The Wind

the wind - Richard WestmorelandWhat is it with the wind?

So obviously there, yet so hidden
So strong yet I pass right through it
It howls and it rustles and it swooshes and it sweeps

No matter how much we perfect our hair it always has the last say

It’s almost as if the wind is Mother Natures affection
Her hands and arms holding us tight, yet still letting us walk on by
For as she knows, she must let us go; lets us grow

Her fingers through our hair, her gentle caress on our cheek
She can get frustrated, even angry sometimes

Wouldn’t you?



nothing - Richard Westmoreland

There will always be a better
There will always be a next
There will always be a greater
And of course an only if

But when all of that is taken
And you stand with nothing left

You realise

Nothing can be better
Than having nothing next
And nothing can be greater
Than forgetting only if

The Saddest Thing


The saddest thing I ever heard
A blind man thought he was a bird
He’d tell his friends, he’d tell his foes
Even the stranger on the road

Then one day, the time it came
The blind man stood in the pouring rain
Perched on a hill, the people watched
He told them they were all his flock

“Come with me” the blind man squawked
I’ll lead you through, beyond the dawn
Then he rose up through the rain
No one saw the blind man again


Work on my dear, I’m here

You sit there with your brain firing energy around and your skin with its billions of holes breathing. You write and delete and rewrite and repeat. You reach for your drink which was long ago empty. You toss and turn in the strain of your task. Your heart throbs and your bloods flows. Your fingers like soldiers, crushing enemy keys. The night is lost as your work is held up, and your body creaks for the bed it knows.

As you exist in your world tonight, I exist in mine. I think of you and I become settled, I become calm. Our worlds are far, but our love is here. Unchanging, steadily sustaining.

Work on my dear, I’m here.

He Who Walks

Healthy is he who walks to the well
Privileged is he who chalks in the cell
Broken is he who refuses his thirst
Dead is the doorman who blocks the burst

Surprised is he who was so great
Confused is he who looked for a gate
Retired is he who pointed the blame
Alive is he who walks again

An Open Palm

As you slouch seated, staring at the scuffed school hall floor, you see the shoes of a person come into view. You raise your head from hopelessness to hope and there it is, right in front of you;

…an open palm…*

That hand is your invitation, and that hand is vulnerability wrapped in skin and bone. You are free to accept, decline or ignore.

I am convinced that we do not in fact make love, because we don’t create it. Nor do we sell it or buy it, because we don’t own it. What we only ever do is take part; we join in with love. Love starts not with a push or a shove, because love is not an impersonal force, but rather starts with an invitation to know and be known.

We love because love first loves us.

*May I have this dance?