stormy weather

via stormy weather



nature red forest leaves

Photo by Pixabay on

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,

We tumble

Into sprinkling gyres

Of light in the northern sky.

Only the rivers run free

concrete bridge near buildings during golden hour

Photo by Guilherme Rossi on

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.

Keeping the light we’re given

aky beautiful bloom blooming

Photo by Francesco Ungaro on

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.


woman hiding behind leaves


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.

In search of….

black and white art berlin germany

Photo by Little Visuals on

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?

Nebulas explode

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!

scene of crime

horror crime death psychopath

Photo by Tookapic on

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

Feed your head

multicolored abstract painting

Photo by Steve Johnson on

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

A walk by the river

green trees

Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger on

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.

Come back and haunt me

person woman dark girl

Photo by Pixabay on

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.