Anima Mundi Poem by Mark Heathcote

In a sense, we're a part of every picture.
The foreboding presence of imminent death
only heighten how we feel about Him too,
with what sagacity we all sense Gods
school-bell rule, we'll all return soon
back to the land and the Lamb of God,
with an even bigger heart full of love.

In every sense, we're a part of the picture.
The foreboding presence of our death
only heighten how we feel about survival
how lives they're the living waters
that roam eternally like oceans-returning
we are all survivors of another time
to be rediscovered in another place.




Anima mundi


‘Soul of the universe

By

Mark Andrew Heathcote




















A day full of pointless-interruptions

Tongues clack, annunciate quietly
like revival prayer meetings between two lovers
one declaring I love you; I'm yours
I am a day full of pointless-interruptions
I hear the dawn chorus it breaks with me.
I hear the oceans riptides rise-and-fall
I hear a grizzly-bear clawing a cave wall.
I hear the hoots of a ravenous barn-owl.

But within me, an angelic-calm descends.
A hush silence whenever I near you.
There are interludes of a winding river deepening.
Then leaping-like a salmon down from a waterfall.
There are intervals the wind rages into being.
And then makes feeble serenades, it whimpers-
'take-my-hand', take me I'm yours.
Such interruptions are a daily-recourse
a voice in the wilderness, that's spoken to all.











School window

I go missing at school when I'm
-seated near any-kind of a window
eyes-glaze-over like a frost flower
that grows melts in the blink of an eye.

I spy, Fireweed swaying in the breeze
that summer-clock tells the end of
-summer and the beginning of autumn,
but I envision an eternal spring.

Where everything, mislaid is found again
found, flowering on-arrival perpetual
I, imagine ‘Fireweed spikes' swaying
that never gives up their flame.

When a teacher shouts, boy, turn around
-yes, I imagine ‘frost flowers' everlasting;
I, imagine a birdsong uninterrupted
Playgrounds—Arcadian ceaselessly green.

That's where I go missing when I'm
-seated near any-kind of a school window
oh, I can't wait for that school bell.
Lord, knows I've been here too many years.





The first whack of light

As a boy, I loved verdant virgin lands
the first whack of light peeking through the mist
glistening-like a golden cloak sun-kissed
and nature's volume going through its radio bands
I loved wands of droplets weighted just so
the silent dew cannot enumerate
-watching robin redbreast reverberate
his shrill bloated song to what do we owe

-this honour of your presence little friend,
why does the earthworm turn tail with the snail?
Does your red jersey; scold their eyes, offend.
As one kingdom ascends upon the vale
-another descends blindly as a mole, a bat
lucky is I in my bright habitat.

















It's so bewildering

Dawn in the wintertime is like a coffin-lid
lifted and, a feldspar of bones shimmering
ice-covered reaches out to touch your hands.
Ice-crystals bear their impressive teeth, mouth-crammed
it's so bewildering and embittering
-yet-enriching, splashing about snow, like a squid.

The world flickers into life; turned ghostly white
shrubs are buckling with a weight not, of their own.
Trees, like the horses of the apocalypse
-stand frozen, mid-gallop, and stars like steamships?
Glisten orange like a flower overblown,
petals near spilling like a meteorite.
















The falling snow

From my home beneath your window
by sight I love you
by divinity, I kiss you
by touch, I embrace you
by my devotion, I join you
by all that I am, I worship you
by heavenly bodies I perceive you
from my home beneath your window
in adoration, I melt away like the falling snow.




















Spring-cleaning

There are times our inadequacies get brushed aside
like those dust particles on the bedside cabinet
and I analyse their presence as a kind of catalyst
and I think how they amassed to cover the surface
and how inanimate I have also become.
How our anxieties persecute us, almost feel justified.

How adamant were their own, stay of execution
how easily they accumulated taking pride of place.
But yet with one sweep of my hand and a solution
-is simply found, nothing too extravagant
just a bit of spring-cleaning; some self-application
and I no longer have this feeling of being inadequate.
















Just imagine

Just imagine you didn't have long to live
what would you give to live that bit longer?
Just ponder, don't meander into overdrive
strive to answer like a cataloguer
what you've somehow had lost and forgot
like the key to your house - standing outside
taking a long look to find access and plot
away back in, don't look mystified.
Your life is just a short story, chapter and verse
there's nothing to rehearse, acceptance
-isn't a curse; roll over a new stone, nurse
your old wounds and fight. Be impetuous,
just imagine life-is-a-wave returned
-to life, and nothing's ever adjourned.




















‘Have you not seen it? '

In my heart, I have a flower.
It's scented. Have you not seen it?
Have you not yet—found that bower?
Not pricked one forefinger on it.

It lies beside a stream, winding
it's way backwards, to a garden,
said one-time, to be called Eden.
Love, I'm not just eulogising.

Find that bower, follow its scent
right to the flower's heart, still rent
-on loving you, it's a serpent
that's fanged but lovingly verdant.

Bitten you've emitted to a death
so, enigmatic the world pales
and like a honeybee beneath
sepals, amassing nectar bales.

You shall find the first flower, borne
somewhere withstood the gaze-of-love
you might think this flower-lowborn
-found, but there's nothing sweeter above.










Snowdrops

Can-it-be winter is leaving;
such loveliness is joyous
their greenery is-beauteous,
with a charm undeceiving.

Snowdrops are pushing up
last year's magnolia leaves
making little-brown tepee's
I can almost hear their blood.

I can almost hear a choir
of archangels singing
while briar woods are sleeping
their flowers is an appetiser.

But how their memory lingers,
how those green-and-white
bells so static, still excite
icy chilblain, fingers.













Encompasses a whole

Do our daydreams leave impressions?
Like fossils leave-footprints
why count our possessions?
With others be wolfish.

This-life child is only
a recital, only
a prelude rehearsal
to another, full circle.

This is-part-of-a test,
that encompasses a whole
never made manifest
to which we give our soul.


















A creaking blue door

I recall a lake, waters emerald
sunlight glinting, and in every corner
a school of fish, I'd sit like Tom Sawyer
I'd watch fir-trees swaying tall and pencilled.

I'd see fat carp in groups of seven or more
move with the ease of summer clouds that had
now become unaccustomed to downpours
and recall the old-fishing hut, table plaid.

It's lime green, boards and a creaking blue door
I recall kingfishers darting, side by side
how they would plunge and then suddenly soar
I was in [heaven] till insecticides

-from a crop, sprayer flew over, killing
off all the fish, which meant no revenue.
The fishing hut got hauled down, a clearing-
Made; trees-fell like some God had gone achoo!

A heartbreak evident in daylight
gloomily that's how I recall this place
squats lakeside like being graveside
a feeling all [heaven] had been, defaced.









Like a fish

Like a fish
like a fish Lord,
like a fish devour me
like a fish consume me
like a fish salt-dried soak me
like a fish smoke-hung, hangs me
like a fish in a frying pan, fry me, eat me
like a fish, I contain the minions of the Ocean Sea
like a fish, the mermen and the mermaids all know me
like a fish let me spawn in a riverbed
like a fish let me catch the waves
like a fish let-me-leap and play
like a fish let-me-swim upriver
like a fish let-me-spool away
like a fish let me drown
like a fish let-me-be
-fish food for thee
succour for, you
like a fish Lord,
like a fish
a fish













Spring pathways

I love seeing the common toad entering the road
just sat there resting like it's on some royal commode
I love seeing that red army of ants in their troops,
and those little white mayflies in their aerial-loops.

Forget being the first man in space or on the moon,
I'd rather have my lover lay on my breast entomb.
Forget being the first to leave footprints in the snow,
I love being the first to weave through a spring-meadow.

I love making clouds of pollen as I run-ahead
looking back, watching those tall grasses wands as I sped.
I love huge-brown sideways dragonflies flying-boundless
I love making flowerbeds switchblade in their prowess.




















Excavating trouble makers

Dusk and annoying woodpeckers take their rest
from ‘rat-a-tat-tat' holing-out tree a nest.
They'll drum from ‘January until June'
in pairs - some 200 times a day their beaks harpoon
in a splintered tree; excavating a chamber
till their nonstop, noise becomes faint…fainter.

High summer now the drilling falls to a low hush,
except for the road works—a ground-hopping thrush.
Peace will now mostly transcended on-the-wood
as everyone is going about their livelihood.
A woodpecker brood fills their large hungry-guts
while schoolchildren-practise their ‘desktop-woodcuts.'





















April sunlight on lake water

Dancing on their embarkations,
triangular-arrowheads enter the water
dispersing a blinding light, shimmering
-like a thousand fish mouths opening,
biting—then just as suddenly closing.

‘Each wave mirroring the next as if
-an oily mercury serpent was passing
with all its diamante alloy-scales flashing
against some current that held it fast,
Fast-enough that I, might, repeatedly gasp.'

‘Such things as these often go unseen,
as if it were a figment of a dream
the serpent becomes a rainbow,
the rainbow becomes a serpent
and no one recalls the dream.'
the beauty depth of all we've just, seen.

There is an open jarred cavity in us all
an eternal eye that sees entirely-everything,
it doesn't matter if for a second you blink
its lens has already been light-exposed
the film in the darkroom fully developed.










Semi-sweet

We're only sometimes; semi-sweet-hmm
I wish we could encounter that honeybee
-under the dappled, shade of His apple tree.
And meet only at the core - but alas again.

Autumn holds our goods in-store; so we preserve
to sing like blossom trees insatiable - wryly
last-out-these lengthy winters tentatively,
in springtime eat our royal jelly reserve.

Our nape feels cold fingers harsh words
their wintery blasts see windblown fruits fall
in the end, good-seasons return my call
we're dipping into flowers with hummingbirds.

We're sitting on mossy boughs holding hands
watching April clouds roll and dissipate
I kiss, her-cheeks, she blushes-red I expiate
I'll do things right at the core of her pangs.















Tentative fingers

When May woodland flowers are on their timbers
and horse chestnut trees have on tentative fingers
a shadow prevails within a sea of green
it wanders down to the village green
fringe with flowers like a tablecloth,
there links with your heels like a wetted-cloth
that's dragged-through the fields yellow moss
when you reach the churchyard and see a stone-cross
that shadow reminds you of a bell that will toll
candles that'll-be lit for the passing of your soul.






















The journey home

Aisle-on-aisle in them, church pews, going home
they hold their iPhone 7s like a prayer book
bent in devotion switched to some—Om!
Haloed busses, baited on a fishhook
each waiting for that vital uplink call
is it the voice of God or just subtext?
I feel I'm not connected, less enthral
I don't-like iPhones at all—I'm perplexed
I haven't God, at my fingertips—my ear
and this isn't my church or Sunday school.
As a rule, I read a book some seer
a clear-eyed poet, prophet so I'm, uncool
I'm, inclined to sit, alone, quite detached
a vestibule, where God and I are, patched.




















A guiding faun

I remember a willow tree half-eaten
by fire and lightning;
and later a blue tits nest a living scroll
within a cracked open blackened vest.

I remember a frozen landscape
a winding stream with yellow primroses
and a personal agony back then
-I imagined would-always-remain a torrent.

I remember thinking, how do I fit.
How do I survive-identical a blue tits egg?
Will I endure lives every misfortune;
equal half-eaten willow trees apportion.

I remember thinking this is no dream.
It holds nightmares of every persuasion
-of joy and misery of equal equation;
it evolves as do the season's opposite.

I remember thinking, how life goes on
how it flourishes with virtuosity,
how it fights back from adversity,
inhabits-remote places, a guiding faun.






Arctic snow

The news is a constant in all our lives
like microplastics found in arctic snow,
yesterday's news headline no one forgives
but we're all part responsible, and so
let's not adlib some sense of innocent's
act-like it's some, sort of manslaughter-charge.
‘We can beat that crap, ' we aren't villainous
that smoking-gun wasn't ours or this scourge
of waste; decomposing-body unclaimed
on the worlds, cold mortuary table
waiting to be identified - reclaimed
no, this-isn't-ours it's been mislabel
no lead I didn't fire that pistol?
Look this snow is pure and clear as crystal.


















Take skywards as wings-are-meant

Her eggs are round, white as snow
one, that's been thrown and is now,
quite-imbedded with black-stone
not-round as a honeycomb,
infamously, hard to see
she could be a sedge-land-bee
chasing insects, eat chaff seed,
nesting beneath-the-bindweed
yes, leave the flowers-be.
Male sings, before the moonlight
soaking up drowsy sunlight
till it whispers in wheatear.
it's now time to leave mid-air
find someplace fairer—avail
come-away ground-hugging, quail.
there's more my heart can-lament
take skywards as wings-are-meant.














Prayer bells

It's a topsy-turvy-world, but don't-be-fooled or confused.
Everything will be-unfurled and again suitably fused.

There will be prayer bells spun across the Himalayas
they shall pitch, fecund at some higher alertness:

You'll sense all living things have a tone of fulfilment
you'll pace in a labyrinth there find endless devilment.

That everything that's known still goes unrecognised
like reflective doubles, more in ways crystallised.





















The house-of-love

True love is a mirror
what you see
is what you get
and what you give
is what you'll receive.

Opposites mirror one another,
hate mirrors hate,
disappointment
disillusionment.
And-true-love, love,
love honest - love in earnest.

Earth and sky are one.
One can never be two,
two halves make one whole.
This journey centres us
like a fruit stone,
like a temple,
like the Taj Mahal.

The love we're-shown
is received
as our garden, as our home.
As our country, so gracious is
the house of love.




A little less commonplace

Angels need not infer they have wings
a heart or even an angelic soul,
should you not believe in their hymns?
Should you close your eyes tight, blindfold?

Wad cotton balls into your ears;
it would be hard to fathom anything more
other than Fire and Ice; pain that disappears
‘say, wouldn't it be a nice-allure

-if an angel melted the ice, extinguished
the fire and put a smile on your sour face, '
wouldn't that be a grace something kindred
like a friendship, a-little-less commonplace.















A meaning beyond lyrics and verses

Conceive poets can fragrance the world with words
What would you do that's different and new?
What lush curds and whey, would be-sent our way
What three-fold prayers would find their calling?
Hover with the spirit of hummingbirds
Justified amassing this nectar-accrue
It'd be proper to sing without cliché
Find silence in a chorus high-soaring
A meaning beyond lyrics and verses
That grows even as it deepens—kernels.






















Similar in so-many-ways

World conscience must make strides,
and prise open doors and open eyes
so our fragility can-be recognised.

But how is it we get so polarised
so self-destructive
look beyond the mirror,
see there's more to all of this than you.

Let continents and cultures-collide.
we're all citizens poorly advised;
similar in so-many-ways, no-disguise.

We bleed we die, and know-how to cry,
we are brothers and sisters,
and when it's all, told a-bag-of cinders.

Left-unclaimed waiting for repatriation
to another isolation chamber,
to be rediscovered like a gnat in amber.

DNA-sequencing of every atom,
sent down a collider
questions answered about the laws of attraction.










Poetry in motion

We're all poetry in motion in God's-hands
‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me.
The body of butterflies is damn ugly,
but with glowing wings, their beauty expands.

We're not two-or-three dimensional
we've got a fourth and fifth; do you get my gist
there is something very intentional
something special makes us exist.

And yet remains purposeful and unclear
every life radiant with its own, music
follows its drumbeat each balladeer
comes, composed of grace own acoustics.

If a rock crumbles to sand - composedly
turned to crystal glass, can't you apprehend?
We're all poetry in motion in God's hands
‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me.

With glowing wings, beauty wanton expands
flies in the face of many hopeless demands;
guess the music in me wasn't-really mine.
Like an orchestra, everything intertwines.









Trumpet-praises like a priest

Sorry, it has no more love,
feelings for the stars above
my hearts already crushed
got, trampled into powdery dust.

Yet-even-now remains a seed
a blossom that can't be creased
still climbs to heaven on-Bindweed;
there trumpet-praises like a priest.

Chaste-in-chastity vowing to love
ah, only one, Him above
heart as swollen as rose Prospero
true-unto it's self no-alter-ego.

There my heart and soul would flower
whole as a day of an equal hour
twinning round some arching bower
climbing-upwards, heavens, tower.

All my magic powers disowned,
all my evil spells somehow atoned.
All doubting thoughts newly answered
my whole essence beside Him enraptured.





Birds are nesting the world-over

Birds are nesting, the world-over
shoulder to shoulder.
Between the desert and the sea,
the sky and the land,
the mountains and the forest
as far as the eye can see.
Something-greater than us feathers
the spume-of that great-oceanic sea,
hatching these unborn stars;
above you and me.



















The heart is love-personified

What the eye doesn't see, the heart can feel?
From-the-heart also is the mind and body,
for the heart, the heart is love personified already.

What does eye-do-better than the heart?
Your eyes are only the tip of the dart.
first, you must feel each gouge bleed crimson
Then taste the blood the essence of a flower.

And know that for each flower
there is a root that you can trace
trace back to the dawn of that first throbbing hour.

















Who?

Who sees you and, who sees me?
And therefore sees everything
and doesn't compare unequally-anything;
equate with the same sad piano key delicious way.
Who walks, between all our shadows?
Fluid as light, indivisible from-the-whole
just as the darkness and shadow
amalgamates-all we can't see unabridged.

Who only who does-speaks
Speak with the wind and understands
the winds utterances incoherence
a butterfly's winding twist subtle bend.
Who hears a pin drop?
And every animated, strangers voice
like a dewdrop trembling to sing
falling into a whirlwind underpinned.
Who, who, who?











Cobwebs-Broken

Standing around like road-signs in the snow,
Most pointing upwards shouting stop, don't go
Others like traffic-cones kicked-over
Cobwebs-broken with names lichen ochre
Read—tread no further - hold on to your time
Let Sunday-bells chime in late-wintertime.
Let the migration of youth, turn south first
Let it be sun-bleached by some 30000 days immersed.
And then rise like a helium balloon
… Break from that shadow, from its ankles, hewn
Then stand tall amongst these headstones entombed.
Let crypts of snow, in your soul be-exhumed
Mingle on the ivy that's always green,
And congeal to a stop-sign evergreen.















Life on the wind

Life on the wind of a butterfly's wing
moves hither and thither, if only we
could catch it, in essence like a sphinx
placed in our palm and watch ourselves esprit
find peace and rest, lapping up the brightest stars
-discover a lifestyle, without remorse.
In stillness rest and find fulfilment blest
but life on these winds all hurly-burly
for each-and-every one, it is a test
to remain afloat always inexpertly
learning how to steer a steady course.
Hope one-day our-faith will be, reimburse.



















Summer worshipper

Let me give you this summer as a gift
it'll never come again with such hot bliss
let me feel your pulse racing against your wrist
it'll never feel the same we'll coexist
and in time life will flatline fall static
we'll live in shadows each a nesting doll
pushed further back from our real-selves, tragic
isn't it how lifeless-and-banal?
The future will be after this summer
-let's dovetail like well-made furniture.
Burn on a campfire, till stars grow, duller
brighter by design, leave a worshipper.
In me, a parched breath breathes as if for you
as if after today all is lost, subdue.















Beauty is all around

Beauty is all around us.
If we have the eyes to see it
the heart to reach out and touch it,
the soul to spend an eternity in its pleasure.
All you have to ask is, does it?
Does it rekindle your desire?
Extinguish or relight your fire.

If we can but just exceed-our own-measure
beauty is, is all around us.
Come-what-may let us serve it up today,
beauty is all around us.
If we-just had the eyes to see it
and the heart to reach out and touch it
or better still; share with a living part of it.














Autumn and winter

As for spring and summer
I can wake a hummingbird in you
make an eagle hovers-to-devour you
as for autumn and winter
in her final-grip their icy-moans.

I can call a vulture to pick your bones
make you, my robin redbreast.
Strip your feathers to line my soul's nest.
And as for all the rest; let eternity-
know that I've been devoutly blest.


















The prodigal son

Silence frustrates your prodigal sons
returning to a shut door a bosom,
left outside your chambered—bullion
their names worth remain still a misnomer?
Through a keyhole, they see chinks of light
yet-where, there's a protruding key
that light disintegrates out of sight
out of view, that's how it is with you.

Don't get me, wrong we look for an entrance
we want to lodge open our syncretic eyes
collapse any walls and inherit your skies.
In-the-near-future we'll have descendants
locked vaulted in tombs to be opened
but yet there you are, Father a keyhole
a chick of light never eroded
radiantly gold, waiting for us to behold.












Ripe-old apple-trees

I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees
and poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees,
carving out words into windblown dandelion seeds
circling trunks and boughs where a snake precedes
to hiss and talk in serpent tongues of ancient-times
I want to write a poem that reaches starry climbs,
lower-shadows in the grass than an adder
that gives-off a whiff-taste of a sour-thereafter.

Again, I want to write a poem about Adam and Eve,
how Adam rolled up his sleeves, but couldn't please Eve.

How Eve jealously guarded a secret;
how it tipped the world into self-revilement
such white-blossoms inked, flail into the sky,
like snake scales outgrown all-too-often-left awry.
I want to write a poem about ripe-old apple-trees
and poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees,
but sadly I haven't the time to-do-so child,
I'm becoming all-too-old and now sleep beguiled.









Ghost apples

Aren't we all hung, by an indivisible-thread?
Like ghost apples the remnants of a core?
Old age it has to be said.
Does a-difficult journey take and endure?

But what beauty could we too have left hanging
Has even-me hankered when I mature
Shall-I-also leave-as-much dangling
Kindness sweetened with a harvest store.




















Let me be as apple-blossom

White and cylindrical piped from black-caviar
let me be as apple-blossoms five-pointed star
let me perch sit upon the boughs of heavens blue
fall ripe and-heavy when my time is way past due
and rest in your lap for collection, life anew
then when all is said and done, I'll bid you adieu.























Lay still my beating heart

Beneath the white wet dew-lit foxgloves,
the lichens and apricot boughs
beneath the dusky grey church clock tower
and the ambient wet westward clouds,
lay still my beating heart.

As silence wrestles with silence taut
as topaz ladybirds march unduly
through the myriad ichor of lustrous web,
through a needle of time unravelling,
lay still my beating heart with His.


















Consider you are a tree?

When a tree is, grown
you have to decide
its purpose its size
and more besides.

Do you want dappled shade,
do you want flowers,
and want tremulous-movement
upwardly moving powers.

Or swaying in the breeze
considers you are a tree
what did you wish to be
a thorn or a tulip tree.

















The lovers fall

I am the leaves of a tree
I am Aspen whispering about you
because I've nothing better to do
I spread my gold dappled-leaves over you
and take root under you, and ask you
are you the sun, are you the sky?
Are you the ocean, are you the moon?
Because I've been searching for you
I've spread my leaves to the four winds
and, found my resting place beside you.



















Let me urn

Beneath the tree of God
I am not sinful or sinless
but if-doomed I am to die.
Can I borrow your lips?
Your heart and your smile
taste the fruit of good and evil
and know all there is to know
about ripe plums their stones.

Beneath this tree of God
if I am condemned-to-know
only this flesh, live in this flame
we call a body that dances
leaps headlong for another
let me burn at a steady rate
and in your arms my love,
slowly, ever slowly disintegrate.












Silently lulled

Falling leaves they're like parchment memories
they crisp stronger than ever was before.
Falling in your lap; change trajectories
hand clasping - the seed of the sycamore
and as it does in nature's store, the winds howl
the tree-bares-all. Naked autumn-fall
roots on-this-earth so deep, they groan and growl
never, wanting to lose an inch of, bedroll
but as all things collapse, so does - the mind
into its own-rich-black velvety mulch,
that resembles ourselves consigned
these amber pages, which drop-silently-lulled
we give up our evergreen fripperies
tongue and cheek our emerald mysteries.















Blowout its cheeks and rage

Where does the wind reside
does-it-circle the causeway rocks
does-it-reside in County Antrim
does-it-enter a cavern and there sleep,
like a snail within its spiral walls
did it charter a rainbow to a rainbows end?
Does it hush its breath and dream its death.
But then blowout-its-cheeks and rage,
rage at the moon rage at the sun
because it can't find rest, it can't find peace,
peace in the heart or soul of anyone.


















Anima mundi

In a sense, we're a part of every picture.
The foreboding presence of our deaths
only heightens how we feel about Him, too,
With what sagacity do we all sense gods?
School bell rule - we'll all return soon,
back to the land and the Lamb of God,
with an even bigger heart full of love.

In every sense, we're part of the picture.
The foreboding presence of our deaths
only heightens how we feel about survival.
How our lives are really like the waters
that roam eternally like oceans, returning
we are all survivors of another time.
To be rediscovered in another place.






I should like

Pray, tell your vision of the afterlife?
Be there a seed invested, still to grow?
Who will germinate it in the next afterlife?
I should, like to see it leave its embryo,
I should like to water it daily, between
dusk and dawn; watch its vines twist and climb,
I'd like to see a sapling tree, waving green
her boughs bent following the moon, downstream.
I should like your roots knitted deeply in me
a hopeless romantic sings-eternal joy,
yet-knows the limitations of their plea
I'd like to be there, when your eyes, reemploy
Open-up dew-wet flowers ever so coy,
a Helen that's beautiful as that of Troy.















Like a salmon

Nothing brings me as much pleasure
as gazing at your eyes countermeasure
like a salmon, I would leap to catch the stars
like a firefly, I would imitate hot fiery sparks.

As we kiss waxing like hot-orbs delirious
melting into each other's lips - it's mysterious
how it all unfolds, how one day it will die,
leave a gaping-black-hole nothing can transmogrify.

It's-hurtful sleeping alone in my bed
when I've been-warmed by your blood
yes it's wounding, cold cruel, being misled
when all you ever wanted was to be loved.















A poor man's archaeology

I recall excavating ash-dark earth
-and then that silly sudden happy mirth,
smooth brown 'stoneware' uncovered still interred.
Excitement, ever so slightly deferred.

Knee-deep; in Dog-Wood, diggings like a mole
hillocks-all-over the show—black as coal
and in my hands a piece of history,
forcing it out ever so gingerly,

And a question mark hovers is it entire?
Will it rest on my shelves a survivor?
in my kitchen with two dozen others
Edwardian, Victorian, brothers

dumps can yield much paraphernalia
digging finds no royal regalia.
But bottle-diggers find hand-blown treasure
even, small ointment ones, without measure

-are intrinsically a special tell-tale
as they've survived something more than airmail.
Or the dumping's in an old chamber pot
they sentimentally, just mean-a-lot.






The jarring of midnight dew

What permanent vanquished beauty
What tyrannical sea of change
Transmutes and transmogrifies
All that is indigenous to atoms
Rock, iron, wood, salt, root, flesh and bone
What increments are rooting for you?
In us in this archaic, masquerade
What sagacity, what foresight
Inch us forwards singular
Into an esoteric silhouette
What everlasting beauty
Imbibe through you so you too
Can be tantalised and bid for
The jarring of His midnight dew
Enchantments moth flame repository.

















Garden roadside paradise

A picture-perfect postcard-prairie
my garden was a slice of my personality
always trying to be, at its, very best.
But my lovely garden isn't love-blessed
sadly there's a cuckoo perched on my breast
who's decided I should be dispossessed
now bindweed does its best to be caressed
but I can always make another garden
all I need is some dirt with a bit of
sweetness; all I need is a spade, sharpen
I can't be too disheartened my love.
Every garden starts from a dustbowl
it just needs caring-for someone to cajole.
















Life is what?

Life is what? A ball of clay
punched and softened
spun around and moulded
kiln-baked every single day
till its final shape is, fashioned
or it cracks and explodes—
it's in your hands how it's finished
how it's used and glazed
every pot is made, with love
but not all vessels contain it.
Some flaws we can work upon
others are too ingrained.
All pots will be made-clay again
it's the way of every container
it's the way of every retainer
that everything put in, took out is, repaid.
















With a song delicate

Wish I was a happy chap
could stitch and close every gap

between a song delicate as scented air
wish I could betroth a flower so, rare
join in with the bee's buzzing mad
tasting their love for honey, forbad.

Love, let us build a humble nest
lives every moment of our lives blessed.





















God, will save-us-all

God will save us for sure
No need to worry, final
Child, do not live in denial
God will save us for sure.

God will save us for sure
He'll open a portal
Tell us we're no longer mortal
God will save us for sure.

God will save us for sure
I hear we're near his call
He delivers us from evil
God will save us for sure.

God will save us for sure
Just leave a light on
Just leave an open door
God will save us for sure.

God will save us for sure
Listen, I hear his arrival
Nothing to fear or be frightful of
God will save us for sure.

God will save us for sure
Even-handed one and all
The meek and mild and those who are wild,
God, will save-us-all.
How can I

How can I square the four corners of her heart of my world?
How can I cross deserts without water to wet my thirst my throat?
How can I defy gravity if I'm not catapulted or whirled?
How can I climb all those mountainous terrains without a rope?
How can I find paradise if I'm living in some underworld
How can I sail all these seas and oceans without a boat
How can I survive the infernos of these smoky settings blurred?
If I'm not selflessly devoted to every word spoken love-emotes
That says she loves me; she loves me only unreserved.

















Rainy days

What streets have seen more tears?
More grief than the cobbled streets of Manchester
my heart was once a flower meadow,
but now the prettiest littlest thing that grows
in-between the cracks are purple-blue Milkwort's
otherwise known as snakeroots; this is how
our paths cross and combine until-the-way is lost.

Jostling for space for sunlight
overshadowing others more shrivelled-out trampled-upon.
We appear from our cracks like fat wriggling earthworms,
sensing a virginal world is unfolding,
but then along, comes a blackbird
or a red robin and all our sunshine,
rainy days and tears are gone.



















Climb my way upstairs

I am not a board-game
I am no snakes-and-ladders
but inside me, I know
what truly matters?
I am not a banker
neither is I a vampire
but both are no better
then one or the other
I am not an atheist
neither is I a priest
but both will have no answer
when they leave in a hearse
I am not a politician
neither is I a diplomat
but both have sown immense sorrow
daily creating some shifty, avalanche.

I am not a thief
neither is I a charity
but one day, I'll wear a wreath
and die someplace quite happily
I'm simply a poet
I whisper sweet nothings to the wind
but don't quote me
because I can blissfully sing!
I am not a sharp dresser
neither is I a ladies man,
but I know I'll leave this dark seller
climb my way upstairs
I am not a board game
I am no snakes and ladders
but inside me, I know
what truly matters?
































Consequential sequences

… Working through consequential sequences
We learn to dance away-our-weaknesses.

Visible but in the periphery,
… Focus on a life full of victory.

Burnt to a cinder; rise above your ills,
Springtime - waking like nodding daffodils.

We're carried, through the singeing, flames of sin,
And moth-like to-a-flame we're drawn to Him.





















In prayer did I hear a hum

In prayer did I hear a hum
loud as any drum,
with what measured breath did weigh?
The probity-of-all our days
the incline of this steep decay:

Faiths emphatic leap
the deities of men the ungodliness of snakes
love in its mortal coils heap.
Motionlessly, kneeling, frequently asleep
only momentarily, awake.

Like a cricket at the gate
ready to jump blindly toward fate.
In prayer did I hear a hum
-loud as any, drum?
‘Come, approach, come…come? '















It is nightfall

It is nightfall
hymns to the silence soothe me.
Rain tinkles on terracotta tiles
an owl hoot by the railway line;
a milk float approaches quietly,
and a poem self-seeds itself;
adjusting like a flower to absorb more heat.
And yet I cannot sleep-
for fear, I might bend like a head of wheat
overripe - too heavy,
weighed down by own, unending conceit.
It is nightfall
and even a poet must one day sleep
meet his midnight
and let better hymns to the silence speak
and embroil on the lips
of those best left to mildew weep.












Double strong in you

Have you ever watched a hawk hover?
Follow the flow of the wind along with the heather
stood in silence gazing at the lapping water
or run through a meadow filled with laughter.

Have you ever watched the morning dew sparkle?
Have you ever swum with the barbel
or stood amidst a storm and felt colossal
even-stronger than a tidal wave costal.

Whatever makes a boy a man?
An acorn to grow in the palm of your hands
whatever makes a hawk hover?
Without-crashing into its motherland
whatever makes a meadow flower root
derived its strength double-strong in you.

Whatever makes the morning dew?
Wells up in tears of happiness in you,
whatever makes a barbel swim firm midstream?
Have a steadying grip on me and you too
That's why the storm can't sway your resolve.
And that's why I believe in you.






An orchid plucked by the hand-of-God

Palm-over-palm, above the treetop pines,
let us climb these mysterious vines.
Climb from their roots and touch the sky,
hang there like a fruit waving goodbye.

Join a designated star an atom, a spore
-that will happily fly not fall to the floor.
That's not yet entirely-self-constituted
that will divinely dine air-rooted.

Let us like sunflowers are torn from the sod,
rise-up, again fan-flamed newly forged.
that nothing can fake on-the-spot
an orchid plucked by the hand-of-God.

















The divinity of life in all things

The worlds as precious as a honeybee
and treasured as the clear sparkling dew
it's exquisite as a bride in her sari
the world's clearly, as dear to me as you.
The divinity of life in all things
is always fresh and unsoiled—virginal
has the purity of gold, crowning kings
the majesty of a queen worshipful
the worlds a pear balanced about to fall
a star trembling upon a midnight hour
we each part of the final segments whole
synchronicity blooms but one flower
delicate as woven silk unravels
like dead flowers to seed on their scaffolds.



















Joy-jumps heart-to-heart

heart-to-heart
like a grasshopper.
But all I need to do' is-but-hover
over zenith green-tips of dew.

All I need to do' is-but-dance
above His skies grey purlieu
to feel His rainbows lance
and not feel blue.

All I need to do' is-but-touch wings
with His mirror-ball awnings
His unworldly, light!
‘Then learn heaven is truly-bright.'

All I need to learn is-to-be still
like a grasshopper
He can but net at will.
Clasp in His palms prayer
our mortal souls free of sin forever.












Barbarity all around me

There is this barbarity around me
and although I close my tired leaden eyes
I can't close my heart make it a detainee
my soul, I can't make it naturalise.
There are times, bloodhounds baying at my door
stop, stop their howling go, play, hide and seek
and like a tortured ravenous carnivore
they go cold, hungry and morally weak.
In human clothes; I can be cruel
leave my cage and join that pack, bloodthirsty
eyes open, hard and frozen burning fuel
is this life just somehow perfunctory
I don't know where these feelings come from
but all their barbarity makes me numb.

















Love unperturbed

Regrets are best, left to smoulder
as ashes in the grate, undisturbed
yes, now they'll burn without closure
but that's how love grows, unperturbed.

Gentle puffs of air once rightly directed
can rekindle fires—thought long dead.
Please let your heart, not be neglected,
once a well-placed spark turns infrared.

If you've some dying flame in your heart
already a fire to spark and burn,
you'll touch some heat, residual not dark
unearthed, paint a starry, Nocturne.

But like wet oil, fresh on canvas
still to be stretched permanently, fixed.
You'll be glad you left ochre ashes-
of regret to burn fully-eclipsed.

As a measure of the sunrise
-shining, glowing right with you now
so later coldly you can summarise
embers fervour, dying with own two eyes.

A love unperturbed with no regrets
let it burn, simmer in its flames
a part of your old life vignettes
Escapades turned blue in old-campaigns.




In your garden

I find myself, in your garden
a gorging fat caterpillar
Lord with leniency and pardon
Lord allows me to climb a pillar.

Step forth on a blue pergola
and, examine-all-of heaven
from a flower buds corolla,
yes with a little discretion.

I might find my fantasy wings
and go loop-de-loop in the skies.
Catch me, some permanent-fixings
I-can truly re-energise.















Did it prevent your sun-kissed dreams?

Father that sundial, is it death
is it Father - the hand of death?
Is it the sword that cuts short a bird's flight?

‘Child, we're all adjacent, the window of life.'

‘It's a window of infinite-endless light.'

O' Father is it a guillotine
do it covert our breath.
O' Father how much time,
time-does-we have left?

‘Child, we're all adjacent, the window of life
until the bird in your soul takes flight.'

‘Child, a question …answer your father this.
Did it prevent your sun-kissed dreams? Last night.'














Confession

Eve's lover comes to warm her with hot apple tea,
he brings the peppermint the acidity of lemon
she brings the honey, the vitamin C,
he needs, he hands her over a piece of ripe heaven
at the core, all she wants is to bite this phial of venom.
And hear his deepest, darkest, confession
forget all about fig leaves and noble, discretion.
























Without you

Energise my heart of a winning glance
if I were fain to look away, but glow
with every fibre of my being, I owe.
I would gaze at you with no more askance
then a flower does a gentle shadow
while wilting of thirst like a Pasque flower
for the morning dew to enrich its power,
‘you're starlight here' nothing can foreshadow.
Nothing native or common, about you
you're more graceful than the prairie crocus
eyes on you, I hold the world in one breath
eyes closed and the universe is in focus
all's fixed, in rightful place, life and death
they mean, totally nothing, without you.

















Colossal choices

Open my heart, open my eyes
prise-me-open like a mussel
I have grit, I've got, fire, passion
little else belies inside my shell
but my heart and soul they're colossal.

‘I cannot undersell such a pearl? '

Not when countless others are misshapen
so give me all you've got, prince or frog.
Or else the deal is off null and void
and I'll head back to my grotto-gutted
miserably empty and totally, annoyed.

















Mother-nature

Mother-nature what is the essence of spring
-does father berate you turning back his sheets?
Does he wait in the wings with chilly deceits
Mother-nature you're waking up everything.

The dawn is rousing with birdsong and crickets
hens are cluck, cluck, clucking once again
the farm dog is barking-mad in the thickets
And coppiced-boughs emerald in the woodland-fen.

Mother-nature what is all this foliage about
my ankle they're reddened by stinging nettles
and the mountain, rivers are leaping with brown trout
Mother-nature, there's cherry, blossom petals:

Everywhere I walk; you're a good ten, steps ahead
the grounds covered in slugs and snails it looks
like they're carrying picnic baskets on their head
Mother-nature—father is reading hymn books.

He wants to blanket the world in ice and snow,
put a bookmark in this passage and embrace you.
But you're as skittish as a new-born lamb, so-
I ask for Sis Summer, ‘what's your overview.'









Has the moon found her rose?

Has the moon found her rose?
In the mirror of your face
when she soothed in repose
did you steal her grace?

Quill in hand, did she quiver
then strike out the stars
short-fuse Gods voltage emitter
baneful of how beautiful you are.

Has the moon found her rose?
One equal of her rhythmic music
her nocturne throes
Poetic refinement is therapeutic.

But so is the hand we trace
to the stars in their orbit
that weaves and embraces
the world with us transported.















The rose and the bumblebee

Love must have its tempest
said the bee to the rose
love must have its passions-harnessed
before its midnights, close.

Yes, love must have its passion
said the rose to the bee
love must unburden of a fashion
if, it's ever to be free.

But isn't that loves, betrayal
said the bee to the rose
peering beneath; her petal veils
before whisking on his toes.

Your-love truly a tempest
said the rose to the bee
but I'm the queen most - royalist
Sir—on this we'll both agree.

Love must have its tempest
and this is plain to see
why passion's flame did bless
the rose and the bee.









Ashes

You've reduced my heart to ashes
but still, I would ask you to blow,
blow, deeply into these remains static
see me glow, tremble into living flame.
Know my fire for you cannot die
its tempest has no inner peace or calm.

A hurricane that alternates between
heaven and earth, longing, longing
to be in just one happy dwelling
but like an ocean tide, there's no such place.
So of course, if my fire, fire were to burn
begin to vent throughout my core—its

Because I love you with my every, pore
I'm near extinguished, but that only
makes me yearn a million times more
to feel our fanned flame fire restored.
You've reduced my heart to ashes
but I've-still-this-love, this unused-passion.












Let me burn

Beneath the tree of God
I am not sinful or sinless
but if-doomed I am to die.
Can I borrow your lips?
Your heart and your smile
taste the fruit of good and evil
and know all there is to know
about ripe plums their stones.

Beneath this tree of God
if I am condemned-to-know
only this flesh, live in this flame
we call a body that dances
leaps headlong for another
let me burn at a steady rate
and in your arms my love,
slowly, ever slowly disintegrate.

















When we're gone and no longer

To be there when we're gone and no longer
that freshly taken photo, with our children
in some movie at a wedding as a spectator
part of the scenery, not yet an anachronism
a footnote in time isn't that our aspiration
remembered as a star in their constellation.

Orbiting their hearts, their starry heavens
still shedding some contributory light
that guides them on their path, a presence
that gives them the courage to face the night
to be there when we're gone and no longer
so they might not in their footsteps falter.


















The whisper of the muse

With his violin bow in hand, the man plays
-then stops, listens to his whispering muse.
Where-others-were entranced, he breaks and weighs.
His face solemn in thought; much less enthuse-
resembling a wilting flower head drooped
for the world-looks a man who has been, duped.

He's old, and he has passed this way before,
he knows off by heart, the music his soul-
has sealed inside, and like green Hellebore
in the wintertime, his head will rise and roll
and the blood of Christ, a clap of thunder
makes all bolt up straight in awe, and wonder.





















On the wings-of-love

Mayfly if ever an angel be
It was you and me
Pirouetting in the air so free
Above a cobweb lea

If ever a child had azure blue wings
As blue as a periwinkle sky
Then sweet-tenderfoot swimming
It must have been you and, I

Down amongst the meadows
Where the green woods-wend
Down amongst the willows
Where the reeds draught an end;

There I came a dancing
Roving like a bee
With honeydew brown eyes
By a river; like the river Spree.

Soft as ephemeral moonlight
You took wing with me
Oh mayfly green and tender bright
True, angels; once were we.










Fine-silk-spun with gold

Folded moth wings placed together in prayer
open to discover the moon and starlit air
in madness flap circle my heart
and like a curtain, take little bites at my soul.

But what can they discover - there!
My heart isn't threaded spun with gold.
And my soul isn't made of fine-silk
I'm just as the moon lost in this black ink.

With folded hands at night, I am, locked in sleep.
I dream and pray to fly away
indeed there-are no limits to the madness I seek.
‘I even have the freedom to fly.'

In madness flap circle the light in a distant sky.
My prayers are never more of spoken
as I draw back a curtain, which reveals a fine-silk
-spun with gold in madness, desires even my soul.












Just Imagine

Just imagine you didn't have long to live
what would you give to live that bit longer?
Just ponder, don't meander into overdrive
strive to answer like a cataloguer
what you've somehow have lost and forgot
like the key to your house - standing outside
take a long look to find, access and plot
Away back in, don't look mystified.
Your life's just a short story, chapter and verse
there's nothing to rehearse, acceptance
isn't a curse; roll over a new stone, nurse-
your old wounds and fight - be impetuous
just imagine life is a wave returned-
to life and nothing's ever adjourned.


















Honeypot of gold

Oh, lucky, lucky me
I climbed a maple tree
and, found a sacred bee
making honey; just for me.

Omnipotent and gold breaking free ofthe shadow
Supreme Being you are an eternal summer star
you light the way that I and others must follow
that I and that lonelier moon with her guitar

will shadow, Supreme Being with a golden-sitar
you light the way, and all is, bathed in ash and fire
ah, oceans, rise, rise, rise, rise and-I am-baptised

Supreme Being your warmth is a deep, deep magnifier
you light the way so that others feel energised
just by your touch, more, and more humanised.

Oh, lucky, lucky me
I climbed a maple tree
and, found a sacred bee
making honey; just for me.












Restrain me

Restrain me because I want to bathe in your sun
I want a southern moon to shiver on you
from the naked shadows, I cast over you
restrain me I'm like an applecart toppled over
soon, I will be showing you the core of my heart
how I've longed to touch you in the dark
and trace the horizon that lights up in your eyes
restrain me because I want to bathe in your sun
I want only for you, I hunger-for-you
there is no other star shines brighter than you.
























When winter does wrestle death

When winter does wrestle death
snow lies falling with petals bereft
her mantles a meadow, white lily
uprooting stars, in heavens pity.
Fine, veils of silk they're spun to order
wheeling moths—circle and flutter
then Ferris wheel across the border.
Our souls are curdled, in God's butter
when winter does wrestle death
no heart will beat in shadows bereft
the feeble will draw a second breath
when winsome-winter wrestles death
the old cudgelled wings, given new
-give wave their goodbyes, at us adieu.




















Braid your hair with His

God - has many names,
but ‘Love' is the one that counts
most aptly ‘Love' … ‘Love'

‘Just Love' only, one word
one name like ‘God' isn't it?

God - has so many names
each acts as a veil
but ‘Love' is, ‘Love' only.
So braid your hair with His
embrace, lock fingers with His.

His is a tree twining roots
His is the first branch you perch on
His is trees-bough at your centre
your hearts bead is a locket of amber
'the trees name is Love.
















While here

While here run through tall meadows
while here smell the scent of flowers
while here feel the beat of a bird's wing
while here touch the tingling snows.

While gazing up at the moon
while here sit in the arms of a tree
while here count at midnight the stars
and thank yours, mine are still ours.

























Have we lingered in their attic floors?

On hearts of angels, have we trod?
Heavier-sorrows than the weight-of-sod
have we lingered in their attic floors?
To glimpse, hear, behind their doors.

The sound of the vesper-bells upon their toes
have we glued our hearts decomposed?
Sifted through shadows only He knows
still yet find ourselves, juxtapose.

Any learning uniform wind commands.
Oh, such a bounty is in-store pre-tax
if we can exert a torque force of love
might we discover the wings of a dove?




















A hornet on the wing

God, he would catch a hornet on the wing,
relish infinite beauty, not its sting.
Your-beauty is such; I cannot-truly-say,
words have no meaning this or any other day.

‘Should I love you, well that's not a question
He would entertain at any junction.'
your petals are like-a-rose not-quite formed,
but neither are you, to-be-outperformed.
























Attic room

Through a narrow doorway turning left
I was, dumped placed in the attic room
the linen white was crisp pressed
And a crucified Christ hung bereft
silver dappled draped a shining moon
how-clear I still remember the sorrow
of that little attic room, within me
it's darkness like a shining barrow
gloom, waiting to be lifted, freed esprit.

























Exotic flowers unfurl

Let only one be your centrepiece
and the others,
let them brocade your world
swim in your dreams
like sirens to remind you,
that a wayward sailor often drowns
the torso on fire doused
I have picked one jewel
one gem, I was meant to receive
and it was purely instinctual
not anything to misconceive
I plucked her wings, there and then
held her steadfast against my skin
after tonight the world
shall never be the same again.



















Crystals of light

Purge the light
find to your delight
that darkness
isn't such, a fright?

See the crocus
purple enveloped
even white striped
does she change your focus?

Look there are stars
in the dead of night
look there in a cave
there are crystals of light.

Smooth as onyx stone
I want to touch with my mind
surmise that even if I go bind
I can still steer my way home.















The bells echo

When time is stilled and stoppered in your heart
an echo heard that might not mean that much
shall a song to remember be impart
it'll ring in your heart of silence a touch
so tremulous you will shake from within
believing something unforeseen,
has taken shape and form within your skin,
and a host of angels shall intervene
they will sing in chorus some unknown hymn
likes of which you'll never hear again
what they've written has no pseudonym
no nameless-place to hide or condemn.
A bell once struck rings pure its purpose true
it carries the essence we'll imbue.




















When it shines

When the sun shines-
it shines through you
I am molten-rock, rock in love
what more can I do?
I am, moved, and I am
quenched in your sea
I am a frozen lamb,
what more would you have me be?
Let us feel a tendril vine
as it grows, as it trembles
as it climbs, as it flowers
as its seeds, get dispersed
let us sense and remember
our petals gave rise to sunsets
gave rise to births and deaths
and when it shines
it does so for you.

















We're-as-a candle's flame

Your soul is a key jammed in a lock
you cannot force forwards or back
right or left; all you can do now is wait.

Wait long enough you'll come to see,
understand there isn't a door or lock.
The ocean of life retains not the vessel.

That floats and drifts, endless upon it.
That's a vapour you cannot-contain,
the sun is an all-consuming fire it-exists

In humble beginnings as also an end.
It lives without life, therefore, coexists yet
because it only requires waxed-wicks to burn.

We're a candle's flame; we're not the candle
we burn to our extinguished ends
to be ignited by this life - once again.















Bolshoi dancers

I believe the world is changing its core beliefs
it's moving from iron changing into a zinc alloy.
It's now, moving from zinc alloys to a mercury core
and what's more, the temperature is rising,
the-temperature is rapidly-rising for sure
and what's more, potentially there is no guarantor.

No promise the Bolshoi dancers shall dance anymore
no, promise that the world will be here at all
to ballet-dance on its axis
to figure skate like a dying black swan
once, we're all dead and gone.
Once, were drowned in the bottom of this mercury pond.
















A moment of truth

Every day is a kind of ‘what if' kind of day.
But 'what if' today was a different kind
of 'what if' kind of day ‘what if' this day,
happened to be you're final ‘what if? '
Kind of day, would you do anything differently.

Forget those commitments
and there long dead ideology,
what would you do - differently?
Be selfish - come now be serious
would you leave the sick and lame?
Would you toast that dying minute?
For a seconds worth of selfish, fame.

Or would you earnestly,
just carry on all the same.














Stick or bust

I married my heart to you.
I pinned it to the wall
you can crush it like a flower.
Cause the way I'm feeling
it now doesn't, really matter
it was freely, given
and yours equally
you didn't have-to-barter
I gave you, it willingly at cost
hoping you would make
-the most of it, and you did.
Now it's stick-or-bust
or do you twist,
and have I lost?

















The journal-of-the dead

The Journal-of-the dead, what would it read
today we eat dust and, walked on Duckweed
tonight we all partied and waltzed through walls
disturbing the living; with white overalls.

Tomorrow truly who knows what that'll bring?
Floorboards' squeaking a baby is mewling;
the graveyard was-crowded so I went for a walk
and, then flew alongside a sparrow-hawk.

It soared up over an ancient coppice
chopped once a decade to warm a goddess,
her flesh without fire, cold as a river.
That flows down the mountain through a fissure.

The Journal-of-the dead, what would it read
today Jesus blessed me with good old mead
I joined the flock pursued by a collie
ambling like a lamb lost in the valley.

Closing this book, I now too must here go,
say amen and rest, like fresh winter snow
putting down, pen. My own Journal is-done
the last page is-written, goodbye everyone.









Obituary of a dead poet

One day, he'll have a name-tag around his big-toe
like he belong-someplace and didn't have far to go,
the slate will be wiped clean all will be, reimburse
his Caucasian-toe, free of lesions blisters that burst.
All that will-be-left shall be pages and pages of verse
a body - that can't afford a burial or the price-of-a-hearse.
And few-other-than a priest will mourn or even attend;
as he can count his friends, on one-hand, let's not pretend.
The obituaries - let the record show
that custom tears did somehow flow,
and angels banked both sides his coffin, row on row,
and God was in attendance as his guide when he died.
That God removed the name-tag
that God, in His heavenly ascendance was by his side
God was in attendance and somehow even-he-cried.
The day they tagged his big-toe
like he belong-someplace and didn't have far to go.