Tag Archives: freedom

We Know Who We Were

We Know Who We Were

We know who we were,
as for now, do we know who we are?
We ask the right questions,
the few answers we find,
we mull over, debate.
Wish I could waken from sleep,
find words to crust a tune.
Sail out in a boat on the ocean
to slay the kraken with my light rod,
my radiant harpoon.
Away from the civilized confusion,
the traffic hoot and hum.
Attend to the silence only passing winds disturb.
Back to wood, stone and water,
to bird song in the green wood I come.
We know how we were,
as for now, do we know how we are?
I move my hand over the uncultivated land,
the unharvested ocean.
Wish I could breathe in deep like a whale,
pipe out high like a dolphin,
swim free of shackle, no fortune to fail.

A Bewilderment of Doves

A Bewilderment of Dove

by Philip Dodd, written for The Best Six Poets project
inspired by a painting by Alex Alemany

On my closed eye lid screen I see
a bewilderment of doves.
Once caught in cloud cages, wind wires,
from barn lofts, orchard walls,
they flutter free.
To doors on the horizon,
they carry a key.
I can only be a witness,
watch them go,
further and further
away from me.
Human as I am I will never know
the lift through the air
on such white feathered wings.

Broken Barricades

Broken Barricades

What you are forgetting
it is I who hold the key.
The whale swims under ice.
Like him I lift my head,
to break free and scan the sea.

Life can be upsetting
when you really try to live,
not always neat and nice,
through broken barricades,
I race to what I can give.

I am beginning to see what it all could mean,
my vision clear and clean.
In the midst of the muddle,
I turn my wheel,
feel fresh grass beneath my heel.

Never rained so much before,
but perhaps it did.
Never seen so much water,
running down the gutters to the grid.
Wonderful things revealed long hid.

Robin Hood has nowhere to hide now,
said a passing neighbour with a smile,
her comment on the metal box I stacked
with rotten wood and twigs outside my house.
And yes, she is right, I thought, for the oaks have dwindled,
deer herds that remain roam in private parks,
and over what is left of the wild.
And the waves and the rain still lash the ark
I first heard of as a child.

Jungle Vision

Jungle Vision

Panther black jungle night.
Monkeys screech,
parrots squawk in fright.
Muddy brown river,
lethal as a viper bite.
I paddle through in my canoe,
watch white birds lift from a lake,
fly over trees in green tropic light.
I climb a bamboo ladder
in the summer heat,
blink away my vision,
feel my feet in my suburban street.
And the lion yawns,
safely in the shade,
far from the hunter’s guns,
and the cheetah runs
over the grassy plain,
though faraway,
I feel the thud of paws,
the freedom in my brain.
And the sky scrapers rise,
high above my head,
and I look around
to see if I am where
my directions led.
The taxi horns
louder than a trumpet blare.
I am not really there,
I am here.
I am not really here,
I am elsewhere.
I am not really there,
though only partly here,
for I am elsewhere.
Helicopter blades
cut through the air,
and the lines of waves
take me further out,
but I am not there,
I am really here,
yet I am elsewhere.

White Glider

White Glider

There has been a development,
a report of something strange,
and though nothing is certain yet,
it seems there will be a change.
The top circle are excited,
what they seek is now in range.

In the heat of summer time,
they might send me away,
on a mission somewhere,
so you know what I will say,
mine is the face you never knew,
and as for my aeroplane,
must be as if it never flew.

The submarines in the ocean
sometimes surface in my mind,
and I almost have a notion
of what they hope to find.
Many agents wear dark glasses,
but none of them are blind.

I have my own entertainment unit,
it is called my brain.
I don’t need music on an I Pod,
to save me from boredom or keep me sane.
I promise when you turn around,
you will see me again.

They advised to have no ties,
and now I understand why,
but what we have is strong,
your face is in my eye.
When I return we will relearn
to enjoy our freedom from the lie.

I have felt singled out since childhood
when I built a white glider in the shed.
I let the wind take it up on the shore,
watched it spin high above my head.
Already had my secret life,
and no one cared or knew,
I felt pleasure in the strain on the string
as my white glider flew.

Set of Ornaments

Set of Ornaments

Windmill on the window sill,
there still, the old ornament,
the size of my thumb,
its colour not definite,
say brass yellow gold,
been in the house since childhood,
much older than I am,
will survive me beyond the final chill to come.
Remove the cross that serves as it sails
from its pin, it looks like a lighthouse,
suitable to stand on a rock on the coast.
With two candlesticks and a bottle opener,
it forms a nice set.
Mother and father bought them somewhere.
Maybe they once mentioned the shop
but, of course, I forget.
The twisty stem candlesticks too good to hold candles,
the bottle opener in the shape of a bare woman,
her head tilted to one side, her hands held high,
in a crucified pose, to form a capital letter Y
with a straight stalk, too good to remove bottle tops
from bottles, so I was told.
Such things deserve a few lines,
for the memories they hold.

From a consideration of a set of ornaments, I branch out,
feel the release, to see me in a brown tub boat,
call it a coracle, drawing back two oars, away from all shores,
my decided direction is west, to where the sun sinks has ever seemed best,
my awakened spirit gives strength to my arms and hands,
smiling brightly, eager to sing, laugh, I acknowledge,
always it was a solo voyage, a lone trek,
a solitary song, facing that makes you strong.

A Whimsical Wander

A Whimsical Wander

When you have got over the trauma of birth,
like a four leaf clover, you know your worth,
come and see me.
When the wizard who turned out not to be wise,
the enchanter who drained the light from your eyes,
you are still free.

I wonder if we can weave our own myth,
and leave it behind on a loom,
for someone to find when they enter our room?

A silver tower stands on a hill.
As far as I know, it is standing there still.
More is the wonder and magic
that you were born
than to find the hidden vale of the unicorn.
A whimsical wander may lead us astray.
Where we go does not matter,
as long as our path has more green than grey.

Forests grow trees, hills grow stone.
Who knows what the wind grows
when it blows alone?

What an escapade we are on,
hardly here and then we are gone.
You could have said something
to make us all feel better,
but among the trinkets you left behind
not one gold leaf letter.

As much as can be,
I suppose we are free,
like horses who jumped over a fence,
to escape the confines of grey common sense.
That path that winds up the mountain
and down to the vale,
we can take tomorrow
while dawn is still pale.

Sensible cat shelters under the bush,
as rods of cold winter rain pelt down
on the mud and the mush.