Memories In Stone
Can memories turn to stone? Can the breath
Of life leave enduring traces, skeletons
In time, long past the memory of living
Men? Pulsating, vibrant mind, captured in
More than flesh and blood of flowering brain.
© David R. Durham
Dancing Through Each Day
It hit me one Autumn morning;
As I shuddered to a halt.
All future plans went up in smoke;
And my past became just vague memories.
My mental Juggernaut ran out of gas;
Is this what death feels like I wondered.
For those whose time is up;
A terminal condition diagnosed and delivered.
No pretty words to save us;
In fact, no words at all.
Yet, all was calm, all is calm.
No panic, no breakdown.
Just a reminder of what is real;
And who I am not.
A still-point in a moving world;
A silent pause in a long line of chatter.
An alignment in time and space;
When all cycles cancel each other out.
The rhythms pick up;
Whose rhythms I’m not sure.
Rhythms of cells, of souls, of universes;
Dynamic as if by Grace.
New rhythmic cycles begin to unfold;
Dancing through each day.
© David R. Durham
Tribal Roots
Tickle the time when your dreams can come true,
Leave behind old scores unsettled, magnify
Your hopes and twist the reality we call fate.
Lie merchants breath life into old bones dangling,
In the soft comfortable chair paused in time,
Channel after channel of dreamers delight.
Seldom have we marched to one drum beat,
Seldom have we sung one anthem so loud,
Tribal roots calling, calling us back home.
Shuffle softly to the head of the queue,
Where dark dim archways beckon us away from
The cold, caves of welcome invite us in.
© David R. Durham
O’ Bag a Bones
O’ bag a bones does thou lie t’ me? Now
I recognise thee on waking, thee I
Know, Does’t thou recognise waking me?O’ bag a bones thy life so fancy, thy story
Well told, again and again thy rymes unfold, each
Passing second, each fanciful hour thy
Tale weaves another carefully wrought thread of life.O’ bag a bones thy feels so old, a story
Long in the tellin’, a stop start yarn, a
Dream come true in eaten moments, thy’s not
Me lad, thy’s not me, but who are thee in
Striding rhymic gait and in winceful smile.O’ bag a bones thy story stinks. Thy thinks folk
Like thee, thy thinks folk ignore thee, nay lad,
Thy thinks too much. Thy’s imagining it lad.O’ bag a bones lay down thy heavy burden,
Stop thy dreaming, thy imagined fanciful
Life. Thy’s story tellin’ from morn’ ’til night, in
Pain and pleasure, wi’ boredom and fear, in
Well rehearsed lustful hardship.O’ bag a bones thy day is through, thy end
Is restful night, dark night, lost again to sleep,
Lost again to hope of what new day might bring,
O’ bag a bones am I thy lie of me?
© David R. Durham
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Sleep
Sleep, sleep and rest your time filled head, rest
Easy in your time liberated dreams. Dance, dance,
Flow with the rhythm of life’s dream-time, before
Simple me arises again with the morning sun.
© David R. Durham
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Tell me Mr. Doorman, what shall I pay you
To keep the world at bay? The other world,
That other place, you know which one I mean.Tell me Mr. Gatekeeper, what fee must
I pay to let me pass this way? A long
Forbidden path, you know the one I mean.
© David R. Durham
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Time
Has no edges, stacked, unstacked, leave behind,
Now moving ahead, we flow
unconsciously.
No way to change direction, we imagine other
Paths, dream in vain of other happier times.Onward tumbling we go, no rest or pause,
A parachutist’s committed descent, body
And soul, until
Death adds a final full-stop,
Untwined once more, tiny yet vast,
remember.
© David R. Durham
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Big Blue Yonder
You hope to meet me in a distant heavenly tomorrow;
A kettle starts to boil.You catch a glimpse of my face in the moon and stars;
Letters drop through the door.You call for me in your darkest, loneliest hours;
My shirt it smells fresh, newly washed.You find brief respite in the words of great teachers;
A cough reminds me to buy some more vitamins.Your holy mantras sing of love and longing;
The noise of children playing disturbs my restless thoughts.You search in vain for me on the mountain tops;
When all the time I am here, here in the your valleys and homes.Eternally present in your heart of hearts.
© David R. Durham
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Cafe Style
Blind rules didn’t necessarily
Mean too much to him, he skiffled
And shuffled up and down the stairs.His rough worn manual labour hands,
Are gripping, floating, rubbing, flirting
With polished grained wooden rail.He seldom looked down, his sure
Falling feet finding their usual
Well rehearsed home trodden place.
© David R. Durham
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The journey begins, upsidedown
Weather, foul beeze wrapping round me
Solid thighs. Horn calls clatter
Of’d starboard bow, caught in taught
Fever of blue cold mornin’ rush-hour.
© David R. Durham
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