The Old Game

Originally posted on Another Way of Saying:

Every evening
after work ceases,
I play the old game
with missing pieces,

A line will emerge
from here or there,
to be taken apart
then taken elsewhere,

the old game.

First up, then down,
then a different tack,
then two steps forward
and one step back.

I have to go through it –
I’m driven to do it:
just playing with pieces –
missing pieces,

the old game.

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Only Don’t Ask Me

The unlocatable sorrows of the heart
cannot be mapped
but may be glimpsed through art -
in colours that in striking ways combine,
in music or words that mysteriously
lilt or chime.

In no sense do these explicitly impart
significance, but make you start;
feel elevated – touch, jar
the unlocatable sorrows of the heart.

Else ask the wind, the fire, the sea -
only don’t ask me.