the world is clear
pure
transparent
no obstacles in the way
of the multitude of living things
from the blue whale
to the single cell organism
everything flows as it should
everything is born at the right time
everything dies at the right time
the world is transparent
pure
crystal clear
I am not your baby
I am not your path
why don't you go upstairs
and have a restful bath?
I am not your future
I am not your past
why don't you just go away
and give me peace at last?
I am not a robot
I am not your pet
Why do you always remember
and never forget?
This world too will vanish
leave only a trace behind
and you and me and all our thoughts
will be deaf dumb and blind
whatever may come
we know that we know
whatever may go
we knew, now don't know
and now we are here
do you know where you are?
the secret forms of sleep,
near-sleep but not quite awake
aware of being unconscious
not-knowing what we all know
we sit in the silence of not-knowing
the most secret form of sleep
It's not that I don't know
but time and time again
a leaf falls from the chestnut tree
This is mortality
the eternal ending
my question, never asked
answered long time ago
I am pure in imperfection
we saw, on the horizon,
everything you need to know.
It's not that I don't know.
It's just that I don't know how to ask.
the pen writes fast, illegible in part
but that is not the point behind the lines
the ink remains long after these bland signs,
my love for you inscribed right from the start.
The content doesn't matter, nor the sense
it's so you feel "he loved me" by the end.
Listening to Astral Weeks on the record player
That harsh, rough voice paints pictures with words
capturing Belfast times, past times, times rare
I can almost hear the passing birds, the passing birds.
I remember listening to it with you
here in Hamilton, the way young lovers did
slim, slow, ah we were sweet things. Beside you,
you were Ballerina, me just a kid
We had our own Madame George on our streets
Harassed by some, protected by a gang.
As weeks turned to years, we danced to those beats
and decades grew old as Morrison sang.
Drinking beer became drinking cold white wine
the bass upfront, flutes and strings floated up
my brother lost, my sister gone, too fine
even for Van's voice to refill their cup.
A toast then to David and Maria
and a bow to the man whose aria
brings peace to all with ears to hear.
May all have ears that hear.
