Reflection by Niels Warren

Niels Warren is an Australian architect, now retired, a sailor, grandfather and thinker these days about the world and the US in particular.  His wife, Beulah has been NBAS Australia trainer for over four decades.

Here are two poems. The first was written early one morning in June 1996 when I was age 55. Like other stuff that I have written – such as the second poem which appears below - it started slowly in the darkness, silent and isolated, probably feeling sorry for myself. But “all of humanity” got my imagination going - easy to think of settings at the crack of dawn. Then, beautifully, as daylight came I glanced through the window and saw a tree that needed me! What is grace? I asked. Grace is revealed to us. It was the “A-ha” moment of awareness of that tree that led me into the new day. It was a moment where I found direction and peace of mind in meeting a tree. That’s grace.

I Want To Be Cuddled

By Niels Warren

It’s a cold, dark morning,
and I want to be cuddled.

The clock struck five as I lay there
wanting to be cuddled;
      neck aching, as it always does
      at the beginning of the day.

All of humanity wakes up
wanting to be cuddled.

My heart goes out to those who can’t be,
wanting to be cuddled.

Old and cold in the nursing home,
wanting to be cuddled:
      lonely body longing
      now, this morning,
      for a cuddle.

Tiny tots on smelly sheets
wanting to be cuddled:
      whimpering in the dark
      right now, rocking to and fro,
      begging to be cuddled.

Men and boys are waking now,
pre-dawn, and months since passion passed:
      remanded, barred and guarded,
      praying, crying, cursing.
      Just wanting to be cuddled.

The clock struck six a moment ago:
six chimes for loved ones lost;
six chimes to stir the memory. . . .
six chimes. . . . the hope?
six chimes. . . . the miracle?
six chimes. . . . just one more cuddle?

A cuddle, a cuddle,
I’m desperate for a cuddle.
Turn off the light,
and give me back the night.

The sky is streaking grey.
Magnificent: a brand new day.
But nature has no sentiment
to warm me on my way.

Now seven has gone; it’s quarter past,
and time to make some tea.
The day is really here now.
Outside I see a tree.

Twisted, bony, broken
unlovely little tree,
must you grow up ugly,
or become cuddlable
by me?

My Scene

By Niels Warren

My scene has been pretty windswept,
battered and, I think, broken in parts
over the past few months.

My scene confronts me all the time,
and I must try to deal with it while
the wind is still blowing -
lots of loose iron flapping and banging,
lots of debris in the air still.                

And I'm a pretty absent minded,
dependent sort of person, so that
half the time I can't even lay
my hands on a hammer and a tin of nails.

I can't control the wind,
but I can sharpen my wits
to remember where the hammer and nails are.

The wind may even help me.