Departures

First to go was David,

hostage to father’s work.

No adult cared ’bout what they did

the precious bond they broke.

I stood and cried outside

the house where I had played,

but which to me was now denied.

He was gone, I know not where;

but always for him I shall care.

My bedmate’s end was then decreed:

“That duck must be undone!”

I do not know who did the deed;

but his frail fabric off was flayed:

soap and flannel of him was made.

Of resurrection hope there’s none.

Karl was dear, we hugged and held;

but off to Oz he went.

Long years until again we spoke

were separately spent.

Then tears of joy did whelm my eyes:

till he did vanish into cyberspace,

with no clue of why;

or what then I could do:

or even of an act or unkind word

which I should sorely rue.

Next my mother went to heaven,

slaughtered by a stroke.

To hold me fast God promised then,

but my heart almost broke.

David danced into my life,

then danced again away:

except one latter day,

when he remembered naught

of that strange play

when I did nearly go awry.

Deepest loved was Adrian.

He better far than I my love did ken;

but Pete then Julie had his heart,

and so from me he did depart.

I’ll not see him again!

Nick and Philip, Tom and John,

shared faith and college years;

but seasons came and now are gone

and they did me forsake;

save John, who kept troth ’gainst my fears,

until that bond I’d sadly brake

for fear of hurt I could not take.

An elven flautist ’tranced my soul.

With questing mind and hopeful heart,

striding into my life he came.

He glimpsed the part and saw the whole;

but even his name does now my mem’ry flee.

Derek was dear,

he taught me much,

I slighted him, I fear.

To southern land he went

and we lost touch;

but grace was sent:

so rather than my sin full drear

should bind me in the grave,

he lately me forgave.

My heart, Keith warmed,

but Wales his formed:

the rock from which his being was wrent,

so he took off with glee for Gwent.

Of Pauls let less be said

than floods right through my head.

One despoiled my soul,

one despised me whole

one pursued his goal

to teach the poor

of Africa;

then follow the spoor

of feminine lure

to America.

All are for me no more.

Henry burst into my world,

as poet’s muse and mad daemon;

he gave me life, but now he’s gone

and I am dead within.

Last, Philip loved and learned:

the son I never had;

but off he flew, to Orient far,

in search of wife,

renouncing faith, he left my life

and made me sad.

And so it goes: the eternal train

of broken faith and forgèd chain;

of given love and taken pain.

My only hope for my own gain:

of this frail life I’ll soon be free,

for all of these are lost to me.

Snufkin's Departure

“Farewell to the old
and hello to the new”
Snufkin said to himself,
as he turned his wan face
from familiar valley
and friendship and comfort
from all that was safe and secure;
from the family who’d held him
close in their heart
from the hearth-fires of home
and the table well-laid
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


The pass South now beckoned
its call was so strong
insistent and ardent
unyielding as stone.
The desire to explore:
to find what was real
(not safe and secure) urged him on:
intent on disclosing
the truth in his heart,
forgetful of bond,
of duty and need
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Each Spring was the same,
yet this time felt different
as if he might find
what he yearned for at last
and never return:
to the faces he knew
choosing freedom and danger and distance
the austere pilgrim’s path
so clearly set out
away turning from faith
and affection and home
and the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.


As he trudged on, alone,
the whole world before him
fear and elation
welled up in his soul:
The glorious challenge
of self-righteous living
awakened the rush of expecting,
fell things and foul
to be overcome;
but none so hard to escape
as the memory
of the one heart which loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Still, he shrugged and pressed on,
through snow snuggled forests,
past hard granite rocks
from cliffs long-time fallen
now resting half-buried
in leaf mould and earth.
His mind was sure, now resolved:
he’d make his own way
and gladly accept
what the Fates had in store
– be it ever so dire –
though his own heart still loved,
and even now ached,
with the loss of his friend.

Henry's demons

Part the first:

I sit in my car,

secure before my interview,

listening to the whispering voices

of my radio.

I hear a father telling falteringly

of his son:

a boy called Henry.

My whole attention’s won.

I am stunned

as the gentle man says how

Henry once took hash

and mislaid his sense.

From that time on

he was troubled of mind;

pursued by demons

none else could see.

He was put away.

Institutions became

his unhomely home:

no place of nurture.

Escape was his constant

cunning endeavour;

but success in this business,

presaged failure elsewhere.

Once out in the world

he had no sense of self;

no idea of what was real,

of what was good or ill.

He was overwhelmed,

fragile, incompetent;

not knowing whom to trust,

or what to do for best.

Drugs gave a peace

beyond all understanding;

but loss of understanding

was too high a price.

The destruction of self,

is no rational sacrifice.

All drugs do is pacify,

not make one whole.

Eventually, love won

and Henry was drawn back

into the light of reason,

and found true peace.

He was re-united

with his worried Father and

close family and friends:

a sort of resurrection.

Part the second:

I feel I have a choice:

one won through pain and love;

a choice unwelcome,

though offered of benign intent.

I ken a solid semblance

of what I heard the man relate

could become real for me

– but at a woesome price.

A dilemma, richly dark,

is for me now proposed:

either to accept the present pain,

as for the best;

or else allow a higher cost,

and so to have returned

what I have loved and lost

and still do sadly grieve.

The choice seems clear:

but I am well forewarned

that no glad good

will come of such desired renewal;

but only further, deeper pain

and greater suffering.

It is not possible that I should help:

but only hurt.