Caravan, caravan I hear you calling
Through the hissing of hot tarmac
The sun broke through to enlighten this scene
Of sausage, black pudding, bacon and beans
From a lovely fat lady in greasy jeans
All lipstick, ‘hello love’, and ‘ketchup on that?’
Steamed up windows and a world racing by
Whoosh whoosh, whoosh caravan’s rocking, and so am I
Here comes my tea in a cracked cup
Slopping all over as I slurp it up
Here’s a big trucker bursting a button
All eyes averted from his builder’s bottom
Finds himself a seat, the lady has seen
Asks for his breakfast without any beans
The windows steamed up and the world racing bye
Slow, slow food fit for a king and his queen
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, caravan rocking a rock-a-bye-bye
Sing their little bit of heaven on the A14
The morning sun hides behind its trees.
The wind weaves with green and leaves,
a soft speckled light that avoids all sense
to root in deeper place of inner mind.
Where animus and anima have no need to know,
for this kind of knowing is just, a softer glow
suffusing everything that’s bright and right.
Human consciousness the only seer here,
the only thinker of what’s close at hand,
diffusing gods, God, nature and her bite
What responsibility to all living things
is humanity’s knowledge, will, power, plight?
After all this time I’ve come to terms
With hours, with life, with challenge, daily,
with my other
Eye to eye, I’ll look, with any or another
And feel secure to have, to hold, as equal
as my sister or my brother
I’ve learned to give and take and not to count
in values too distant from our mother,
Earth, I’ve earned your riches but can not discount
The other’s right to share you as my lover
I see the predisposition
In my sister’s poems, in my daughter’s poems,
and feel them heaving in my mind
the black dog mewling and gnawing
his savage gravity hangs at my being
up, through and down our dark ages
but, we have other predispositions too
to fight, write, and a will to tweak a tale
This Henley poem below inspired me to be more master of my own fate years ago.
I’m trying to get a little hub going to encourage people struggling and in recovery
to write, blog, use social media – to express their creativity, generally.
Initially, there’s a private Facebook Group, Touched by Fire, to collect a few people
who know these worlds and would like to discuss their possibilities…
Would love to hear from anyone who could help, get the thing up and writing.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
The day droops, limps over the silent floor
Of this uncertain room.
Out of the centre of the world or eye
Where amber pebbles lie or little plants
Or tree roots stretch past gravity,
Tiny reverberations climb,
Attain the stolen spaces
Where light strives to be,
But feebly shines.
There are no shapes of man
But wavering shadows in the rain; quivering.
The dog barks, his terrors are in me.
Do not listen to echoes or watch the rain.
We are maimed but must call up Merlin
Near by the hushed river,
Listen carefully for cell-like sounds,
Attain to particles of sense,
Pass by wayward tremors.
Do not fall into insidious infiltrations;
Remember you are dying.
What the fingers have found
But light cannot be invented.