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


Bright the myriad of stars,
Yet only one
A giver of life,
Our shining sun,
A portal of light,
What we may become,
Beautifully drawn
Across the sky,
Our inner horizon,
Its glorious warmth,
Luring our hearts
From darkness,
And curing our scorn,
For the night.


When the ticking of the clock,
The gentle hum of the fridge,
The intermittent meow of the cat
Are framed by a silence,
When the glare of the reading lamp,
The colour of the desk,
The story in black on white,
Float like a fragile raft
On a sea of invisibility,
When the beating of my heart,
The tide of my breath,
The distance between laughter
And sorrow,
Appear before
A strange jury of knowing,
A vast peace descends,
A great love expands,
Time stands still,
And mystery reigns supreme.


These lips mayn't spell,
Nor this tongue tell,
The full magic of that night,
Of ancient power,
Of Torr, and tower,
Stately stone on stone,
Drained of colour,
Ghostly grey,
In harvest moonlight,
Called by heavenly voices,
Whose secret bidding,
To awaken Mother Earth,
With sacred song,
Those long slumbered spirits,
Summoned by an olden lore,
Sleep no more,
Sleep no more,
Nor could my heart,
As golden harp caressed the air,
Do less than weep and sing,
Filled with distant stirring,
Within what seemed
A holy dream,
Yet we were there,
So blessed to share,


The long dark of silken night Kept safe my dream of liberty, Within the soul that tints my wings, And sipping grace, flies free.


The dusky melancholy returns,
The brisk, smokey air,
Crisp to the sound,
Of falling leaves,
As we enclose ourselves,
Once more,
Within the comfort of hearth
And home,
Our harvest of dreams,
Their vapour
No longer met by playful sun,
Condense back into the heart,
Hiding again until,
Next year.


We are the curling, ecstatic tip,
The effervescent foam,
Shimmering and sparkling,
Rolling home to a distant shore,
Yet I hear barely a whisper,
What marks this passing?
Lost, to the curious way
The voice of power we tell,
By a final crash,
A dying roar,
Not in the silent,
Breathing swell.


As my vision blinds me,
Obscuring all that I may see,
Thus my knowledge finds me,
Of all I might be.


What magic in a kiss.
The meeting of silence,
A sharing of breath,
Tongue stilled,
Dumbed by an exquisite mystery,
Lips that speak,
Softer than a whisper.


Just a whisper of welcome
Sweeps the cobwebs aside
From the heart,
All may touch me now,
My silence quickened
By every quivering message,
Each shimmering moment,
No longer a wish to hide,
But feel how grand,
To steal eternity,
Strand by strand.


Can we know 
The beat of light,
Within our breath,
Our day and night,
Seasoned circles
Around a sun,
All as One.


Calling coherently,
Amidst the clamour,
The traffic,
Scavenging gulls,
The helterskelter scattering,
Of minds,
Intent on tomorrow,
In beats of silence,
Little corridors of calm,
The Sunday bell,
Lone, yet firm,
Points to aspiration,
Heeded by few.


All this,
Brushing against my skin,
The web of Electra,
Issuing from my eternal dynamo,
All this,
I do not know,
But sense as sparks,
Flying in my own darkness,
My soul a canvas for this brushing,
A life support,
Whose blushing flesh,
I dare not,
Cannot know,
Enduring surprise,
For my desire is growing,
In countless ways,
And boundless days,
Yet I am hidden
From mine eyes,
Resting in my knowing.


Fancy not thine own addictions
As dear to me,
Nor that gently whispered almanac,
As clear,
For in that majestic place
Where difference is forged,
I am sovereign and whole,
And if that place were not to be,
Then I am thee, and thou art me.


Reason ploughs her endless furrow,
Dormant seeds already sown,
That a gentle sun may warm the heart
Of sleeping truths, already known.


All power is mine,
How then,
Find you cause
For idolatry,
And in my thinking,
Become blind?
All power is mine,
Then I am you,
And thinking
With my mind.


History is at once anchor and lighthouse,
Stable comfort and manacle,
Enlivened by the wand of present thought,
As black or white magic for humankind.


The snow-white moon then slips and hides
Her face inside a black, lace shroud,
In sombre mood, to vex the tides,
Decides that magic be allowed,
A secret hex will spell the curse
To set an ocean in reverse,
Tugging wave-top silvered spray,
Demanding currents change their way.
When spent, her temper soon subsides,
Content, she glides from out the cloud.


With deadly self protection,
Your right as regime,
Myths of justice,
False totems carved from stone,
Squeezed from blood,
Deny and petrify,
Poison with sanctimony
Those who march to unfamiliar drum,
Consigned yet again
To museum-piece history,
Mausoleums built from stone,
Squeezed from blood,
Bend now,
For the sake of all,
Be soft, be warm,
Blood may yield to mystery.
And pride descend at last,
That those towering walls
And cowering halls,
May befit their sanguine tone.


Time glides along steadily, with a comforting security - like a snail.
Curious then - that we remember only footprints.


First watch,
A birthday gift,
The hour,
The minute,
Pointed out
By the plump,
Gloved hands
Of Mickey Mouse,
A smiling, red manacle
Slipped around my wrist,
Held up close,
To hear,
A fascinating heart,
Deep inside,
My regular childhood,
By Disney.


The nature of a wheel - to turn,
And only in turning its purpose reveal,
All who precede are followed,
And all who follow, lead.
No point to discern upon its rim
Other than our fancy find,
And then we must observe the same,
But opposite in kind,
All connected,
As heaven descends to earth
The eyes of earth are lifted up,
All in motion,
Dancing round an invisible centre of stillness,
Nothing greater than balance will allow.


Winged messenger,
Illuminating reason,
Whose passion is
To fashion her,
As sight,
And season.