The Roads Not Taken (after Robert Frost but different)

I went on my usual morning walk

and came upon the usual fork

to the left, or to the right

up the hill, or on the straight

towards the new estate or to the woods

where people live or badgers and the deer

and not being bothered either way

I turned around and made my way back home.

I won't be telling this ages hence.

It could be had I walked the left

that I found treasure, or a path to hell

and had I walked the other route

I'd fall into a ditch

and break my spine, and thus died slowly there.

So in my usual sacrilegious take on Zen

my doing neither, instead turning home

was likely just as perfect as the others

so here I am, I'm happy and at peace

writing up this set of words

and outside, shining, is the sun,

for all of us, not just for me.

Flitting

the noise outside catches my attention

a neighbour is having their drive and lawn uprooted

and replaced with another, bigger driveway

there's a wee digger parked outside our front

no big deal

in fact my son, thirty-odd years ago

would have been so excited.

but I'm not.

No big deal

but I'd prefer the quiet sounds of nature

No big deal

it's just a flitting moment

in a life in the suburbs

just flitting between birth and death

origin and end

infinity and eternity

no origin and no end

no big deal

now I'm getting used to the noise

and a dog is barking

flitting sounds

Fate and Tao

Fate and Tao

There has been Mayhem

There has been Hate

There will be Peace

There has been Chaos

There has been Cruelty

There will be Peace

There has been Slaughter

There has been Grief

There will be Peace

Song of Joy

They are singing, joyfully

I am listening, intently

trying to decipher the meaning

behind the chants

it's in a language I don't understand

but the tone and feel is unmistakable

it says we are all alive

and that's to be celebrated

it says we are all together

no matter how different we think we are

it says we are all-embracing, and all-embraced

no matter how lonely we feel.

the song goes on forever.

Poetry and the Church Red Door

is a poem still a poem

if it's written as a note

on your phone?

is a poem still a poem

if you're looking at the Baptist Church

with its quaint red door

while you're writing it?

such a lovely red door.

The church itself, dark sandstone

almost black

in this old pre-suburb

where Greggs now rules the provision of food.

Isn't it a pity?

The special occasion

requiring liaison

that brought us together

not now and forever

but for a brief time

when we both held the line

till something crumbled

and we knew we were rumbled

a future aghast

at the waste of the past

and when we both die

it'll be pie in the sky

and when we're both dead

there'll be no more to be said.

Essence

what is the essence therefore?

the invisible air we draw in?

the miracle breath we barely notice?

the space between things, that isn't really space

but this air again?

filled with thoughts, concerns, plans

- no time to reflect on air, breath, space

I breathe in and relax

I breathe out and rest my busy head

the little cherry bush blossoms pink

to celebrate early spring.