A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.



Run to the rivers,

Run to the sea,

Take these tears,

That spring from me,

And just as prayers

Can fall with rain,

Spare us all

From dust,

And pain.



The once proud poppy,

Armed with thorn,

Its battlefields,

From history,


To stain this street

With innocent spoil,

Whose colour now,

Is blood and oil.


The eyes of the future,
Looking back at me,
What do they see,
Those children.
Have I designed
A torturous maze,
In which they find
Their lives,
Their days,
Innocent hearts
That now so hopeful gleam,
Entrusting me,
With an unknown dream. 


Cut them down,
Those dusty puppets of reason,
Whose musty ventriloquism
Through flaky, painted smiles,
Is treason to the heart.


The way in,
Not too tall,
That none may enter,
Save for the child,
The inside
Carefully guarded
By a bow,
Beyond is blood,
Mud and wild,
Left as shoes
Outside the door,
Be seated,
Curl upon the floor,
Sharing breath,
The fire is warm,
Brightened by our offerings
Of kindness,
Safe from harm,
The invitation is to feel,
And in touching,
To reveal,
In gentle singing,
The whispering
Of heart to heart,
Dreaming dreams
Of how to heal.


The bright, silvery steel of intention,
Ricochets into the machine,
Flipped and bounced,
With alarming bells and violent klaxons,
From cushioned pillars of expectation,
Propelled into traps,
Spring-loaded with doubt,
A short-lived game,
That dies to sarcastic fanfare,
And unforgettable, flashing neon,
Spelling tilt,
And frustration.


As growth rings the tree,
So for me,
Yet invisibly,
As memory,
And knowledge,
Fused at conception
In a cellular super nova,
Releasing another potent life,
Into orbit,
Around its own sun,
Its own, originating star,
The shining blueprint
Of its own design,
Streaming outwards,
To occupy space,
To dwell as time,
An emerald heart,
With sapphire mind,
Skin tight liberty,
And a furnace of gold,
The only reflection
I behold,
As growth pours in,
And life flows on,
Encircled by the snares
Of knowledge,
And memory,
Is of a light,
That is free,
To live and love,
As brightly,
As its imagination dares.


As the snake
May taste its tail,
So may we
Know time,
Neither ending
Nor ever begun,
Yet there,
Between tail,
And tongue.


Why does my cat
Look me in the eyes?
What is it there,
That equally applies,
More so than a care
For the perils of feet,
That seem incomplete
With their strange lack of hair,
Or coats that change,
As do the skies?
Why does my cat
Look me in the eyes?


To where might we fall,
Releasing those taught, 
Moral guides,
To stare at lust,
With our heart's intent,

Not so much
The slaying of a dragon,
As holding hands with innocence,
Playing shadows,
On the wall.


To be cradled,
By angels,
While I sleep,
In love as high,
As my darkness
Is deep,
With Holy kindness,
Rid my blindness,
And bid this heart
May start to weep.


Great spirit,
Whose ghostly face
I see,
Where sound 
Be heard,
Or light
Just beneath the ear,
Secreted in the eye,
Within the tongue,
To steal sweet textures,
Or perched,
To pluck a fragrance
From the air,
Forever young
Your beating heart,
And fleet your feet
Upon the ground,
Shifting there,
As all the shapes,
Thus designed,
By the grace
And favour
Of curious delight,
Might your face
Be found. 


The oppressive pecking 
Of narcissistic ravens,
Stealing every errant crumb,
The vacancies of their gut,
Sharpen a cruel gaze,
That wastes nothing,
In this thievish alchemy,
The cheapest paste,
To jewels. 


I remember this bright star,
Whose light bestows my liberty,
Banishing afar,
Those shadows of desire,
For this itself is my fire,
Its warm flame of fullness,
Only felt,
Through this crack in time,
An axis for heaven or hell in turn,
Where burns the lustre of idle dreams,
To ash and wholesome plenitude.


This body,
A mere token of my presence,
As the wind whispers its advance,
A secret splash,
Another presence
In the cold, black,  
Reflective calm
Of the wide mill stream,
Before me,
Now retired from industry, 
Resting in its own nature,
As am I,
In this moment,
Without looking,
Without listening,
Without trying,
As the trees dissolve
Their luminous,
Silver laced contour,
With the dark sky,
Unbothered by the clouds,
Yielding to the breeze,
The stream flows on,
Only the reflection
Does not move,
But shimmers,
Pierced, occasionally,
With the silhouette
Of a drifting duck,
Or moorhen,
Whose wild cackles
I pretend not
To understand.
The lights softly glowing
Behind drawn curtains,
In a mansion,
By the nature
It gazes upon.
The tall poplar spires,
Hushing sentinels
Against a streaking
Orange hem.
An invisible midnight,
Has come,
And gone,
Even the church bell,
Missed its passing.
I slip back,
Into my rags,
My role,
And my car,
With only the mud
On my shoe,
To remind me
Of fairy tales.