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


Tentacles of longing,
Stretching out,
Into the murky unknown,
A sometimes alien world
Of unfamiliar
And paradox,
Suddenly a touch,
A tender warmth,
A hand that holds
But does not grasp.
Beneath a dark horizon,
Undeniably and assuredly,
Arising like the morning sun
A glowing,
A growing,
Filling the landscape
Of the soul,
A knowing,
Here is a heart
That feels like home.


King Canute
And Dorian Gray
As ghostly spirits,
Met one day,
And hand in hand
For company
They walked the sand,
Then swum the sea,

And no dispute
Between them lay,
A new agreement
Holding sway
As they walked the sand
Then swum the sea,
And fantasy,

Both resolute
In such a way
That neither cared
What folk might say,
For fact
And fabled mystery
With sea and sand
Did quite agree

That time, nor tide
Will stand aside,
For common man
Or Majesty.


The Zen garden
A moment of stillness
Petrified in time
Ripples in the gravel
So devotionally raked
Halted in their disturbance
Caught in mid pace
Shades of grey
The middle path they say
Between black and white
Half the way to certainty

Worn smooth
By mountain torrents
Quite at ease
Though far from home
The centrepiece
A dome of stone
Flexing its polished back
Like a cat
A glimpse perhaps
A crack in continuity
A portal for intuition
Sentient feeling
Knowledge and will
Always existed

Soon after
That first long
Wistful sigh
When space
Clotted into worlds
Before the gardener came
To rake and tend
Were stones the guardians
Of awareness
Perfectly at one
Silent and sure
Today tomorrow
And evermore


Can there be
Any simpler than one,
Or more profound than nothing,
The cold mirror
On which one breathes?
What can there be
Dearer than one,
Clearer, more than zero?
Whose circle,
At no point begun,
Is, oh, so simple,
By just being one.


It is this silence
That contains me,
A vessel
Without walls,
In a stillness
Beyond the memory
Of dreams,
The cusp
Of this moment
Without horizons,
Vanishing at will
To flow
Into every waiting heart,
To hold
Each empty hand,
How could there
Come an end
To this?


Perhaps I am already buried,
Blinded by obsessions,
Large and small -
Lost in a fantasy world
Polarised strands of perception,
Pathetically incomplete.
Imprisoned in a cubic cell,
A cocoon,
The roof,
The floor,
There is no door,
And what is a window
But a see-through wall?
Could there be more
To learn
By not looking
At all,
Through the sticky, thick,
Congealing threads
Of my own beliefs?
In an instant,
As if by command
Of a most obedient genie,
Into binding reality.

Perhaps there is another way.
To feel this life
Instead of thinking it,
Ignoring the shell,
Tasting the meat,
Back to basics,
Before I was taught,
Before my innate & total bliss
Was scattered
Along the wayside
In my hasty pursuit
Of success.

The thing is -
What do we name the baby?


Ours will be
No shooting star
To burn up soon,
Without a trace,
Or like the moon
That shines afar,
No smile upon her face,
But as the sun
So warm, so bright,
Our days are spun
With rays of light,
Threads of fire,
Woven gold,
Young love's desire
While hearts grow old.


Mirror, mirror on the wall,
Watch me, as I start to fall,
Although I love not my reflection,
I'm besotted by perception,
As if the spaces in between
Demand the separation seen.
Thus, with arms full do I carry
That which unity would marry,
Gifts abundantly received,
All duly labelled to deceive,
For quantity to naught amounts,
Forgetful of the thought that counts.


Once more, I'm left here,
Howling at the moon,
The elusive scent of love
That so captivated me,
Broken up,
On the winds of uncertainty.

That call I hear in answer,
Is it the soft voice of
A distant soul,
Or just my own faint echoes?

The last cold glimpse
Of the moon
Slips out of sight
Behind the enclosing
Silhouette of the mountains.

Silence returns,
Save for the amused mockery
Of an occasional night bird,
Questioning my wisdom.


Sometimes silence is
The most painful sound to hear,
And absence,
The most intolerable guest to entertain,
Yet both those intruders more welcome are,
Their stark honesty more comforting,
Than fakery masquerading as faith,
Trust, fashioned from falsehood.
An imposter deep inside your heart,
A cuckoo cast from stone,
Nestled there upon stolen down,
Usurping true love from its throne.


Upon the back of grassblade host,
Gently bowed,
No longer but a shapeless ghost
The breath of night is born
Into a jewel of light,
Restrained awhile,
In the still untrodden dawn.


I hold a fragile cup in trembling hands,
Its content, this life's greatest treasure,
Fearful, lest one drop be spilled.
The loving cup, once passed, demands
Of care and trust, beyond all measure,
Until our thirsting hearts are filled.


There'll be a time,
It comes to all
When just like Alice,
I recall,
Tiny things will loom up large,
Enormity appear so small,
And leaving this one life behind,
Where tunnel vision
Turned us blind,
We'll wonder why we did ignore
The questions that our spirit asks,
Choosing not to stand in awe
For favour of much lesser tasks,
Never seeing what Alice saw,
A human being,
In wonderland.


Set within a cabinet
Of walnut and tortoiseshell,
A soft, amber glow
Discretely illuminates
The science of the dial.
Nimble fingers
Twist & spin around
The black, knurled,
Bakelite knob,
Cracking the safe,
Tuning in,
Surfing the sound.
Amidst an ocean of noise,
A golden island
Rich with organic warmth,
A sepia toned voice,
Smooth and sweet as honey,
Spilling its magic,
Through the art deco grille.


Lips close around a lovers' seal,
Much more than just a kiss,
And doors in hearts
Swing open wide,
Secure and safe in this,
Souls escape and flying high,
Free as birds inside the breath,
They rise to meet,
In a long moment of play
With their own reflection,
Absorbing the warmth of another sun,
Sharing, knowing another love.
Two spirits dancing as one,
Lost in the clouds of ecstasy.
To some maybe it's just a kiss,
But you and me, I pray,
Such bliss.


Which I remembering do,
upon seeing mixwards
among the grasses,
circular standing of mushrooms,
perhaps toadstools,
greyish brown, splashes of red,
not human blood let,
sat around and jumped over,
a flutter of lace winged
fairies, singing,
dancing, playing
in the general
tea time,
till suddenness of blue frog
leap centrally,
all take fright,
make flight, away
to invisible sphere,
shame of that,
though frog a
beautiful thing,
doesn't fly.


When I stare down from my final home,
Tears blurring my vision,
With such a longing in my heart,
Helpless to speak or touch,
Reaching out no further than my new being allows,
Oh, how I shall envy you,
Still at play,
Through eternal night
And infinite day,
Wishing only that I could once more
Chase the sand as it falls.
Each grain a precious second
To share my deepest love.

You, my unknown friends,
I ask you now,
Take this thought away,
That I may see it
Glowing in you
From afar.


Oh how that steady marching hour
Deliberates each pace,
Reluctantly, to free those days
Enslaved in its laborious race.

And every man should mark that power
Engraved upon his glorious face
Much more than wound or scar portrays,
Much less to feel disgrace,

For wisdom builds, indeed, a tower,
No place for age to seem debase,
But find, fulfilled and shouting praise,
When climbed by God's redeeming grace.


Skull cracked,
Jagg'd edged rafters scratch the grey sky,
A dark victim, yawning to catch cold rain's fall
As morning unsettles and storms roll by.

Fractures of tile litter long rotted floor
In this once precious pile
That is treasure no more.
Cave-painting tatters flap at the wall,
Tired of their fashion,
Now soaked in the squall.

Stone-smashed sockets for eyes
To reflect, in shades, the blood-lit sunrise,
Made to mindlessly howl
With the wind's blind rage -
Where sashes would stutter and folk would scowl,
A summer breeze flutter the unturned page.

Feeling through bars
Barely sealing the cage,
Brittled and gristled,
Toughened by age,
Droop impotent arteries
Drained of their power
To shock with surprise,
Or to clock this last hour.

Mould interrogates history's stain
Gagging it, silencing memory's pain.
Sad, unsold, brave but unsound,
The old house, stubbornly
Standing its ground,
Waits for the curtain-call
Hung from a chain.
A date with a wrecking-ball
Swung to its brain.


Light upon the whispering crest
Of the wind's balmy tide,
Distant hillsides tiptoe near.
A cowbell rings, sky lark sings,
A lamb's new pleading cry we hear.
Each vibrant beat of insect's wing
Lends a sleepy laziness
To the heat warped haze,
Underscores its shimmering.
Unique in all and seamless time,
Played by chance or by design?
Nature's summer symphony.


Heaven shed those silvered tears,
Slow, silent beads of daylight,
Slipping sadly out of frame.
The world appears
A smear of grey light
Straining through the window's pain.

Oh, how much does our Father weep
To find his sons and daughters slain,
Then hide behind such deep deceit
And call His crying
Falls of rain?

Let the blood wash from the streets,
Clear each heart from foolish stain,
And hear the splash of dancing feet
In pools, that tears of joy retain.


I've a secret
Here to tell,
Whispered to me
By a shell.
All of matter
Doth behave
As if it were
An ocean wave.
Hear it well,
Lest idle chatter
Break the spell.


It would appear that not all know
The songs that call our inner ear,
From chambers seldom seen aglow,
Yet ever present, ever near.

Those darkened crypts within the heart,
Whose heavy walls keep us from fear,
Protect when love is torn apart,
Are where, withdrawn, we'll crying hear.

A plaintive, faintly whispered air
From once exultant throat now trills,
The notes that stream no courage dare
To dream beyond the cage it fills.

The bluebird shines, resplendent still,
But sapphire quills no more take wing,
As every bar of music spills
A sadness, difficult to sing.


Across the ocean
Cold and deep,
Slow in orbit,
Warm its sweep,
Oh beacon light
My fears respite,
Save this traveller
Of the night.
Your beam so bright
Will safely keep
As all the world
Is fast asleep,
If by my side
Past danger sure,
You are my guide
Till home once more.


In the heat of the moment,
My thoughts evaporate
Before they touch my soul,
Silent, melting words,
Hang, Daliesque,
From my tongue.
All motion suspended,
I wait for a cooling breeze
Through the gaping,
Curtainless window,
To lend me a new breath,
With a hollow hope
That the dark night
Bring relief,
When -
Dreams arise
Like steam
In feverish
Half sleep,
My mind
By the drone
Of the electric fan,
My rhythm
Tuned to its next
Blessed oscillation.
The rush of warm air
Reminds me
That I have a body,
As I drift and float
In this still, dead, salty sea,
In the heat of the moment,
Held prisoner till dawn.


Who cast the moon so far
That she remains
Betwixt and between?
Ring-a-ring o' roses,
Marble streaked,
Vast, silent, and captive,
Deathly pale
In cold reflection of the sun.
Mute and serene,
Yet her potent stillness
The mask may change,
Through crescent, half,
Gibbous and full,
And the great illusion
She performs,
To vanish wholely
From the air,
Although unseen,
The moon is there.


A moment told me so.
Restless time hung its weary head
And sat beside me for a while.
We drank deep the waters of life,
Together washing the dust
From our throats,
And that moment
Told me all I wanted to know.
Filled with silence and calm,
Warmth and strength,
I understood.
All detail fell away
Revealing a majesty,
A luminous, crystal power,
Stretching both ways
To the infinite,
At once
Intimate but universal,
Nurturing yet unyielding,
All and nothing.
That moment
Lasted forever,
And that moment is still here
Under the dust and days,
And fallen leaves.


Simple then,
Simply colours,
Untouched by censure.
The colours of the heart.
We did not paint them there,
The green of envy,
The blood red rage.
'tis but a soul in refraction.
Simple then,
To feel those colours,
And while reflecting
On the same,
Be fulfilled,
But give no name.


From the invisible,
The silence,
From nothing,
The thought,
The word,
Gave birth
To this world.
From no place,
Not even darkness
It sprung,
Not even before.
Then came
A beginning,
For time,
For space.
We are creators,
From the invisible,
From nothing,
Not even before,
We came
To one place,
Each thought,
Each word,
A new beginning,
Slowly growing,
Our dreams
Of each other,
By a knot
Of love.


I have felt the coldness
Of life's setting sun
As warmth and light
Slip away into night,
And stared upon
That blackened yaw,
Forever now,
The returning breath.
A slackened jaw
Reciprocates at the last,
With one final sigh
The gift of birth,
Whispering a fare-thee-well
To the world,
Proclaiming another death
On earth.

In a rude, confusing shock
Of the inevitable,
This intrusion of honesty
Confronts me,
Lays bare my secret fear.
Reality's sterile scalpel
Cuts deeply,
Pares completely
Down to the bone.
I wrestle with
My disbelief,
Weep unashamed,
My tears of grief.

Yet surrounding me
A reverent sweetness
Lingers in the air,
A trace of angels' perfume there,
The scent of tranquility,
A soft, calm, stillness,
Strangely comforting.
A distant voice
Is calling down
To us, who live
And laugh and cry,
" I,
My inner eye,
Yes, I shall love,
But never die."


Searching behind your portrait
Framed within my mind,
I imagine you
Alighting from a stool,
A motion
Lends to your skirt
An alluring swirl,
My thoughts frenzied,
By the first sensation
Of your fragrance . . .
Scenes, visions,
Flash across my brain,
Then are gone,
Merciful in their brevity,
Or these eyes would never
See again.


Love is not exclusive,
Love dwells within,
Love does not only answer to one name,
Love is who we are and want to be
And seeps like the air we breath
Between all the cracks and crevices
Of our days,
Our worlds,
For we each have a world
Of our own
With a population of one.
There are as many images of God
As there are different worlds,
But there is always
And there can only ever be
One truth.
Sometimes we cry out
To be shown that truth,
But it can only come to us
In our own way,
A way our world will recognise.
Sometimes it is a whisper,
Sometimes a scream,
Often just a silent knowing
Suddenly filling
That aching void,
The calm and peace
Of truth restored.
Longing is not the same as love,
Longing is a bridge
That true love must cross
To meet at the centre,
Each leaving the safety
Of their own world
To risk that journey.
One does not lure another
Over to the opposite side.


A dream it would be
In which I share
Her golden skin,
Her raven hair,
Those darkest eyes
That gaze so deep within me,
Her smile, that warms my heart
With the power of a summer sun,
Such sparkling youth
Dances around her
Like a fountain at play.
Her name
Rings like a chime,
And brings to my mind's eye
Those priceless colours of nature,
Lapis Lazuli,
The sky most Blue,
Oceans of Aquamarine,
A Topaz hue.
Between the Pacific
And South China Sea,
Is where my soul
Since, longs to be,
My paradise,
My angel's home.
Ah, would that she
Belong to me.


A feral spirit gift has she,
Exuding femeneity,
Stealth and grace
In perfect place
Accompany her deity.

Felidae regina,
Queen of felinity.

Tho' radiant face
Yields clue nor trace,
Felicitous eyes
Deny her race
As native to humanity.

Alone may shaman's sight divine,
Belying emeraldine shine,
Prowling round an inner space
Where soul and body interlace,
Proud of her majestic line,

Felidae regina,
Queen of felinity.


Should you near the sea today,
And chance to feel the softest spray
Fall light upon your lips,
Its salty taste may well display
The like as on my fingertips,
For they have freshly caught a tear
From dropping to the floor,
That formed as I came fraught with fear
At thoughts of you, but you no more.


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.


Veiled by the fabric of conceptualisation
life assumes a metaphorical,
rather than an actual, substance,
becomes permanently disguised
as a simile of its real self.
Lost in a token world
we may spend our entire time
hopping the stepping stones
of generalisation,
hiding behind the pillars
in the temple of the status quo
In constant search of our reflection,
"Where is the glass
that will reveal my true face?"
The labyrinth lures us further and further
into its enmeshing snares,
the false beliefs and lies
that stain and dye us to the bone.
The answers will never be true
until we ask
"Who am I that asks the question?"
Then the journey may begin.


The complicity of woman
That rare softness,
A tacit promise
Of tactile paradise,
Intimate corners,
A warm sheath,
Home for a sword,
Skin deep,
Only a flesh wound.

Crawling on her belly now
Skin caked in dust,
The fabled vow of gallantry,
That mythic trust
The crucible of life
Violated by
The Anatomy of Lust.

Twisting down the
Long avenue
Of morality,
Squealing and
At ankle height,
Self-righteous bolts
Of judgement
Searing down
From every eye,
Branding that flesh,
Sealing those lips,
Scrambling her mind,
Ignoring her soul.

It is blind,
The eye of Justice
Who holds the balance,
A full measure of corruption
In her scales.


It's funny how
The time of now
Is never all the same,
With different light
By day and night,
Sometimes a different name,

With half awake
And half asleep,
Or somewhere in between,
And half that come
And half that go,
Or know not where they've been.

Upside down
And downside up,
Yet no one out of place,
For outside in
Or inside out
We're all one human race,

And all so clever
At taking forever
To finally put things straight,
So how is it funny
If now we never
Make time, until it's too late?

It's funny how
The time of now
Is never.
All the same.
With different light,
No day or night,
And no one to take the blame.


Disseminated knowledge sparks across etheric synapses,
our exo-brain encompassing the earth.
Fibres, cables, whirring monoliths with diodes winking,
signalling onwards
to the magic panes into which we gaze,
sometimes for days.
Lost in a cerebral out of body experience,
passing little packages,
streams of binary spermatozoa,
sowing the seeds for a stranger's needs.

Spider like we wait,
a motionless king
at the hub of our own web empire,
tense as a tightly coiled spring.

A revelation,
faster than the blink of an eye,
someone else has caught a fly.

It felt like one tiny heartbeat,
a nanosecond of insight,
In a flick of the tongue,
A shock of knowledge,
vaporised by its own heat.

Gone . . . gone . . .
Into the abyss . . .

Perplexing, puzzling frog,
have you a care?
Would a strange reversal,
perhaps a kiss,
transform you into a princess?
All from the comfort
of a swivel chair.


Because we need
So we think it,
At first a tiny, shiny seed,
A grabbed-at-fairground rhinestone trinket,
Fortune's new found lure we heed -
Soon to surely bleed,
then drink it.

Down soaks a glowing warmth,
Replenishing the roots
it nourishes.
Up shoots a growing dwarf
Obsession suits so well,
it flourishes.

We bend to it,
Tend to it,
Hell never puts an end to it,
We'll find it
Clogs our empty pockets,
Spins our whining cogs and sprockets,
Sparks old plugs in wiry sockets,
Lightening up our damp, dark world.

The serpent, freed by inattention
From our nestling loins, uncurled,
Entwines the spine and next conjoins
Its spiral ascension
With a final intention
To spike the heart,
To strike the mind.

Because we need,
We believe it.
The art of love
Is redefined.


The hand of grief
Tore out his heart
And cast it to the ground,
Not to steal it,
Like a thief,
But reveal the contents found.

Bittersweet, bitter and sweet,
To find his heart beat incomplete.

The earth stained red,
Blood turned to clay,
And naught worth keeping there did lay,
No fondest thought or word retained,
No precious lover's pearl remained
Beyond that moment, past that day.
Fast was seeping all away.

Bittersweet, bitter and sweet,
To find his heart beat incomplete.


I grapple daily
With the demons of darkness,
That slip into my heart
As it opens like a flower
To receive your radiance,
The brightest hope
I ever could conceive,
The crystal cavern,
My farthest place,
Where first I ventured
On seeing your face -
Now filled with it's brilliance.

Heavenly trust
Has forged my shield,
Divine honesty my sword,
My armour, truth that will not yield,
My faith revealed in candid word,
Yet still I curse that lesson told
"All that glitters is not gold"
As if to prime my soul for fear,
As if to warn that none so dear
Could ever be the one I hold.


The clamour of the day subsided,
I'm surrounded by my own space,
And time stretching out before me.
A crescent moon tonight
Rising in the western sky,
Needle sharp at each end,
Pricks my mind
Causing me again to think of her,
Devotion now lies to the east.
My heart in supplication,
Turns and remembers,
I offer a secret, whispered prayer.


Our rainbow skin
An envelope of fire,
Aurora Humanus,
Warmth from the electric earth
With sacred power
To comfort and heal,
Kiss with light,
A soft caress of gold,
The colours of touch
At an outer edge
Not defined,
Subtle beings
Contours mapped
by an iridescent fluidity,
Polarities spark and fuse
At the zenith,
The keystone of contact shared,
Atomic attraction
Of the adored,
Brushed with,
Flushed with,
Liquid sensation,
In silent exchange,
Love outpours.