TOWER OF BRICKS.

I sat on the floor with you,

Little open hearted boy of just gone two,

Your innocent laughter bringing unalloyed joy

To one who wondered just what toy

You were playing with or what it was that made you chuckle so

I knew that, given time, I’d know.

You had constructed for yourself a tower made out of bricks

My fingers, creeping along the carpet, just like walking match sticks until they found the tower’s base

Your little face

What did it say? Did you smile or did you frown

As I knocked your little tower of bricks down

And heard them scatter as they created their noise

Destroying the handiwork of little boys

Or at least one

You laughed until I almost cried with laughter too

Then, catching my breath I said to you

“Come on! Build me the tower again”

I intended to knock it down once more since doing so had caused you little pain

But rather made us laugh.

Patiently you went to work once more,

In your lovely little eyes was the tower a castle?

A sky scraper with gleaming windows

And a golden door?

Did it house soldiers whose battles were bloody and long

Or was it a refuge for the weak who are no longer strong?

On the command “ready”!

My unerring hands went into action a second time

And in a moment sublime

And with a shout of:

“Down you go”!

I destroyed the army’s hide out

Or perhaps the castle

Or the refuge from the foe,

And just as I predicted we laughed again as I urged you to rebuild,

You, so infantile and yet so skilled

At building your construction and making me a thing

Which I could nock down until our laughter

Made the rafters of the house you lived in sing.

This image – This memory

Of a little boy and tower I could not see

Stays in my mind where it has been for years.

You – Little nephew of a now dead friend,

Is frozen in time like a picture taken by a camera’s lens,

Now you are grown I hear and driving a car

Somewhere in Liverpool

That’s where you are

And I am probably long forgotten as you were much too young to know

How happy you made me and that I love children so.

My tower of bricks has taken long to grow.

It has to withstand the gales, the rain and snow.

Sometimes people come up to its windows, have a peep

At the lone occupant within who, company with the solitude must keep.

People throw “pebble words” at the windows

And try to break the glass

Or simply go to their own towers of constructed thought, they hurry with their eyes closed as they pass.

Only by not reaching out with their hands causes my tower to fall,

Their hands of indifference destroys and damages it all

And the rubble lands on my soul and I do not laugh

As the scars that form cut my soul in half.

I wave at their towers’ windows but know the battle’s lost

When they think it not worthwhile to wave back at my glass of frost which fills up my window pane,

They think my tower will fall on them

Overwhelming them with rubble,

Swamping them or

Worse still

Forcing them to rebuild their towers again,

And I wonder, were I to meet the man I once knew as a little boy

Would you “arms length” me?

Or laugh with me over something we had in common

Thereby once more giving me that rare,

That spare,

That not often felt but longed for unalloyed joy?

TOWER OF BRICKS.

I sat on the floor with you,

Little open hearted boy of just gone two,

Your innocent laughter bringing unalloyed joy

To one who wondered just what toy

You were playing with or what it was that made you chuckle so

I knew that, given time, I’d know.

You had constructed for yourself a tower made out of bricks

My fingers, creeping along the carpet, just like walking match sticks until they found the tower’s base

Your little face

What did it say? Did you smile or did you frown

As I knocked your little tower of bricks down

And heard them scatter as they created their noise

Destroying the handiwork of little boys

Or at least one

You laughed until I almost cried with laughter too

Then, catching my breath I said to you

“Come on! Build me the tower again”

I intended to knock it down once more since doing so had caused you little pain

But rather made us laugh.

Patiently you went to work once more,

In your lovely little eyes was the tower a castle?

A sky scraper with gleaming windows

And a golden door?

Did it house soldiers whose battles were bloody and long

Or was it a refuge for the weak who are no longer strong?

On the command “ready”!

My unerring hands went into action a second time

And in a moment sublime

And with a shout of:

“Down you go”!

I destroyed the army’s hide out

Or perhaps the castle

Or the refuge from the foe,

And just as I predicted we laughed again as I urged you to rebuild,

You, so infantile and yet so skilled

At building your construction and making me a thing

Which I could nock down until our laughter

Made the rafters of the house you lived in sing.

This image – This memory

Of a little boy and tower I could not see

Stays in my mind where it has been for years.

You – Little nephew of a now dead friend,

Is frozen in time like a picture taken by a camera’s lens,

Now you are grown I hear and driving a car

Somewhere in Liverpool

That’s where you are

And I am probably long forgotten as you were much too young to know

How happy you made me and that I love children so.

My tower of bricks has taken long to grow.

It has to withstand the gales, the rain and snow.

Sometimes people come up to its windows, have a peep

At the lone occupant within who, company with the solitude must keep.

People throw “pebble words” at the windows

And try to break the glass

Or simply go to their own towers of constructed thought, they hurry with their eyes closed as they pass.

Only by not reaching out with their hands causes my tower to fall,

Their hands of indifference destroys and damages it all

And the rubble lands on my soul and I do not laugh

As the scars that form cut my soul in half.

I wave at their towers’ windows but know the battle’s lost

When they think it not worthwhile to wave back at my glass of frost which fills up my window pane,

They think my tower will fall on them

Overwhelming them with rubble,

Swamping them or

Worse still

Forcing them to rebuild their towers again,

And I wonder, were I to meet the man I once knew as a little boy

Would you “arms length” me?

Or laugh with me over something we had in common

Thereby once more giving me that rare,

That spare,

That not often felt but longed for unalloyed joy?

TRAWLING.

Here I sit with my electronic fishing gear,

Alone here,

The quiet of the night shattered by the voice,

The only voice which helps me navigate

This sea of words, without my sight.

Listening to the music play,

Drinking tea and thinking all my time away,

I wait patiently as the fisherman with his line and hook,

Then, reading a book

I wait some more, with the little window open,

Having to think of nothing but surviving,

Coping.

The night hours tick by till the light comes to the eyes

Of the sleeping sighted,

As words like birds which land on a twig

Fly from wherever they may be stored till

On this screen they alighted.

The tea all drunk, the pot rinsed out,

All sorts of thoughts run through my head

There’s much for me to think about

Like “What do the trees look like”?

“How’s the dear old dog”?

“How can I describe this state to those who want to know?

It’s not like fog.

Then, “Ah”! I’ve caught one”!

An electronic fish has been caught by my “intonet”,

The pinging sound has told me,

I devour it greedily and reply straight ‘way

Before I may forget

What to say or what the sender may have said.

The message may come from overseas or from

Another blind person unable to sleep sound in bed.

Whichever is the case I smile at the computer screen

As the robotic voice of jaws reads out the words unseen.

There’s so much I have learned – About reflected light in puddles

And vision,

From my friend whose electronic fish

Swim with accurate precision

Straight into my inbox where they stay,

Perhaps to be devoured anew another day,

It matters not whether these electronic meals

Come and go between the sighted and the blind,

They all provide not vitamins for the body

But rather ample sustenance for my mind.

ON THE WAY TO YOU AND ME.

On the way to you another route diverts me.

I get caught up in assumptions like forks do in spaghetti,

You have a house, this means you must be boring,

Your spirit crushed by dull routine

Not soaring.

Your children sit in a neat row at the table,

Only eating with their fingers when they’re able

And that’s when you’re not there

To scold, to admonish,

To disapprove or stop and stare.

On you’re way to me you get diverted,

You reach your destination

Eyes averted.

I’m down-at-heel with just one change of clothes.

I live on the streets,

You hold your nose.

I play a harmonica, hope for change

And you drop in a penny, salve your conscience,

Think I’m strange.

On my way to you I get distracted,

Thinking of what the last one thought

How they reacted

To the news that I had to convey.

You must be narrow-minded,

Were you born that way?

I work beside you in your smart new jacket,

Last time I told someone they just couldn’t hack it.

You said you were getting married soon

And were excited.

I’m thinking of a civil partnership

But my chances are blighted

Even though they have now changed the law.

You must be thinking you’re the only one

Entitled to love or sex,

Only for you was what those things were made for.

On your way to me you get distracted.

Thinking just because I work with you or yours I’ll be attracted

To them, ‘specially if they’re juveniles.

What do you think of me mincing down the supermarket aisles?

Me with my feminine voice and masculine name,

At first you think my parents are to blame

That it’s their shame

Instead of cards given by fate on but one single day,

Then you remember it took two “straights”

To produce a gay.

On my way to you I got so lost,

Just like a wind-blown boat which a storm had tossed.

Then when I reached you or you reached me I hid my hands

Knowing you’d not like me –

Or understand

You with your perfect vision and your painting

Thinking that I, your whole world

Will be tainting

So you draw the shutters,

Helping me cross the road I hear you mutter

“poor thing” – Glad it isn’t me that’s been afflicted,

confined to a life of darkness and restricted”.

On your way to me you get embarrassed,

Making your language clumsy,

Your manner harrassed,

“What shall I say”?

“Suppose I should fill my mouth of teeth with my foot”!

“What shall we talk about? Me with my sight

to her in a land that’s

black as soot”?

Then on a Sunday morning in October it strikes me

That if we could come as children do –

Me to you and you to me,

Fresh and without any pre-conceived ideas,

Rid of all our prejudices, negativity and fears,

Then we could find a true meeting of minds

Between the homeless one

The gay one

The sighted and

The blind.

I know that this is possible

I’ve seen it at first-hand,

The ice thawing round a heart that’s been held

In an intelligent hand,

We are all human,

Driven by the same need,

For love whatever our disability

Colour

Sexual orientation

Or our creed

So let us come as children do and learn

To give our love and friendship,

Exchange our thoughts.

A harvest of rich rewards

Will be our return.

INSECTS.

“I can understand and see”

said the kindly rowan tree,

“How just sometimes as you travel on your way

that you’d like the company

of a skilled and clever bee

to add some variation to your day.

For it’s a certain thing

That you too have a buzz and sting

That you’re an insect too which travels through the air,

For you would like to know

What bees do and where they go

For you know you’ve much in common you could share.

I can see your point of view

And I sympathise with you

For there aren’t just rowan trees like me nearby.

There are many trees besides,

Whose leaves differ but produce sighs

To attract a passing insect that may fly.

You imagine for an hour,

With a bee you’d share a flower,

Join the colony of bees an learn their names,

But then startled, you do find,

They tell you you’re not their kind

So you can’t join in their honey-making games.

So the bees collect and swarm,

On a sunny day that’s warm,

As you longingly gaze at them from your nest,

And the strong and mighty queen,

Who seems to you quite mean,

Tells you separate survival is the best.

So you take your sting and buzz,

And retreat again because,

You have once more heard the cold familiar rasp,

Of those who doth proclaim,

That you are different,

Not the same,

You can never be a bee

‘cos you’re a wasp”.

PRAYER AFTER BIRTH.

Now that I am here give me a candle to light my way,

A peaceful night and a fruitful day,

A friend to walk with and things to do,

A hand to hold and a heart that’s true.

Now that I am here,

Give me courage to carry on,

A rock to cling to when hope is gone,

A sure foot and an easy path,

A welcome smile and a bright warm hearth,

Now that I am here give me an ear for another’s despair,

A willingness to give, to care and share,

A mouth that holds back an angry word,

Humour to laugh at the absurd,

Eyes to cry at another’s plight,

A desire to continue through my endless night,

Till I get to the place where perhaps there is dawn,

Give me compassion now that I’ve been born,

Promise me nothing you cannot give,

Just you walk with me while we both live,

Then when you leave me I’ll understand,

The significance of your being, the feel of your hand,

Give me a memory of all that is good,

Justice and shelter, clothing and food,

Now I am here keep me safe from my foes,

Let me value my life as so quickly it goes,

Let me value yours too, respecting your space,

Caring not for your colour, religion or race,

Or whether you’re disabled, ugly or blind,

Let my epitaph be

“She was tolerant, kind.”

LINKED.

We are linked, you and I,

Under the same ever changing yet expansive sky,

You on a vast continent far from mine,

I on the British mainland surrounded by sea,

I in a writer’s solitude which has no end,

You whom I’ve never met but still call friend,

Technology introduced us, let you see

Into the mind and heart of me,

It said: “Shake hands that you may find

You have a common humanity which will bind,

Keeping you linked though in your separate state,

Though you have differences in age and cards dealt out by fate”,

And as I sit here in the quiet of the night,

I think: “wouldn’t it be great if men did not fight?

Wouldn’t it be good if they did not war?

But instead realised what their time was for,

Namely to learn and understand that the world is small,

That we are all linked, yes one and all,

Linked not just by technology’s clever tricks,

Linked by our need for love

The cement between the bricks

Which are the structure of this life,

And that to keep on warring causes strife,

Bloodshed achieves nought but hopeless tears,

Shed because we cling to all our fears,

Fears of the different, we’re all to blame,

For not understanding that we’re all the same,

For not realising that each is like you and me,

Linked by our very commonality”,

All of us born and soon enough we’ll die,

Buried we’ll be beneath the same immense sky,

And I bless technology on which I now depend,

For it has allowed me to meet you, to call you friend.