via stormy weather
Let’s keep the light we’re given
When our stores of words are fled
Empty as a musical box
Or a box for housing the dead;
When the bridge between giving and taking
Has crumpled in the dust-prints of mouse.
A Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie.
Then all of our days are a struggle: to walk
And to dream and to think; when the gates of the new
Jerusalem appear blinking on the brink.
Will you follow my heart through this lingering death
With colours and music and words?
Will the feel of the will-o’-the-wisp on skin
Cause blackouts and atonal tears??
Help me to know the glimmering-ghost-light
As a feeling that stutters along….
As it flits from the merest echo of pitch
Into a fully-fledged minor chord song.
Images gleaned from memory
Flutter with those plucked today
As I gaze into fire
Flames leaping away:
Still watches of the night
Houses become silent,
Time passes by,
Into sprinkling gyres
Of light in the northern sky.
In England we can pursue a ladder to the stars
Our nation’s due a new beginning. Four hundred
Years ago we executed a king, a commomwealth
Came to be, The English peasant was the freest
In Europe. The millenarian Fifth Monarchists,
Evangelical Quakers, proto-democratic Levellers,
Libertarian Ranters, and communist Diggers.
It was such an exciting time to be alive and free.
All arose out of the mire of civil war. We must
Fight to be free. Nobody will hand freedom to us.
Syncophantic peddling of the Saxe-Coburgs
As the Windsors, as the ‘Diana cult’ retards us
Makes us subjects not citizens. Demeans us all.
What is now proved was once only imagined.
When our stores of words are as empty
As the cupboards in a poor family’s house
When the bridge between giving and taking
Has crumpled into the dust-prints of louse.
When all of our days are a struggle to walk
And to talk and to think, then the gates of new
Jerusalem will appear, appear to us near the brink.
Without fear, I’ll follow my heart to my grave,
While some follow their mind into hell’s casuistries.
But the feel of a will-o’-the-wisp on our naked skin,
Will help us know the glimmer of ghost-light.
Beyond, the merest echo of song, from memory
Or from desire, we’ll gaze into the household fires:
Houses become silent, time passes, bells, gyres.
It is always better to go
At the end of life
Whilst windows are locked
And doors too
Then thousands of lakes have been removed
A thousand cups of coffee no longer drunk
And then your gaze exploded like a bonfire.
This is my fault
Some people are good at dissembling
At twisting living words into false patterns:
That jump through hoops,
A woman with an eloquent neck,
Is lovely even in clumsiness,
Men with bloodied fists pursue her
Crawl into her ear
Flatter her with twisted words
That curl up and flutter as if they are her pets
But really want to devour her
For me, her word remains a tender thing
She knows she will not live long
And is satisfied with these rare moments
Of living breathing authenticity
Rarely does this little life yield so much
Do not touch and certainly do not press heavily
Against her fragility,
She often dies of lascivious looks –
Her poor body twisted and
Maltreated by death and dying
In this ugliest of worlds.
He walks in the wind and rain
Maybe he is looking for his child.
In imagination he holds him safe
From crack-houses on the corner
He thinks he holds him safe,
But he doesn’t
Even know his son’s face
Was bitten so deep
By a knife and by a claw
That is a sign of ownership
By the ever-feared gang-master
His song is short and maladjusted
Heads or tail?
Destroying civilizations we can never comprehend
Something called the star of David
Followed by three wise men
Many colourful flowers are spead like a fluttering
Blanket on the beach;
All effervescence of out of reach
My mother has
many a robe to spare
In dry leaves
the wind whispers!
black rain glistens on the window panes
she looks out at unfenced existence
at the the life that never was
her eyes shine like stars beneath the lights
turned on by mom before she went off on one
these men hunched up, collars pulled tight,
detectives steaming under these high ceilings
a woman in high heels clutches mummy’s bag
unsteadily she shudders
mascara slides down her face.
police sirens disguise her sobbing
drawing closer to her, the woman shivers
looks at the blood on her hands abd clothes
so many people looking at her
We are such stuff as dreams are made on:
Even pretty Missy moon was sad tonight.
Her tears flowed as rain
Dreaming would never be the same.
Winds blow the calm right out of the trees.
Wetness and wild bloomed like wild flowers.
Today two people kissed for the first time.
Time slid away as they dissolved each into each.
This dream of youth
Drunk with all the merry nothings of the young
We sing our songs
Seize the passingness of day
Gather all your dreams together
Then give them clean away:
Human souls forever young
With the sun in the air, on the beach, in the mountains, along city streets
In the evenings we still laugh at nothing at all
For the faeries bless us, kiss our children and make deep the lakes of sleep
As those with open hands sleep the waking dreams
Of Prospero’s island
Under snow white bunches of fragrant stars
I can hardly speak but I will try.
It isn’t often that my brain falls still, silent;
At night it’s usually a ferment - mingling
Tenses, lit up, following many cul de sacs.
Lingering is a moonlight-figure, reflected on the frost,
Gone but never lost.
On the ground, I am suspicious of the silence
Within. Outside all is wild and the colour of blood.
If I do not talk to myself I am usually fast asleep
Maybe drunk. On a barge meandering down the river
With peals of girlish laughter echoing from the banks
Passing under metal bridges carrying ladies
With quivering parasols and men in top hats
Like well-paid actors in a film about rivers.
Men over balancing and falling into the river
One after another as if this was a deliberate
Act of suicide. Bodies splashing into the sweet scent
Of grass newly cut and just, just divine.
Forty-two years old and gloriously confused
She removes her shoes and happily remembers
That wildfires can’t be bought or sold
So, the yearning for the spring, is born again.
Savant, a wise woman, in the greenwood, hidden,
Out of the way, of all those bastards of the church.
Her curses took revenge out of the material sphere
Laid an element of fear to cancel wealth and power
We knew the wisdom of the witch and so did those
Dressed in the finest of clothes. If you tried to burn
Her you must reckon that the church knew more than
The old religion that had gone before. Few did.
In the shadows of the forest, in the dappled of the light,
The druid and the alchemist do their work by night.
Sympathetic magic, the strength through empathy,
The rising of the poor and the buzzing of the bee.
To claim the old religion, to see through darkened
Shades, I have to speak as if I’m in my grave.