Dancing Through Each Day

Tree Tops WaterMark

Dancing Through Each Day
It hit me one Autumn morning;
As I shuddered to a halt.

All future plans went up in smoke;
And my past became just vague memories.

My mental Juggernaut ran out of gas;
Is this what death feels like I wondered.

For those whose time is up;
A terminal condition diagnosed and delivered.

No pretty words to save us;
In fact, no words at all.

Yet, all was calm, all is calm.
No panic, no breakdown.

Just a reminder of what is real;
And who I am not.

A still-point in a moving world;
A silent pause in a long line of chatter.

An alignment in time and space;
When all cycles cancel each other out.

The rhythms pick up;
Whose rhythms I’m not sure.

Rhythms of cells, of souls, of universes;
Dynamic as if by Grace.

New rhythmic cycles begin to unfold;
Dancing through each day.

© David R. Durham

Tribal Roots


Tribal Roots
Tickle the time when your dreams can come true,
Leave behind old scores unsettled, magnify
Your hopes and twist the reality we call fate.

Lie merchants breath life into old bones dangling,
In the soft comfortable chair paused in time,
Channel after channel of dreamers delight.

Seldom have we marched to one drum beat,
Seldom have we sung one anthem so loud,
Tribal roots calling, calling us back home.

Shuffle softly to the head of the queue,
Where dark dim archways beckon us away from
The cold, caves of welcome invite us in.

© David R. Durham

O’ Bag a Bones

dead bird

O’ Bag a Bones

O’ bag a bones does thou lie t’ me? Now
I recognise thee on waking, thee I
Know, Does’t thou recognise waking me?

O’ bag a bones thy life so fancy, thy story
Well told, again and again thy rymes unfold, each
Passing second, each fanciful hour thy
Tale weaves another carefully wrought thread of life.

O’ bag a bones thy feels so old, a story
Long in the tellin’, a stop start yarn, a
Dream come true in eaten moments, thy’s not
Me lad, thy’s not me, but who are thee in
Striding rhymic gait and in winceful smile.

O’ bag a bones thy story stinks. Thy thinks folk
Like thee, thy thinks folk ignore thee, nay lad,
Thy thinks too much. Thy’s imagining it lad.

O’ bag a bones lay down thy heavy burden,
Stop thy dreaming, thy imagined fanciful
Life. Thy’s story tellin’ from morn’ ’til night, in
Pain and pleasure, wi’ boredom and fear, in
Well rehearsed lustful hardship.

O’ bag a bones thy day is through, thy end
Is restful night, dark night, lost again to sleep,
Lost again to hope of what new day might bring,
O’ bag a bones am I thy lie of me?

© David R. Durham
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Entrances & Exits


Tell me Mr. Doorman, what shall I pay you
To keep the world at bay? The other world,
That other place, you know which one I mean.

Tell me Mr. Gatekeeper, what fee must
I pay to let me pass this way? A long
Forbidden path, you know the one I mean.

© David R. Durham
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Has no edges, stacked, unstacked, leave behind,
Now moving ahead, we flow
No way to change direction, we imagine other
Paths, dream in vain of other happier times.

Onward tumbling we go, no rest or pause,
A parachutist’s committed descent, body
And soul, until
Death adds a final full-stop,
Untwined once more, tiny yet vast,

© David R. Durham
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Big Blue Yonder


Big Blue Yonder

You hope to meet me in a distant heavenly tomorrow;
A kettle starts to boil.

You catch a glimpse of my face in the moon and stars;
Letters drop through the door.

You call for me in your darkest, loneliest hours;
My shirt it smells fresh, newly washed.

You find brief respite in the words of great teachers;
A cough reminds me to buy some more vitamins.

Your holy mantras sing of love and longing;
The noise of children playing disturbs my restless thoughts.

You search in vain for me on the mountain tops;
When all the time I am here, here in the your valleys and homes.

Eternally present in your heart of hearts.

© David R. Durham
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Cafe Style


Cafe Style
Blind rules didn’t necessarily
Mean too much to him, he skiffled
And shuffled up and down the stairs.

His rough worn manual labour hands,
Are gripping, floating, rubbing, flirting
With polished grained wooden rail.

He seldom looked down, his sure
Falling feet finding their usual
Well rehearsed home trodden place.

© David R. Durham
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Winter Reeds


The Words Come Softly

The words come softly;
At the break of the day.

The words come softly;
And speak of fears they want to slay.

The words come softly;
Union is forever they say.

The words come softly;
Who’s words, who’s thoughts come today?

The words come softly;
When Spirit comes our way.

The words come softly;
For those who chose to listen.

© David R. Durham
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