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


I will admit
A craving to travel,
While I suck and spit,
the gravel,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

Till no stone
is left unturned,

There's no real chance
For a searching soul
To escape
from the trance
Of a goldfish bowl,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

Glasshouse lessons 
still unlearned,

It's a dream of mine
To swim a straight line,
An ocean, 
a river
Or even a stream,

Dream on - Bob,
Dream on . . .

To be out of reach,

should the cat bore of cream . . .


Eyelids may shut, 
To enclose us within our dreams,
Breathing suspended, 
Ghosts may sleep on, 
By the long reaching arm of fragrance,
But there is one gateway remains, 
Completely unguarded, 
An open well shaft 
Falling straight to the soul.
The voice, the ear.
The pegasus of sound, 
Softly feathered and floating, 
Descends unimpeded 
To those depths of incandescent brilliance.
And riding bareback, 
A host of invisible messengers, 
Silently informing secrets.
The gentle currents of their language 
Adding a subtle,
Yet vibrant symphony. 
I hear not a sweet melody alone,
But accompanied 
By a choir of angels.


Had I but one
Mortal heart,
It now lays split in two,
Pierced by a purity,
A sweet, silken duet,
Of tender lips
And bejewelled soul.
In the mist rising
From the ocean of my dreams,
There she sits,
Upon a dark rock,
Favouring her jet black hair
With an idle combing,
Eyes cast down
At a reflection
Too charmed,
That all who hear
This siren song -
And dare to glimpse
The ivory breast,
The raven cascade,
The cherry-ripe lips,
That distant sunshine bring,
The shimmering
Of a rainbow tail,
As lazily
It stirs the sea -
Will take that final memory,
And two pieces of heart,
To the deep, dark,
Bottomless blue,
The comforting canyon
Of death.