where are the waters that lead me to rest
your voice in the morning
your foot on the stair
a chair by a window overlooking
no place in particular
your book on the bed
here beside me
you reside with me
through all times
in particular
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Author Archives: edwinbest1
late summer rain
first light through thin curtains
the dog asleep below
I am a part of all I see
part of this golden glow
the dog will stir and want his breakfast
and I have much to gain
if I now rise and walk the fields
before late summer rain
prayer of the heart
words said along the way
at the intersection
at night
through day
silent words
felt along an ancient way
before and behind each other word
I might think or say
through all the stations
of the day
words
no more in need of memory
my blister strip of pills
held like a rosary
ever with me
Lord grant mercy
unremembering
when to that first thin voice
at the crossing point
I listen
before the house stirs
and the engine of the day disturbs
I don’t go back to sleep
but stand in this new morning
ankle deep
unremembering myself
and everything about me
despite the chill
the dripping rain
the first voice of the day
does not complain
unlike me
it does not have a name
on which to hang itself
empty
I would go empty
into my father’s house
make my house empty
of all paraphanalia
clear books from the shelves
in the top-most room
where we ate the apple
core and all
I had a photograph on the wall
composed of sunlight
re-arranged
now there is nothing there anymore
but dust and cobwebs
all has changed
if I still drank
I’d drink your health
who said this world we make ourselves
then shamble up
to an unmade bed
empty
descent
snowflakes flutter to the ledge
as I sit in darkness
awaiting the mystery of the dove’s descent
your face drops in instead
unannounced
the bell tolls thirty minutes
my time is at an end
sacred or profane
it’s all the same
love is all there is
an unseen flame
binding us all
to itself
cornerstone
you wrote your name in the palm of my hand
and laid the cornerstone
I threw into the lake
it sunk so deep
we haven’t found it to this day
though I never tire of looking
like your book
that I drowned in the bathtub
(I am so sorry)
but it never was the same
after that
it says I’m writ in the palm of your hand
and the rock that was laid for us that day
can never wear away
ready
sunlight on an empty vessel
in the deserted house along the shore
only when I am like that empty vessel
will I be ready
for my guest to call
when the wind and the sea and all the landscape
know me and recognise me
as one belonging
then – only then
will I be ready
for the coming
lost for words
on the morning of my death
the birds will sing
like they sang upon the morning
of my birth
unless
it is the middle of the night
in which case
there’ll be nothing to be heard
except the song of silence
in my soul
a blind man
in the middle of the road
dazzled by headlights
Love lead me home
yellow book
here is a book of colour
white or yellow
for those who cannot see
with eyes to see
such is faith
when all our darkness finally drains away
what will be left
here where the doors don’t shut
and nothing works
for very long
when the room that was full to ceiling
has been emptied
and all the colours of the field amaze
then sing his praise
who came to show the way
*
we find his presence
in his very absence
which is everywhere
except for here
and now
the one place
we may ever hope to find him
and never thought to look
*
yellow book
on a white shelf
in morning sun
I pick it up
and read from it
when everyone has gone
don’t worry
rejoice
in what you have begun
yellow book
white shelf
morning sun
Another Way of Saying 