Zen By Paul John Roach Using thinking to explain non thinking, Using words to explain the wordless, Committed to the struggle Of elucidating the effortless, Why is it the purest joy And the uttermost horror Are part and parcel Of what the Universe allows. Tenderest care And classic indifference Coexist In the turning of a […]
Category Archives: Poetry
Poem: Late Afternoon, A Coruna, Spain
Late Afternoon, A Coruna, Spain The secret world of the sea Is appliquéd with a flux of silver. Waves push the spume Against black hills. In the foreground, on the terrace, The laundry dries. Each hidden fish and octopus and crab Is a commonplace unto itself, As are we. Each moment the mood of […]
Poetry: The Seamless
The Seamless By Paul John Roach Originally published in Grief is a Spiritual Practice, by Unity.org. The ancients, when misfortune arose, Or sacred codes were broken, Tore their clothes in anguish. With white fingers of blame, They poured ashes on their hopelessness. When Jesus died The curtains of the Temple, it is said, Were rent […]
Poetry: Confusion
Confusion Born of multiplicity Stifles The dawning clarity. I cast myself On the universe’s charity To provide A modicum of parity. It bends and flows Like a Möbius strip But the worsted clad spiv Provides the ultimate tip: Enjoy the trip. — Paul John Roach, July 2018
![By Rodw (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons](https://www.pauljohnroach.com/wp-content/uploads/GlastonburyMyths.jpg)
Poetry: Glastonbury Myths
This poem was written on December 9th 2015 in response to a newspaper article I read saying that the Glastonbury myths have been exposed and proved false. These myths include the legend of Joseph of Arimathea bringing the cup of the last supper to Glastonbury; the story that Glastonbury is Avalon and that King Arthur […]
Poem about Growing up in a Golf Club
Worlds separate us now.I have tiptoed across the creaking floorof the locker roomwith its bits of grass stuck to the floorboardsand odd scratchy golfballs kept in cardboard trays,closed the doorand gone down the brown, waxshined staircaseto the bar and the boys. I’ve looked my last illicit look with youfrom my grandparents’ roomin the top of […]