this me

These thoughts slant too often
in most dismal descent
forgoing even the very occasional
allure of simple pleasure.

But then
what of it?

So I am addicted to complexity
and the illusion it offers
of a life less banal and the
hope of being somehow special.

What of it
I ask you?

Is it so very odd that a man
might wish to be more than he is
and reach heights
thus far unimaginable?

Have you not
thought so yourself?

I live a life of persistent
domesticity unadorned by awards
or praise or shining stars
awaiting only a dram at night.

You know what I mean,
don’t you?

It is not that I love any less
the companion who shares my life
or the weans who bring joy
to my heart every day.

It’s just so hard to love
this ridiculous me.

At John O’ Groats, Scotland (May 2015)

prayerful stones

i remember the wind
whipping across my kilted legs
laughing at my zeal to recapture
a long-forgotten past

and the gorse glowing
stubbornly under a shrouded sky
blossoms jealously reaching
for your gentle touch

further and further north
we climbed through glens
of the truest highland green
to distant john o’groats

past braemore and dunbeath
around cairn and broch
bending this way and that
seeking the end of the world

but most of all i remember you
smiling before a distant bridge,
i see you there radiant and true
and ever more beautiful still

i watch you waiting there—
the green hills rolling behind you,
as quiet moss in lazy patches
crawls up a roughhewn arch

the stones kneel in steady prayer
longing ever for your touch
for stones know how to pray slowly—
the only prayer that truly matters

they pray for your return,
beloved Laya, as most certainly do i
every moment you are gone
from my side

2015.05.21 John O'Groats 019b

On the road to John O’Groats, Scotland