along the dripping alleyway I often walk
I thought I saw your face imprinted on the wall
and when I thought of her who once sat at your feet
I felt myself absorbed by indescribable peace
now gone
Author: edwinbest1
in particular
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
eventide
uncommon prayer
bedtime story for the sick at heart
dog sigh on an unmade bed
at eventide
unquiet prayer
while children are still heard
in summer gardens
women come no more to offer comfort
or laughter
unholy prayer
full throated
now my visitor from the trees
fall away
imperceptibly
bring sleep
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
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
Another Way of Saying 