at the lathe or the spinney
work makes the unknown
the half conscious, our own 
yet we know not

we know only form and function
within a soft humility
or a nagging compunction 

yet beyond the urge
truth may emerge
shining, unspoken
and blow the heart wide open
​

there is winter through the window
the sky is grey-blue over the silent snow
and the dawn is as endless as the night

together a little whimsy
would lift the melancholy
into a fuller heart

but afraid of the cold and the dark
the dragging dark
they break into a positive stride
and step straight over
the sweetest of pathos

“I can teach you to be real
if you are willing to feel.”
He said.
​

​​the harmlessness of the true beggar is bought at all cost
his kingdom, never claimed, can never be lost

just as the humble meet the ground
with their humble feet
they shall inherit

and the true beggar will toil 
and ask for no return
as the heart that freely gives
truly lives

the true beggar shall receive only alms
 and their heart shall shine through
everything and everywhere
as it calms
 
and they shall be no stranger to the world
ownership was never belonging 
and does not belong
in the heart
of the true beggar

​the romantic joins the word and the world
groping and hoping for the perfect match

and love needs no words

the mystic sees his chance
he is happy to be hopeless and dance himself free

gazing down at the empty playground...

the poet that delights
in the word and in the world
binds the heart

to delight merely in the word
is to become lost inside
and torn apart

only what is simple and real
is calm to the feel
and opens the heart

then peace is in the question
and listening is the art

and listening, glistening
may gather the children of the heart
to the empty playground