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When I am old and full of sleep
and eyes are slow to recognise
the features of the future, known
less then by softly spoken words,
more by the rhythmic pulse of time.
Slowly then, in recognition
of facing memories of hope
that fade, not with the rush of days
nor in the dullness of my sight,
as the movement of my spirit
gently held in nascent purpose
stirs to the sacred dance of love.


They told me it was an elephant lurking in the room,
but that seemed both unlikely and obtuse.

The Art of spotting elephants in rooms is studied now
in colleges and schools and further education calls
for expert po-faced pachyderm positioning plans.
And lurking, so they tell me, elephants seek
to suppress and repress in equal measure the innocence of seeing
what blind participants don’t have heart to see.

          The ancient Art of spotting elephants was mastered of old
          by artists who in wisdom see beyond the edge of seeing;


                    Leonardo smiled a smile and pointed to the eyes that follow you around,
                    Magritte looked round with quizzical surprise and said,
                    “Ce n’est pas un blessure”.
                    While Cezanne gave the impression he had spotted one.
                    Dali though, just watched with glee as melting time piece
                    counted out the frame of real time, standing still.

But still, they told me that there was an elephant surreptitiously
taking up the room where reason and curiosity used to dwell.



They failed to mention whether this particular unseen elephant has a name,
which is such a shame, because despite the lack of visibility or seeing,
there is something in the conversation now, so known about its presence,
something we have seen before I guess, in myriad ways of almost knowing.

The Art of conversation circumvents the elephant’s demands for space
and talking loudly fills the room with talking over, talking out
and talking turkey talks the talk till no one talks and no one says
what elephant has named and tries to shout in muted understatement,
silent now with twisted meaning, still it stinks the stench of hidden truth.

The Art of naming elephants,
is much less hidden.

This one is called Skunk!


The age of reason was a gentle time
for freeing thinking through the leaves of grass
when philosophers transform to kings sublime
within reason without seeking to surpass.

The age of certainty however stinks
of postured argumentative conceit
so intellectual ghetto thinkers think
themselves an unaccountable elite.

But reason as a quizzical intent
illuminates the drama of the fall
so falling upwards mindful now intent
that life in all its fullness is a ball.


You say you fear the sea that crashes waves
And tosses ships like trinkets to and fro.
We say the deep pelagic voice does not
An aged truth erode. In Neptune’s wake
The history of sea-born saga known
So well, so wise, so willing to distil
To truth to share in speaking from the deep
As myth and murmur flood the sage of time.
We say the insight of the tidal straits
As gentle deep discerning is full known.
We know this, deep within the land,
The wisdom that the waves tell to the sand.

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