A Cage To Hold My Dreams
Sons of the Lamp and the Pen
I am in no hurry to be happy
This melancholy mood suits me
in a pleasant sort of way
Sadness is the soft, full breast
beckoning to my thirsty mouth.
It calms my thoughts when
I need them quietened, it helps me
to forget that the times we live in
are soft and shamelessly mad,
that the world I grew up in has
died but pretends to be not dead,
its eyes remain open but
are sightless, its ears are blocked
and cannot hear, the wit and
humanity of earlier years replaced
by strange sounds and a curious
obsession with trivia.
I am called back time and again
to the quiet of the grey woodland,
or to some lonely strip of sand
scuffed by the rasping sea.
My natural ceiling is the rain-cloud,
a study in charcoal hand-woven
by an inspired artist whom
some people call God. Not for me
the gust of hollow laughter, nor
draped across my shoulder the arm
of some woman who no more
loves me than he sound of my guitar
will ever be music.
I have it in my heart to forgive
well-meaning friends who wrongly
take it on themselves to rescue
me from myself,
to drag me off to warm seas
and golden beaches, away
from the thoughts and
surroundings of my choosing.
I forgive them because these are
expressions of their love, and all
love, no matter
from where it comes, is priceless.
Yet I wish they would remember
that my desires are not negotiable,
that I am whatever I choose to be.
So if you should meet me
coming towards you, looking
rumpled, perhaps,
or not wide awake, say hello
or wave to me and keep walking.
We sons of the lamp and the pen
seek nothing more from our friends
than a nod of the head
and a friendly smile.
