Spirit Meditation

I saw my spirit in the sea

that spirit would not come with me

‘I do not walk on earth’, said she

I turned my back and searched.

I joined my spirit in the sand

that spirit would not take my hand

Said ‘I dont stay long where I land’

I folded up my arms and searched.

I heard my spirit in the sky

that spirit would not tell me why

nor how her soul had come to fly

I dared not jump but on I searched.

I touched my spirit in the flame

another I had hoped to tame

it scorched my dream but never burnt

I sat in search of what I’d learnt.

I rocked my spirit to and fro
In boughs where fear had come to grow
Though all the while my spirit sang
I only heard the Shadowman.

I asked the Blue Boy 'bout that song
To find I'd known it all along
Thought spirits chorused by the sea
I never heard till I swam free.

My spirit found me on my own

asked me to tell what I’d been shown

and there we sat, without a clue

I don’t no where but how we flew.

Hollows Song

I call out from my 
hollow to say 
good night and

tickle your jolly till

you fall over yourself to

ask me many things 
more times and over

I call for all of this 
and more, 
to your hollow

chorus

I will not speak of love

I will not speak of sores

I will not speak of Paris

nor any other girls

but my hollow will resound

as a whisper at night

if you wish it so

tho you may not come through 
with the goods in the end

and i may be right to flee

all hope may seem hollow

but my call will not be

I fill your hollow up

tell you who it is I miss

not just the body of you but

the free man

the laughing man

the silly certain man and many things 

more times and over

so sure of himself

sure he’s under cover in that

hollow of his

and what I think of your freedom?

it's as a lonely plait

down the back of 
some girl’s dress

in the midsummer

too long ago can't recall

was it St Tropez where you lost it?

was it on the hill? in that cabin

as a boy?

i will not speak of that either

chorus

I will not speak of love

I will not speak of sores

I will not speak of Paris

nor any other girls

but my hollow will resound

as a whisper at night

if you wish it so

mid 8

now we have found our

secret hollows

many dreams are lost

at least the bells of Dame

still ring there

though not of our love

not even to ply from you 
your fears

nor ask whether you have

soared such heights since we last

threw the covers off

not of paris

nor any place you yearn for more

nor the bells of the Dame

as they ring out 
your name

oh you 
hollow 
hollow 
heart

who are you ringing for?

© 2005 Rebecca Rennie

Down At the Station in Paris

the roman gypsies get hauled down

to the station with

a guele & a little ratty

case of the pick

but the Texans get their own receiver

down at the station

at last there’s a cactus language

they can understand

as the fox wraps its way around

the show-pony’s shoulders
it's off

to the station we go

with the desperate down & dirty

alligator in his pocket

there’s something for every toad

to report

and though all the charm in the dame

comes to nought

there’s no harm in trying it on

that’s the racket they run

down at the station

© 2005 Rebecca Rennie

On The Mend

on the mend

my bed has your scent

laid out ‘long side your memory

it is simple

& beautiful

they sleep well there

but memory is safer than

the true body you

and nothing is 
solid 
as it seems

chorus

i can see you are

not quite breakable

but you can fold

and you can bend

there’s a tear here or there

a ripple on the surface of you

but not quite broken

you’re on the mend

i’d dive in

make a splash

but i resist the urge

to wrangle about with the

qualities that crack you

I’d take them all on

pin them down

but i don’t know my way

around

you

yet

that veil you cloak over

that soft boy of you

to the core i can see through

you drive a hard bargain

and it only gets tougher

so i keep my

edges on

sharpen my tongue

don't give 
too much away

and sure enough 
in the end

all said all done

and you beg 
for me to stay

chorus

you’ll see how

neither one is breakable

but we can fold

and we can both bend

there’s a tear here or there

a ripple on the surface of us

but not quite broken

we’re on the mend

© 2005 rennie

I Crack Myself Up

I crack myself up over

how I cracked up

over you

I crack myself up

these days

before my temper

gets a chance to

crack something

I get in there first

I crack myself up

since you stopped pressing

the very buttons you

once adored

it all cracks me up now

I drop the grater

I say, Great!

Funny girl I say to myself

and crack up

You see how

I crack myself up

these days?!

© Rebecca Rennie 2005 (Completed 2012)

Insomnia ***(favourite)

please poem
do not come now
away! down! rise with the sun!
let me be.

you turn up now
despite the dark &
these brick lids,
to suck me out of my
bouyant raft where
I would rather float off
than go under with you.

you cry,
like the unfed child i never.
you want milk ink -
you want it now -
you will wail in my head
till I lift you soft from
your cot, my heart.

i would orphan you
at once if i could

where precisely do you sleep? within which ravine of my soul?
let me find the spot and
put you back there.
am I mad there? am I stale?
tell me about me.

and about that sculptor -
you his sub-pilot too? nagging at him of a weary night
till his hands take off like mine?
do you ruddy pummel at his core until
he rises to the throng to
be done with it – you?

alright, you win
if one must carve
one must.
you lurking chunk of rock
waiting there in the
mildewy recess of consciousness,
you catch me offguard every time.

there
are you out now?
may i go? you had your way with me you
mysterious organism –
soul-fired, you feed off me, you little animal.

you are born, bled and fed.
you are done, now let me go.
but wait, i hear another one
don’t tell me you brought friends?

 © Rebecca Rennie 2000 (Edited 2012)

Once We Were

Once you were 
My forbidden treasure

Once you were 
Just there

Once you were
A lot of things
Once you were
More or less

We let go 
all that though
Didn’t we?

Or did we?

Once you were

So many things

Once i wasn't
Quite myself

Once you were
Trying very hard
To make things right
But i wasn't 
was i?

Or did i?

© Rebecca Rennie 2009

Sorry Box ***(favourite)

You smiled. 
It probably wasn’t at me but
i stole it home to lock it away
for better or worse.

I shook your smile till it turned from me,
tucked it up ever so gently 
and placed it, cracked up and withered 
in my sorry box.

You cried.
It probably wasn’t over me
but i took the credit for your tears,
consoling them with
every sweet notion i could dream up,
i only used words'd be a breeze to clean up...

...but your sorrow was
too deep for my sorry box...
so i hung it out to dry for a time...
with all my fears
and any other frightful things
that came to mind.

When done,
i pressed out the creases
(in truth, too few to mention)
and hung up my glory
with the rest of those outfits in our closet.

You roared.

Yes, it was at me.
With a poignant shout
i clapped you about
and despite the pain
we struggled on hoarsely -
i dragged you in,
postrate but raging all the way,
to my sorry box where...

...i slipped out a smile
and the rest of that darling stuff...
left them eye-balling one to the other,
grace to disgrace.

In time, they embraced
with outstretched pride,
joined hearts
and skipped on side by side
to come in search of me
and my weapons.

You looked.
It was to me.
It was simple
and sweet.
I forget who seduced who
but i wear that look on my cheek
for all to see and
my sorry box
is empty.

© Rebecca Rennie 2000

Authenticity

you are alone for two days

so you call yourself a loner now

you are too sick to smoke this morning so

you say you’ve given up

you call a cow by her first name

take a photo of a horse and

call yourself a country boy

you stretch once against a tree 

so now you’re a tree-hugger?

you breathed in very deeply two months ago and 
say you meditate regularly

that book i gave you, lies unopened but

you do love coffee tables and

if you know the title and 
you spill a drink on it

at least it looks well read

you are many things

great and wonderful
cover to cover

so why pretend to be all other?

i see through the film strip
and transparent impressions

you boil some pasta so

suddenly you cook

but you still don’t know the 
difference between a

chilli and a pepper nor

what to do with a bay leaf

and the only thing you know how to bake

is time

if you are as bored by your own company

as you say you are

then you are possibly boring

if you are not interested in other stories

nor really listening to the world

nor traveling

nor caring to cook for your mum

nor picking up a new sport

nor opening your mind to horses, skiing

reading the newspaper front to back

(even the business section, just once as a joke)...

reading biographies

buying literature in another language

planting something in a garden

rearranging your ugly furniture

donating clothes to charity (if they would take them)

then what can i say?

i say

do some volunteer work at xmas 
in a soup kitchen

just for sheer joy of it

and don’t tell anyone

give up smoking 
and see what happens

but don’t tell anyone

the thing about loners is

they don’t notice they are alone

please stop telling me 
what a loner you have become

in the hope that I will 
come over to take a look and

keep you company


please stop telling me stuff

  

© 2010 Rennie

Thinking Big ****

All her horses are named Athena

but for the one with the wounded leg

Sandy, she calls her, little horse Sandy.

Sandy’s made of felt, she is sad as can be

“Little horse, take your tonic

then come play with me.”

Truffles is a cat, with one missing glove

her eyes glow at night

and she wears a top hat.

There’s a missing spout on Teapot

so we fill her up slow

we feed the butterflies

on tissue trays and candle wax.

What’s your favourite bus route

of 600 that you know?

“The whole world” tangents Charlie.

...the darndest things indeed...
so too

the swan on the water

does it with such grace

that you can never see her paddling like hell

beneath the surface.

© 2010 R. Rennie

Inspired by Graeme Robertson Guardian article p 21 Mag. Sat 15 May

That Star

he’s a tad rocknroll

and cheeky as hell

not full bent on leather

but ringing a bell

he fills it up singing

to the top and it’s slow

poetry in motion

he’s a kite you let go

shall i wish upon him?

like some morning star

or is he just a comet?       

wonder mister what the hell you are

© April 2010 Rennie

Clochard ***(favourite)

i am king of this town, dont you know

poetry tracks me down

no matter where i go

i get hunted by words and

shot down by lines

i just open my mouth and let fly

i met rembrandt

some time past and

the new year saw me swinging from

chandeliers in Venetian glass

now that was many years ago

true to say, my heyday’s passed

Pablo still writes me all the time

and Vincent is a friend of mine

it’s a cushy life but i’m always on the move

i sleep around, in any groove

you know the rumours are all true

that once upon a carousel

i knew M. Lisa very well

i blew my fancy flute that way

my chariot has one dud wheel

it still gets all my stuff around

you’d be surprised how it still rolls

with all the things i’ve found piled up in it

© 2009 Rebecca Rennie

Mermaid on the Continent

The rose-water orchid bearer

Is doing all he can

To fill your world with oceans enough

To make up the distance between you

But there you lie

Naked and soft on the hard, dry ground

With your ear cupped, 
You listen hard but

Songs dry up on the continent

Yet she still remains your heroine,

Stuck there and utterly put upon as she is

With her history of border wars 
And socialized concrete walls

Her soul stale, 
Her poetry panic-stricken

It’s no wonder

She loses all reason

It is only the sea

You yearn
You must forgive her that

Still, if only she had a sea, then

You’d raise a naval fleet

Especially for her

You’d have the muse at 
Both your feet in no time flat

And in her name
You cry out to no-where in particular...

...If only the sea

© Rennie 2008

Strange Texts

strange message

are u executing me? in text?

the gossip mongers on the corner

they too have so much

to talk about.

phones phones.

just becase u’re the

birthday girl darlin’

that don’t mean u

got the right to

spit on my night

… my song

punishin' me

just a wee bit?

for my own good perhaps?

go right ahead

im not fallin’ for the tricks

you play.  

im too hard

im too bold

and u don’t get me

any more.

i think u’re missing the point

in any case

where do i stand?

i hear you asking

how do i stand it?

that’s the question

when you are constantly

pressing me me over

and out

© Rebecca Rennie 2008