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


Cupped hands stalking
The moon's bright echo,
Trapped by the lure
Of its quicksilver snake.

Pale legs walking,
The colour of death,
Slide beneath
The cold, black lake.

A ghost white gown
Hangs heavy and wet,
Weighing her down
As it clings to her breast.

Out of her mind
And soon, of her depth,
She will drink up the moon
And peacefully rest.


Unto the four winds did I shout your name,
And kept alight that sacred flame
Before the altars of Sun and Moon,

Underneath a vault of stars,
I offered prayer, that Oh, so soon,
Our eyes could share and know the same.

So simple, yet, now plain to see,
I know no more, no less of thee
Than I imagine, stars of me,

Who dwell a hundred lifetimes hence,
Whose light and sight I only sense
From long ago, when present tense.

Accuse me of idolatry,
Of worshipping a beam,
My faith, alone for company,

To temper, so 'twould seem,
The steel of my temerity,
The colour of my dream.

All is unknowing, no consolation,
Save for the glowing
Of a new constellation.


Like a church, a quiet place,
To you, my heart fondly returns,
To where I feel that flow of Grace,
The peace my soul so dearly yearns,
A comfort, an oasis found
Upon life's choking, dusty road,
Where waters cool and clear abound,
And disappears my heavy load.



Let morning pass on by,
Although the sun plays on thine eye,
Until your heart,
Warmed by its rays,
Stirs you out
Your slumbering ways.


The pain slowly seeps away
Like rain,
Down cracks between the days.


What do I profit from sanity?
What lies beyond
The soft padded cell
Of my comfort zone?


A million little deaths surround us
Letting go their parent bough,

The colour, drained from nature's cheeks,
Chased by spring's now broken vow.


A face that hides ten thousand secrets,
Eyes that reach as many miles
Into the corners of my soul,

Lips to kiss ten thousand times
And paint upon ten thousand smiles
From whence those secrets will be told.

Ten thousand silkworms spun the hair
Whose colour, darkest night gave style.
The stars within her hand she holds

And casts, with love, to whom she cares.
I think one fell to me awhile,
So I return, ten thousand fold.


Love can make me sound a fool
And reason, like a bore -
Or is it the reverse, the rule?
I'm really not quite sure.


Unwittingly culled by Darwin's law,
Has evolution's shortest straw
Been drawn by us, this human kind?
What refinement can we find?

Not the cheetah's speed and grace,
Or sloth like need for sluggish pace,
Not possessed of dreadful bite
In shark or crocodile that might

Ensure our survival.

Yet nature has not met its match,
An egg or plot it couldn't hatch.
The fittest of us then, will thrive.
The question is, how to arrive

At what this definition means
In terms of workers, kings and queens,
Drones and soldiers, you and me.
Where's the edge to guarantee,

Ensure our survival?

We can't escape rule number one
For all that live beneath the sun,
And yet create monopolies
That suffocate metropolis,

But social skill and etiquette
Will serve us well, and thus collect
The brownie points we sorely need
To not be cut down like a weed,

Ensuring our survival.

Mr Jones across the road,
With brand new windows, his abode
Is always clean and prim and trim.
Maybe I'll look up to him

In showing us the forward way,
So - spick at night and span by day,
The secret of enduring bones is
Keeping up with all the Joneses,

Ensuring our survival.