Secret
Every man
and every woman
has a secret
that they keep
locked away
deep down
Inside .
Some give it up
while still alive.
Others wait
for the angels
or the demons
to arrive .
From “Ruminations of the Dead” by PWChaltas
Thank you for
this return
high up
on towers
so much
like Lorcan song
where the soul
can soar,
fly free,
and be
certain
of a never-ending
love kept
warm and close
For you
for me
made three.
The Journeys Of Peter
These
are the journeys
of Peter
through the darkness
and the night.
Living off the
the fat of his dreams,
and who by imperfect light
sits purifying
himself alone
late at night.
from the black ,
by reading Cavafy
and Layton,
considering Merciful books
of Cohen
surfing the lines
of Seferis,
empathizing with
the plight of Plath,
and considering
the weight
of Pound .
Oh how they made
him suffer
carefully not making him
a Martyr
and ensuring
he couldn’t keep up
or current
with the fight,
while old age,
and decay
did the rest and
put the final stop
on his pipes
and his kindness.
The thought
strikes fear
in his heart .
In the night.
These are the
Journeys of Peter
blind as a bat
he still sees
in the dark
The voice tells him,
just where to go,
exploring emotions
and the general plight
of his kind .
These are the journeys
of Peter flying
blind
through the darkness,
late at night .
From “No Subject Here Just Light” by PWChaltas
The Travellers
Each one of us
is a traveller
and often a wastrel,
with a soul like
a feather in the wind.
Winds blow it
mercilessly hard and cold
in furious storms without meaning
into thankless death.
Lead our souls like a feather in the wind
like a sheep and like a naïve lamb
led by a loving hand .
Its such a long way to go,
over the waters .
Thalassa, thalassa,
the wind blows ,
and we travel far
from the gentle start
in the morning.
We all have a choice to make
as we go .
“You have come down
now visible ,
Infinite and Eternal one
to conceal yourself
as the manifest force of nature
and to allow evil to have free reign
and to exist in this world ,
only to raise us high
and to test us to reveal ,
through your blowing
and changing winds ,
the traits of leadership
that you have given us,
and placed quietly within.
In your eternal will,
you wait patiently
to spring out
and fulfill . “ * *Kabbalistic Prayer
From “Dreams for a Saturday Morning” by PWChaltas
Scarborough
By the Shrine of the Little
Flower ,
near the crumbling cliffs of clay
on the sky, sand, and blue water ,
I stopped with
a few words to say.
Where a cross sword
set in stone stands
on the expressway island
tall
and stone statue
in white flowing robe,
all sooted with grey,
kneels and clasps hands
in eternity of night and day .
Under the green and rising dome ,
a remembrance of those in the past
who struggled in the times
and lands far away.
By the home where
both the children
and the young men
once use to play,
there I stopped to catch
my final breath at last ,
and quietly drift away .
Infinity
Your mouth
Speaks infinity
to harlots
and love
Forehead of blood ,
all dried
the colour of love
in your hair .
You whose life
snuffed out
was a hammered mettle
on sanguine wood ,
Waiting for a Sign
He knew her beauty
He knew her dreams
He knew she came apart
at certain seams
So he was gentle
and he was kind
but he was also
partly blind
He waited calmly
and patiently for the sign
but she left him
one grey October
afternoon
to travel on a journey ,
endless abandon
with kind and tribe .
He was torn
once more alone
but now he knew
not only blind
but also
a fool
for love .
And yet
he never stopped
living her .
One of us
Who will send you flowers
When One of us has gone ?
Who will pass the hours
with you when
One of us has gone ?
My songs are meant
for you
Love
And only meant for you .
Ever will you hear them
Even after times
Love
that One of us
has gone .
Haven’t Been
I haven’t been
where you have been.
I don’t know
the things you know
but as sure,
as surely,
as you have been
and known the places
and the things
that you have seen ,
I will journey there
far
and on my own
and will return
after I have
been and seen
and known ,
the places where
you’ve been.
And we shall then
begin
to be,
those who live within
each other
and within
the very one
and
the one within
ourselves .
From “A Matter of 4” by PWChaltas
Van Gogh Watches Volleyball
Van Gogh
Is lounging at
his waterside table
drinking beer
with
a Mickey mouse tattoo
set on his shoulder.
The piercing stare
of his green eyes
turned blue
focuses on the
volleyball game
playing out
before him .
The water is
a deep, deep blue
sourced
directly
from
his eyes .
His tantrum
tank top is
a delirious ultramarine
as if squeezed out
in a rounded
sharp edged
dollop
from a artist’s tube
on to his palette .
He seems quite sane
here
all in all
as he moves his head
only slightly
to the music,
drinks,
and enjoys the game.
No crows are flying here.
He’s just intense,
alone.
Perhaps looking
for ear lopping
companionship .
He stares at passing girls.
His eyes are burning
with an intense
cool blue flame .
His short hair
and tight cropped beard
finish
off a look that
brands him,
the tortured genius.
He reminds me of my
cousin ,
long departed.
He too
alone at times
was
always
loved by children,
in awe of nature,
seeking companionship
and kinship .
A talented painter
in pastels and in oils
of ancient Greek warriors,
some times Spartacus,
or landscapes ,
his eyes often said:
Old man look
at my life.
He died a much
too young
death
like Van Gogh.
Van Gogh reminds
me too
of Kirk Douglas
especially
in the movie
Spartacus .
Douglas was a man
of incalculable
passion and
intense verve .
Van Gogh could
have been a
Spartacus in the
Arles arena
had be been born
earlier
and in the circumstances of
a Gladiator,
rather than a painter .
He would have
excelled
and lopped off ears
in shows of mercy
to win his freedom.
Van Gogh
has now suddenly
disappeared
into the thin nostalgic air.
He must have dashed
out madly.
His table with empty
Heineken bottle is
left blank,
blank
as an empty
white canvas .
The
abscess
in his absence
left behind
is black,
black as the crows
that devoured him
so long ago.
From “The Black and other Base Elements” by PWChaltas
