Blue 3.0

As promised then, without pause or hesitation. Here is a poem from the third sequence of poems about Blue. In fact, going even further than that, here are two poems. These are the final two poems in the collection. So, it is from this point that I spring forward to the new collection.

The indulgence of putting these poems here for the last few days is my way of getting the new work moving.

The first sequence was written in 1985, the second in 1995, and the third in 1996. So, 17 years pass and it’s time to work on the new. Watch this space – as they say!

Oh, and if you have enjoyed reading these poems and want to see the full collection please contact me and I will send it you for free as a PDF.

xi The Song of the Tortoise

One last time to write the wrong of old Blue,
Another time to remember his stare,
Yet knowing only through words what he’ll do.

Do you know Blue? Do words tell anything?
Would a film, a play, or a well-rehearsed
Stage-show fetch you any nearer that grin?

We’re locked in our sense of reality,
Cocooned from the world, that world imagined,
Contact just an illusion of memory.

You see now, there’s no meaning beyond us,
Every relative sense of being falls.
What’s to do, look for a meaning for lust?

Blue’s trap is a never knowing how to
Love himself, be comfortable with his own
Company, and through that with others too.

Put Blue on the examination couch,
We’ve been doing it for all this time now,
Leaving Blue in the corner, clasped in crouch.

xii A Song for Everyone

What did you expect me to do with him,
Leave him to ride off into a sunset,
Make cash from work in the Pacific Rim?

Like some American movie export,
Watching and waiting as his fate unfolds,
Sampling different scenes and then getting caught.

Blue sits on the beach, pebbles touch his toes.
He watches the sunset from red to grey,
Then opens up his heart to all he knows.

Now on a mountain top breathing fresh air,
He looks older, wiser for his past times.
No longer wonders if anyone cares.

He watches the stream flow under the bridge.
Long ago this was just a forded road,
A railway passed along the distant ridge.

Time moves on, Blue picks bits of his story,
Writes about each one and then lets it go,
Makes sense of it all – the calm, the fury.