Buddha

Buddha and his buddies, watching over him as he reclines in sub-zero temperatures. Admirable fortitude he has. [Betta bigga - can't remember how to link to LARGE]

My charming neighbour, who keeps the communal gardens pristine, has a love of kitsch. There may be a series in this. He is also the soul of kindness, the source of this welcoming gesture this time last year. Poor tulips are hardly daring to poke through the soil this year, coldest March on record.

This is my earliest published poem (age fourteen)

ME, ME, ME
An egotist, that's me
My poetry starts with I
From that word I'm never free
No matter how hard I try.
My poetry is a ramble
Through the paths of my mind. I amble
There for my pleasure alone.
That's the impression I give
That it's for me, my own.
And others seldom live
In the place where I have grown.

A secluded spot
Cut off from mankind
That's the impression you've got
Of what's in my mind.
But it's not, I assure you
My mind would allure you.

But there I go again
Talking of me, myself and I
Surely I'm not so vain
To think that by and by
I might refrain
From using the magical I.

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Those of you who follow my journal might think 'Plus ca change.'

What would Buddha say? 'Hurrah! Well done. You noticed. Welcome to the path.'

A psychiatrist might see signs of something altogether different.

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To come 'A tribute to John Mayall, Leonard Cohen and Allen Ginsberg' - dare I? Does the Statute of Limitations apply to embarassment?

# am writing