my dear wife is so delicate
I barely touch her
and we call it a hug – ha!
Weeping ghosts
I danced in the fading halls
of weeping ghosts
their music filled the night
with empty songs
I turned and turned
looking for the entrance
of my fears
which world am I falling through
I cried out in a whisper
to my hands
and kept on flying
into the distance with my eyes
Self isolation
I remember dreaming
that everything was “normal”.
When I awoke I shook my head
and took another careful step
in the new world.
An old saying
There is an old saying
that love will find a way
I’m afraid
sometimes it doesn’t
Wish or hunger
Is it a wish or a hunger
A yearning or a need
Is there trembling
Like the first touch of tears
The pineapple poet
A pineapple poet was very shy
Who would know or ask him why
It was the season to stay inside
There was no one in whom he could confide
His favourite peach had gone to sleep
Her fairy lips let out no peep
The other apples in their beds
Had also changed to angel heads
Tomorrow morning will be the same,
We’ll play our Saturday pancake game
With lots of helpers running about
No, “let me do it!”, they will shout.
Can a father write some lines
To drive away the sniffles and whines
To make this poem seem worthwhile
It has to make the reader smile
I’ve been looking at some of my old poems. I wrote this one in 1982, when my three kids were 3, 6 and 8.
The shadow of my longing
I live in the shadow of my longing
for the opening of windows
the movement into the sunlight
I have let slip from my grasp
Spring forward
Suddenly six in the morning
became seven
somehow an hour had been stolen
or perhaps an hour of nothing
had been given
what a gift!
daninmaya 