THE MOON MOMENTS

The faint starlight rolls restlessly on the mat.
Those women talking outside have clouds passing across their eyes.
Always there is a moon that is taking me somewhere.
Why does one room invariably lead into other room?

We, opening in time our vague doors,
convinced that our minds lead to something never allowed before,
sit down hurt under the trees, feeding it simply because
it is there, as the wind does, blowing against the tree.

Yet time is not clairvoyant,
and if it has the answer to our lives, proud
in its possession of that potential which can change our natures,
beating the visions of childhood out of us,

the socialism and the love,
until we remain awkwardly swung to the great north of honour.
What humility is that which will not let me reveal the real?
What shameful secret lies hidden in the shadows of my moon?

All these years; our demands no longer hurt our eyes.
How can I stop the life I lead within myself--
The startled, pleading question in my hands lying in my lap
while the gods go by, triumphant, in the sacked city at midnight?
 
 

A KIND OF HAPPINESS

The boat I've laid my mind on
is adrift, moving slowly up an ageless creek,
through water still and colourless as time,
among drifts of uncomprehending silent reeds.

In it I've staked those my precious years,
the fear of the depths and the unholy cold;
now for that reason maybe (being so awake)
I fear it may never reach the promise of the sea.

There is a hand I remember, that lay simply
in your lap, warm and sacred and drenched
with its promise, a hair's breadth away from my own,
yet some spell did not drop anchor, to lay mine on it,

barely escaping happiness I thought I knew of it,
but would I recognize it if it really came?
What use would it be if I'd tie the boat to a tree
and lie down in the heart of its demand?

It soaks into each song, words and the throats of birds
hoping such symbols would make up its definition,
yet can the good world
hold the flowing movement of fear in the mind?

Can slain men show the miracle of being alive?
Always it's this boat that nails me to the water,
darkening its silent waste and flow,
the reeds merciless like those dead,
yet don't I know it is better to leave the boat alone?

What would tell me at last where I belong?
The cracking keel, the bold green moss?