UNCHARTED WATERS Such expanse of sea Water without end Confronts me with myself In uncharted waters. Without the maps to set my course, To drift or to sail Is a voyage of discovery; Young again? Am I free to respond to the Call of adventure? And yet, am I too old? There was comfort in those patterns Daily played out on the high seas, Wherein I earned my stripes In recognition of duty; But what I learned Must be unlearned: And let go the patterns... So to be young again. So be it. I can sail, I can swim, I can drift if I like. The water will carry me, Homewards. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) DISTRACTION So many distractions, but from what? They draw me away, but from what? In silence when they are gone, suddenly they are. Within and without, there is no difference Their nature is one To shape me out of nothing And asleep I follow Believing in my response. My substance is this; Forged in conflict and pain, Sadness and joy; Hope and fear are my language - This confounded dialogue of death Which goes on and on. I yearn release into life, Which life denies, Offering only a deathly response Which, like a gong, echoes into my past. My substance trembles to distraction - All is distraction. Yet this substance is my death, Born out of sleep, And will carry me into itself - Heavy, drugged, weary. Concerned for myself I stand outside the gates Which absent-mindedly I closed behind me. Distraction. All is distraction. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) INTO THE LIGHT With what fleeting beauty The presentiment of your release Flickers across your face. Lifted out of your pain, Your time-worn signature Melts into a blessing Bestowed with sweet innocence. What history? What dark secret lurks, Behind your smile? What does it matter When you are so loved? May this flickering flame Burn with such incandescence That it lights your faltering steps From your darkened path. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) MUST I? What's next ... should there be more? After one creation must come another? Pain and joy to pass my way, Needs must drive In search of flaws, Strip away the years Which accumulate in layers, And find myself again ... must I? I must be the onion Which in peeling is to cry. Easier to submerge in the waters At a distance from the search ... So the other I observe, Myself to purify? ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) ORIGINAL SIN There is a sadness in becoming, Trying to become a better person. Acknowledging one's weakness And moving away. Tears for the departed Are not shed For the one who moves on. Who is there to cry? No-one! This deep sadness has no roots. Accompanying all journeys, It pervades them with its scent. Unable to flee the sadness One seeks distraction 'till all activities, all thoughts Become a daily mask. So much energy is invested In keeping the sadness at bay, But without success. An escape is offered: A person becomes a willing victim To lift on high the sadness, Bringing freedom and joy. This helping hand is accepted, Yet still there is this becoming, So the sadness remains. This fatal flaw ... this seed, Corrupts and subverts the help. It brings us back to the help ... in hope, And subtly disarms it, Leaving us ... ever hopeful?!! All activities, all thoughts Become a daily mask. So much energy is invested In keeping the sadness at bay, But without success Return to the Ground? O you who have ears What do you hear? Fragments, remnants, patchworks, Noises off and leading lights? Unnoticed, the silent prompt With wordless utterance falls ... Yet rises again Before the final curtain Tears open the hallowed stage And returns to the ground. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) YOUR SONG Have you a song that wont be heard 'till the sound of your death Resonates against the tide? I see you drifting upon a shore Its sirens intoning your misery As you reach out for comfort. Do you deny your song Fearful of its power Whilst imitating in envy The song of another? I would hear your song, But not that, Sung in your honour, As remembrance of lost opportunity Of frustrated hope. Give us your song. Release it into the stream As you too have been released, So to share The gift of life. Be not afraid, In singing to lose your song. It is in fear That it is lost. ...Have you a song That wont be heard 'till the sound of your death Resonates against the tide...? ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) |
ANTICHRIST There I sat looking at the Christmas palm Lights and tinsel on the branches, Red plastic roots which searched in vain For nutrition in a painted table. Around me fellow beings sitting, Unmoving in front of a new Christ, A new Trinity, Offering comfort in a violent age. This seasonal outburst of enforced merriment Seems to lead us nowhere: A mere discord over a ground bass Which rolls on to an ultimate end And a silent, joyful and holy night. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) FOUR SHORT POEMS Amidst noise of past tommorows A fly wanders, Silencing. Loss Thought provoked, Turning through linear mappings Generating solace in The matrix of hope. Recurring... Fail to see 'tis point- Less. Self-inflicted devastation In wilderness of thought; Its desensitizing nature Sucking life From the victim of circumstance. Washing in a cloud No hot or cold running here; Difficult to obtain a lather, But one cannot say it's dry. Transform and see what happens. Words sifting through From an uncharterable expanse Without which how could they exist? Yet because of them it is missed. Transform and see what happens. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) LOOK Look without thought. Silent intensity. Nothing to hide or say. What else is there But a second to live, And its already gone Into the silence Think the encapsulated moment. Fools, where is it? Gone into the silence. Did you not miss Thinking to hold the momentary absent? Gone? Silent intensity ... where I? Thoughtful grasp ... there! ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) ONE The dam stands before me Insurmountable, cold. No trickle of water Brings hope of change. Is the dam my own construct? Here I stand Unsure whether walled in Or walled out, Reject or rejected? I am that dam A wall of death Keeping life at a distance. Damnation clings To this living death. It invites you to keep on dancing 'Till nothing remains. We are the stillborn of the world Deluded, existing in this death. Growing, Amidst an ever changing surface Giving a semblance of life. But death stalks its prey In most cunning a fashion Leading to the belief that one lives. It is a hell on earth, Most wondrously decorated, A cage most enticing. Is there courage enough To die to this death And bring down this personal dam? Or shall I wallow In this (self-inflicted) effluence Bereft of life-giving water? ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) TEMPTATION IN THE WILDERNESS Silence encroaches on this world Threatening, haunting Vague shadows disturb your peace Bringing tremors of isolation. Anxious, you retreat Within a cocoon of sound ... Amidst layers of fragmentation. Silence, many say, Can drive one insane There is an absence Of easy association and distraction. Gone is the idle chatter of forgetfulness. In the midst One can find an interest To hold the attention Away from the silence. Searching the layers, Help is always at hand: He, the purveyor of fragmentation. He has a dread of the silence It is a desert Which can undo his work. By instilling fear of this desert He draws you within his Grasping, suffocating tentacles Which soothe and lull you to sleep. But sleep is troubled By fitful dreams From which guilt disturbs. Tormented, you lash out Trying to banish the pain. Meanwhile... There he sits, Laughing, At all the fragmentation. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) RAISING UP The poem I shall send Will restore fully what is yours And the gentleness Which is you Shall rest upon it, Drawing in wordless pleasure Such sound that you may aspire. The poem I shall send Removes unnecessary burdens. Raising up, Without being lifted. It is a gift, Which in understanding, Is supportive And continues to help Both near and far. The poem I shall send Speaks not in word, But, in its mute clarity, Betokens a spirit of generosity: A recognition of you. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) |
BEYOND OUR KEN As if from places far beyond Knowing not the hour Of my reawakening I emerge from disturbed dreams To find I'm ok. Renewed acquaintance helps Navigate towards calmer waters Where I renew my commitments. Such a spirit of understanding Is at hand To strengthen my resolve Once more to cast bread upon the water. The water is deeper now. This harbour carved out so painfully As to paralyze ... Now fills to overflowing. The love I once knew Has never left me He is my chaperon And his love embraces me In the embrace of others. I can be myself again Without fear of solitude In the hands of my guardian angel. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) HOPE In hope there is an interest Outside times movement Which delays clear action Bringing satisfaction. The possessor of hope Needs for nought else; This little interest Passes the time 'till it passes no more, Bringing stupefaction. The hopeful finds no room For the visitation; Asks rather that his hope be undisturbed. Such is his little interest... It leaves him blind. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) IN SEASON Falling, Destiny unknown, Autumn leaves summer behind, Prepares for cold desolation ... Withdrawn from the warmth of caress. There is no fear of new growth, No winter of discontent As life seeks expression Within its seasons. Memories remain as testimony. Etched in layers, Both gain and loss, Yet there is room for growth. All-embracing love inspirits Cares, nurtures. Warming and guiding, It leaps for joy At a forgetting smile. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) LOVE Love, Seeping through, Brings tears of sorrow... Christ weeping Upon his rebellious sons. Compassion for the creature Knowing not his createdness, Hiding behind his image Of the fulfilling self. Do you not feel this love Which holds you to himself Taking care of you Yet giving no reason? Perhaps you feel it necessary To give in return Like some spiritual barter Or even dare To hold God to ransom, Scoring merits... Storing rewards... Are you proud Wishing to hold fast Maintaining your position From which to transact? If you look You will find nothing. And in this poverty You will be blessed. Who you are... Must come out of nothing. This is your identity: It is how you are made. From nothing God Brings the secret Of who you are. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) THE SURFACE Movement is easy on the surface. It has an energy...as in a fairground Which clashes, rebounds, flows; Winding up, unwinding. The surface extends beyond the field of play. There lies conflict, struggle, pain; But the movement is easy on the surface. Storing this energy In the fairground of your mind. You tap into it, Spreading its force; It carries you within itself. You try to master it... Breaking it like a stallion, To turn it to your benefit ...on the surface. The energy excites, Drawing out your roots Which flail about giving off sparks, Exposing your nerve ends, While you draw nutrition from all around. Your root-growth is centered within As you are concerned With the flowering of your mind. But of what genus is your flower? Where does it belong...on the surface? Yet within and without are the surface. And here movement is easy. Swearing allegiance to a particular movement You take sides protecting the nutrition Which feeds your roots on the surface. The surface is what you know. It stretches out before you in its totality. A myriad of totalities Intermingling, separating...on the surface. But what is outside and beyond the surface? Is here movement easy? Is there movement at all? Are you in awe of the apparent stillness, At a loss how to act? (There is no movement beyond the surface) Yet, in the silence, it moves. It is not movement as on the surface Which moves and is moved... Dependent on nothing It sets all things in motion. Yet with my roots on the surface, I seek to master this movement.. This energy which leads into itself Like a serpent chasing its own tail. Oblivion lies here, on the surface. In the silence Can my roots realign, Growth and nutrition coming less and less From the surface? Then perhaps I shall become A particular flowering, Not a flowering of the particular. Movement is easy on the surface. It has an energy, No longer rooted in the surface. Flowing, Taking no side, Belonging to no side. Resist it not and you shall be healed... On the surface. ©Philip Walton 2006 (back to top) |