Dreaming

He had the light
To run like an obsidian black.
Into the night
And never return.
"Wait for me
On the other side", she said,
"And stay and watch…"
Yet it was him she denied.

He waited for an age and a day
Till the Earth had frozen over.

Tarrying for his lover
But she was gone.

The mist was on the field.
I turned both left and right
But I couldn't see.
Oh, the rolling wheels:
The years refuse to sit lightly on me.

Star Wars Synaesthesia

A long time ago,

In a place quite near here,

There existed a degenerate called Socrates,

Who thought all art was bad.

Later, some time later,

The pious used art to glorify God.

And then came Baumgarten - 

And who is Baumgarten, you might ask?

He 'invented' the word aesthetics.

Later came the Modern era.

Oh, my God, what a load of kitsch!

Maybe someone can sort out this mess.

Too many 'isms, not traditional art,

Artists in ivory towers, articles

For specialists, written by specialists.

Why can't we turn the clock back?

   

A Hardened Advocate

There is a tree on a tall precipice,
Where a headless blackbird lies stiff…
Dead: far from life and Nature's claw,
Given over to strife and blood-red teeth.
This bird is carrion for cat or fox,
Added to daily-murdered stock.
The tree, it stands beyond reproof,
Tested, tried, like a bush alight -
Burning, yet not consumed.
A firedrake, where all has been deflowered.

Next to the tree hangs a crowd,
Shouting noisily as if through soundproofed walls.
Why so angry and hardened?
Why curse this hallowed, immoral graveyard?
Littered too and a disgusting contradiction,
Where fruit would help to nourish the afflicted.
An apple with flesh so delicious,
Beneath a carapace: vile and bilious.

If you were to get beneath this skin,
A core sweet and soft within,
You would meet so agreeable and kind;
No bitter soul you should reveal,
Under this acrid-tasting, gallish rind.
A centre 'neath so pure and clean,
Approachable yet unapproachable…
All: candid, new, pale and noble.

Cease Waters Flow

When days flow river-wise to the sea,

And noisy seagulls criss-cross a greying sky,

When one's psychic monsters disturb the peace,

And the Leviathan rises in starry moon:

I long for the times hereafter,

And respite from this wearisomeness;

And I long for sleep,

When a bell will toll my final release.

David and Solomon

We are nothing.

Only a short-lived shadow

Upon the Earth

In the twilight of a winter's day.

We are nothing

To him who rules the waters

In the firmament.

And his name will live forever.

We are of substance

When we turn to him above;

In the Heavens

And the sun finally goes down on us.

We, amongst the shadows of Earth

Until the night turns us to him.

Nascent Dream

It is night.
And we have built patterns in local taverns.
Maps of the mind bifurcate as the dawn breaks.
We swim lazily amongst the cars and muted TVs.
I rub the shoulders of friends and giants,
Who pay a visit in my dreams,
And try to write this painful rhyme in a corner,
While children of yet another uncle fight and squabble.

He looks at me struggling,
My birthday is spoilt,
And nobody remembered to telephone for pizza …
"But I purposely got here early on the bus," I say,
Pressing the button three times,
"And the driver got really annoyed!"

Beneath My Acrostic Veil

The dark clouds throng to the sky,
And the heavens clatter endlessly.
The silence of the night is overruled,
And saints taint the air before they die.

Wait for me until the dawn.
Hell holds no place for the righteous ones.
Eat up the badness, which rises out,
Never to ensnare the soul forlorn.

I desired to leave the Earth once more -
Desert this place of pain and wrath.
I took my fill of all these hurts.
Ever to rap upon your door!