For fifty years no poem I wrote,
No thought of verse or rhyme.
No great desire to write things down;
Not since adolescent time.
Was my life so full or distracted,
To lose all sense of awareness?
Why stop the only way I have,
To open my heart and speak my mind?
Tony's death started the revival,
The need to say what I thought of him.
Closely followed by beloved John;
Only this way to describe the loss of them.
Once restarted I cannot stop;
So much to relate in such little time.
Can't speak the words my heart feels
But through this form I can reveal.
So why this drive to write things down,
In a form hard to comprehend?
Why this need to expose the heart,
When not done since early times?
Why this struggle to find the words,
To express the indescribable?
Why this hope, connect heart to head,
When the brain lacks common sense?
Why this compulsion to pick up the pen,
When it was decided it would end?
Why this scratching at old sores,
Making them bleed once more?
Is it to leave my mark on the world?
But the words are written for my soul.
Is it to sort out the mind?
Confused since being a child.
Is it to find the spirit within?
Buried beneath endless din.
Is it to discover who I am?
Peel away the layers whilst I can.
Is it to quieten the demons that lurch?
Confusion with love, passion and Church.
Is it to find peace at last?
Rediscover the truth that's lost.
Whatever the reason it will go on,
Till the ink runs dry or the need has gone
Whatever people may think of the words,
They're only written to quench my thirst.
Whatever the result of the quest,
It will be accomplished.
What words could describe,
The song of a lark in the sky,
The lapping tide on the shore,
The sight of a tree in glory,
The sun setting in the western sky,
Clouds drifting round cliffs high.
Sounds and sights not for words,
For none can do them justice.
The heart's receptive to such things,
Can only relate triggered feelings.
Writing odes is my response
To express stirrings come upon
Thoughts triggered by things seen
Feelings translated to vocabulary
It's my way of making sense
Sorting webs I find confusing
Describing emotions as they beset
In some ways a personal diary
For long periods the writing dries
No need to note life's events
Then suddenly can't stop the flow
Just like a smoker on the weed again
Blank sheet of paper
Blank sheet of paper staring back at me
Demanding the feel of a pen, writing
Almost threatening in appearance
A challenge to write, something, anything
Or is it a mirror reflecting the soul?
Needing expression from out of the core
Sense and feelings, deep, deep buried
Writing giving freedom of expression
Just the first mark on the paper is required
Then the flow will be started
Outline sketch appears like lightening
No forward planning in this endeavour
Words pouring out as pen scribbles
Gaseous explosion as cork's removed
The soul given a channel of exit
Rushes forth with all it has to say
As the pen slows and writing dries
The soul's decided it's said enough
No matter the mind wants to proceed
The soul demands, outpouring's ended
The paper once empty now full of words
Inner sense calm, task completed
No threat now from blank piece of paper
Till next time soul needs a mirror
Words I use to try paint the scene
Not a description of type or form
How the image moves my heart
Is what I attempt to record
Sometimes when finished surprises appear
Double meaning of what's written
More than sense of image recorded
Different scene appears before me
This much more than mere coincidence
Soul with important message to give
Perhaps dark corner mind refuses to light
Discoveries displayed on back of rhyme
Like Pandora's box, full of revelations
Only ask heart to speak if ready for truth
Once the floodgates are ajar
Spirit decides what to write
Little red book
My little red book for company;
To write my thoughts as they come.
Ideas I can express freely,
Without the need of explanation
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem