speech of angels

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“Without music, life would be a mistake” ― Friedrich Nietzsche 

A waterfall of notes, rising and falling, 

Splashing into mind, heart, soul. 

Music will never grow old. 

Arpeggio series of broken chords rising descending

Into and out of order. Plunging into minor keys, rising into waves of luminosity.

Notes that compose a chord are played or sung in a rising or descending order.

To create. Harmonies of the heart. Plangent human voices:

Pleading, invoking, appealing to the spheres, to the goddess of love, across the chasms of time, place, culture, creed.   

Our dreams swirl, coalesce into these heavenly harmonies of passing imperfection.

Plucking at our heart strings music seeps into our souls

Music and silence, point and counterpoint; the rhythm and metre of words brought to measure

Infuses speech, poetry, the language of sense with all the magic of music: 
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.

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Ordinary lives

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These empty spaces

Inside of me

Composed of God-knows-what:

Certainly lacking in originality

Empty waiting rooms

In empty railways stations

The smoky-smell of coal and steam

Caught up upon an evening’s desultoriness

A girl’s slight distress as she leaves the empty nest

Mingles with the spine-tingling haunting of the imagination

That is a prelude to walking death

Echoes and shadows of those who walked before us

Sitting, once-upon-a-time, in an A&E trauma room

Where an isolated cry punctures the sky

Disturbs the hush of illness

The ever present caw-caw-cawing of the brazen crows

Across the road, in another century,

When fireworks and the heated glow of household fires welcomed

Tired soldiers home to share the beds of strangers

And still the cries bounce from wall-to-wall

Echoing through these empty rooms.

The pharmacology of shadow

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When sadnesses besiege you:

At the dying of the light

And starlight illuminates

The ending of the day

Then star-crossed lovers

Quietly drift away;

Sigh silently out of sight

Of mirrors, water, eyes

And you will find, momentarily,

humankind loses its disguise.

We spin and whirl

and dance like hemlock in the hay.

We are Witch and Wicca and Wizard

We sway beneath the moon, all day

Dream our dreams away.

For all that was lost

Is summoned a-new

Pentacles set aflame tonight

the sky, the earth, the light.


Time and tide and star-shine do not lie.

Warp and weft weaves itsway into sky,

Towards the dying of the light,

The goddess in the moon deceiving,

As light bends and curves —

Aphrodite-night occurs.

A permanent loss of happiness

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Upon this beach of ground sand and shells

Come! See the image of the rolling sea.

This new found land ground by the tides,

These wide expanses framed by cliffs of sky

On the windward side the mere placidity of day.

Trilobites embedded, beneath my feet

Quartz and Muscovite glitter in the granite

The wind and the waves have had the time

To form sea views, sculpt’d rocks, caves.

Time grinds the face of all mankind

Time wears the skin thin and haggard

Sea views, hidden rocks, caves.


Her eyes address

A story drawn from:

Dreams, Wishes, Memories,

The holy trinity of centuries.


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Morning maniac music

Shakes me awake

The regular guys

Those who once brought hope

Now bring hate.


Over the mountain,

the clouds scud away

blood on the floor

it’s all fading away.


Blood on the soul,

and blood over water

All those refugees 

we oughter…..

stick ’em in the camps

and camp’em on the shelf

of our conscience


Waiting for sanctuary

But no sanctuary offered

gotta take care of the country’s coffers

Christendom has fallen

Collapsed from within

In our hearts, sin,

Rotted from within



Deep, deep in this mire of sin.

He tries to speak

But can’t begin to say.


All you do

By protecting your wealth and ease

Is lose a way to win

you lose



Your grandchildren dripping blood

No crystal ball required

Just look around

Sea levels rising, flood!


Wars about water

Pray for rain.

Ash in our mouths

And nothing’s the same. 

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The snot-green sea


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The winter sharp brains of children 
Took a turn for the worse,
Suffered an inferiority complex.

Dispersed, triumphant solely in their dreams.
Running across raging seas, they danced on the waves.

A storm-blessed salty awakening.
They had nothing to regret. 
They were sweeter than children.
The word ‘atrocity’ was expunged from the dictionary.
Elm trees were caw-caw-cawing with the rooks.
Nobody lied, not even the poets.
Blue wine stains penetrated my sleep.

The sea, infused with stars.
Slow rhythms predominated
The glare of the day persisted into night
The femininity of love was universally acknowledged.
Skies were bursting with surprise
Lightning, and the wind conspired for hours.
Beneath the waves, the exalted dawn was deja vu.
I sometimes she saw the same woman she saw.
The low sun was strained with all that gothik horror lacked,
Fact. The waves rolled off his shivering dream,
We rise to the eyes of the seas slowly.


Missing the wildness of the beautiful

We degenerate into words. Waiting, between

Sentences, for the Muse to catch up with us,

We fulminate, flash like lightning, explode so

Violently that I catch myself thinking this

Is an all an act to compensate for the time

My friend climbed that tree before disappearing

To Japan for all eternity. He wished Haiku was true.

That an apple blossomed cherry blossom flash of inspiration

Could cancel out all the impure repetitiveness

Of so-much empty rhetoric — and the worst of it is

That those who claim the mantle of artist-poet

Can so easily forget that every human life is precious,

And that even those whose opinions we despise

Can open-up our eyes to our own holy imperfections,

That make us love all that is passing, frail, human.


If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold
They’d be present in the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes
This friendship across species  -  a Buddhist mantra –
Rocks me like a good old boy, befriends me like the rain.
He’llbe with me when the gates fly open - his  love will never end.
Seek out the depths, the shaman-spirits that will be:
Seen, glimpsingly, at the Paiut Wovoka ghost dance
Drive away every morsel of this dirty money-grabbing life
This massacre of everything that be wild, wilful, wondrous, free.
Our artfulness creates resistance to the age of the machine
To the algorithms that manipulate us behind the scenes
In this stinking, respectable world of the machine
In this two-dimensional world of worthlessness
We must resurrect the unseen perspicacity and prescience that
was once the common currency
Of the most illiterate, boorish, free-born Saxon.

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A blackbird sings on Bluebird hill

A blackbird sings on Bluebird hill

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November brought to mind in August:

The lack of light, that all day twilight!

How can anybody live through such visual misery?

Without declining into snake, or toad?

Even the trees will have no leaves.

And the cold will rise to infect our eyes!


We are, unfortunately, not Italian, nor Etruscan,

Just woolly-backed mammoth barbarian sorcerers

Of a certain druidical disposition: visceral,

Bruised, damaged, rag and bone men of the heart,

Who can rise to the cloud-topping disquisitions

Of an unfettered poetry brought to the world

In strictest measure

By the boozers and the losers, by the mead imbibers,

The wine guzzlers, laudanum tipplers of Stratford atte Bowe,

And elsewhere, in these foggy isles of our own making.


For what is past is prologue to the future,

And all the realm will be full of sweet airs,

Perforated by the drift of lazy, gaudy butterflies,

Who give delight and hurt not,

A Sufi Saint contemplates his imminent dissolution

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Goodbye my Sufi friends and lovers

Nothing now exists to connect you to me

Tayyar is honourable and full of good intent

I will rise from the trap of the world

I will ask you to be my servant in paradise

You are my dancer, I am your poet, we can laugh

Together on days when I taste the rain-drift-clouds.

When you sew I can watch you and fall in love

Again I remember our first meeting

Amongst the sweet smell of the jasmine

In the rose garden where we couldn’t be

Seen or overheard. You were my perfumed

Idol. You are my window on eternity.

When Mansur Al-Hallaj was finally executed

For the blasphemy of being a Sufi I knew

My time would soon come. The Abbasids do not

Forgive. So, on this tight night of bone-white

Light I do not think of my execution. The Day

Of Death will come regardless. They say

Do not buy wine from a foreigner but this wine

From Andalusia is so sweet and clear, it is like a mirror

Or a still lake, we can see ourselves clear and calm.

Unaffected by the ripples which do not draw near.

On this day of rumbling thunder and dark clouds,

Skies swirl and whorl on this day of days.

I am not an unbeliever but I know there are many

Truths. I was accused of paganism for reading the Greek.

Herodotus, the father of History, he did not seek to

Write a Greek version of the Greco-Persian wars

He sought to help us to learn from past conflicts.

For Herodotus attributes the causes of war

To both divine and human agents,

Who he did not perceive as being mutually exclusive,

But rather as being mutually interconnected.

Will this day of rumbling never be done?

Be sure to testify, always, to the spirit of tomorrow

And kiss me at this door of eternity,

Your hand shakes,

Djinns are all around us. Listen to the wind.

We will not be separated long, my love.