John with friends in the 1970s

Pace Vobiscum

You have given all you can, and more than most,
To create some space without the haunting ghosts
Of childhood, past traumae and the frustration
Of coming to terms with an alien nation –
With a people whose values leave you bemused,
Unsettled, questioning as well as abused.
Trust in others and in yourself was up for question,
But the survivalist instinct will give you direction.

You’re returning home to the land of your birth,
To take breath and be with those whom you love,
Those who give succour, understanding and care.
Tigre, ‘tis time to breathe in fresh air, treading the earth
Which is yours; watching the stars in the sky above,
Peace of mind will come, as you lie in your lair.

John Klue, Advent Day 2002

Forward Flow

Come out of there
Come forward all
Tell all the world
That we are small
Your life to me can be so great so much to anticipate
My sordid life my hopes and fears
And not just crumble into tears
There is a life outside these doors
So forward march and on you go
Life is out there forward flow

John Klue, 2002

The Ice Sculptured Swan

When someone close spells out what I feel,
I’m caught unawares by a panic flow
Of hot blood through veins, which makes me reel.
But you sit, simply flicking your hair away,
As if shaking off light powdered snow.
The ice-sculptured swan starts to sway.
Emotions oft’ give an untimely twist,
As a babe in arms struggles when kissed.

The chance is there for you to act – or to ignore.
There’s but seconds to decide whether to claw
Your way through the melting ice, and restore
The swan’s neck, which is now bowing low,
In mounting pain, needing to know
If to wait - or melt to water like the powdered snow.

John Klue, 22nd December 2002

Those Who Know

The knowledge that we gain from various sources
Doctors, physicians, counsellors who’ve done courses.
They know their stuff, who am I to doubt it?
But I like to hear from those who know about it.
Landlord from Fulham who’s been in the gutter
Has given up drinking but sill has a flutter:
The dentist, a lady with manic depression,
Who takes her clothes off when she’s on a session
The professor, the analyst who will not rush
Is really a Mush from Shepherds Bush.
The tea leaf who got it together but won’t say much.
A couple next door I don’t really know -
Plenty of time though, they’ve two months to go.
And the boxer from Ireland who’s had it rough -
He’s only just started, it’s a good job he’s tough.

John Klue, 2002

Distance

I don’t know how it is that when I send you a two line text, you manage to reply with  these beautifully thought through lines with their philosophical sub - text in a language which is not your mother tongue. You say so much in twenty words. And when I read and re-read what you write, it is almost as though you are with me in the room. Your enigmatic smile envelopes your eyes and plays on your lips – a smile which I just cannot hide away from. I don’t want to: being near you, across the table or five metres away, as you come, head held high, taking in what you want, and discarding the rest; all of this is what I long for.

It is selfish of me to believe that some day you may come back, or I can come to you, but selflessness leaves you marooned on your own island of surreality, not realising that no-one else knows you are there, waiting: waiting for what? Is it for Godot, or for God.

It’s as when Pericles lay in a coma,
Woken slowly by the girl
Who turns out to be his daughter.
His face is in a whirl,
And when she says her mothers name,
It’s anger first which fans the flame.
Then slowly recognition dawns.
Pericles no longer mourns

Oh could it but be this way
That you and I should meet some day
I’m hiding behind myself in fear
I’ve lost you for many a year.
Yet methinks there’s still a chance,
That I’ll wake up and see you dance

John Klue, 18th January 2003

Lets call it fun

Come on you people let’s play a game
Why oh why should I play this game
Let’s call it fun when it’s a lie
Why oh why can’t I just cry
You say that life can be unique
I say to you let’s go to sleep
Again I say true life’s a bore
Come on you buggers give me some more

John Klue, 2002