Poems: David Troupes & Richard Meyers

The Simple Man Arriving Through the Fields

Throw myself down and here’s my camp—
under the thorn,
in the rolls
of gruff weed, in the fingers

of a new warmth. Stars
pop in the black and slowly
I align myself
like the needle and cork floated for a compass.

Mother! Such an endlessness—
the byways and nighways
which are all I need of home.
Tomorrow morning,

early, when the sun is a tray of crumbs
I’ll rise
in the spin and wander,
till I throw myself down and there’s my urn.

 

David Troupes

 

Wild Writing

Takes us there
where
root-tips
probe the soil

Down elm tree paths
etched Ogham-like
upon heartwood
by Scolytus beetle larvae in
the dead bole
Wild writing speaks –

Of the Holy wind nilch’i
Spiralling our fingertips

Of open senses fully alert:
The Braille-like fissures
Of an oak under my touch

In the fluted breath of a wren
Hawthorn hedge in flower
Skinny fox ravaged by mange
Snow in April
Hailstones clattering my cap’s peak and
Hard upon parked cars

Wild writing turns again –
to beginnings
first moments to
That initial shy glance
Fastforwarding to now
Grandchildren and the
Ever changing
fleeting present
Listen!
A Green woodpecker
How wild is that!

 

Richard Meyers

 

‘Such-Thus-ness’

Light shot through the
Green lens of a leaf
Knowing what it is
not to know
not knowing and being
happy in that vacant place
having an empty head
open to everything.
refusing nothing
even foolishness
finds a home.

 

Richard Meyers