Saturday, March 21, 2015


Her voice whimpered,
crossing oceans of mind,
sailing on distant seas;
we listened intently.

Her soul was calling,
reeling through aeons,
tracking dark skies;
we waited in silence.

Her self was keening,
grieving through years,
collating all memory;
we watched in sorrow.

Her spirit was aching,
suffering through time,
crucified on each cross;
we hurt in sympathy.

Her life was soaking,
sucked out of flesh,
desiccated  and frail;
we wept by her side.

Her days diminished,
swallowed up slow,
the end inevitable;
we embraced madness.


Thursday, March 19, 2015


Annoyed the voice of reason,
hushed the words of soul,
pain the heart engenders
when love does dissolve.

Angry is the wounded ego,
calm the mind of grace,
suffering is the waiting Self;
when there is no place.

Assaulted are the senses,
quiet the inner dreams,
distressed all hidden hopes;
acceptance now bequeathed.


Thursday, March 12, 2015


Disappearing depths of understanding,
hidden pools of grief and misery,
windows to the heart and inner soul;
eyes reveal whatever we may be.

Portals to the place of deep compassion,
doors which open in to endless realms,
caverns where the self has taken refuge;
so they keep the secrets of ourselves.


Giddy was the moment,
when you walked in the door,
lewd the thoughts containing;
needless was it all.

Hope did hold a minute,
dreams began to rise,
saw your wedding finger;
all for quick demise.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015


When grief moved in some years ago,
I observed it, watching me, for quite
some time, and only saw it disappear
in sleep, when mind surrendered to

oblivion, or, at least, to a world where
pain did not seem so ever-present, but
as the years passed, it began to seem
that I had changed, as if grieving had

stripped my shape and flayed the skin
of Self, to make a second me, not
quite who I was, more of a copy
which looked the same, and yet was

not, but doppelganger, something
made in my image, that stood by
my side; shadowy twin living
its own life, sometimes merging

into my being, but still remaining
separate, although I could feel it as
both stranger and as friend, for it
was never all I knew myself to be,

and it seemed out of place and yet so
eerily familiar, as if it was some lost
entity, trying to find a place to rest,
where it could not then, be disturbed.


They waited, those words,
hesitant, in the shadows
of life and mind, holding
back, timid, fearful of

what they might find if
they allowed themselves
voice, if they revealed
the truth inherent in

their being;wrapped in
tidy packets of meaning,
tied with threads of my
pain, twisted into small

bows of hope, and quiet
desperation; languishing
silence born of deep and
brutal terror, that if they

were released, tossed
like broken birds into
the air, they would in
an instant fall to their

deaths, and my love
would then lie forever,
gasping in feathered,
tangled destruction.

Saturday, March 7, 2015



Fear does roam in circle,
granite hard in veins,
calls the ghost of reason,
names the nightmares

reared, on the weight
of sorrows, howl of
deepest grief, packs
the flesh of madness

wrapped in sore relief.
Holding to the table,
empty dreams of hope,
reason drinks in silence,

draughts of time remote.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Oceanic heavens

Through oceanic distances,
where clouds shrugged
hollow sails, to drift on
wave-soaked winds, as

sky birthed currents brave;
so did the heavens open,
touch sandy edge of time,
wash swirling froth eternal,

carve coasts from cosmic
stage; and in the doing,
open, the way  to reach the
stars, as sun in glittered

surfing, rode cosmic seas
portrayed in ancient, mystic
searching, where angels
danced and played, and

where the senses revelled,
in dreams and fantasies,
of worlds beyond our reach,
of skies which help us dream.

Surprising conceit

Can love save us?

Can love save us,
salve upon the soul,
that light, soothing
touch, which brings
comfort and hope?

Thursday, March 5, 2015


Minutes struggle into hours,
born in tears and loss,
tracking memory and pain,
dragging into days and

months, shuffled together
as years where time weeps,
and hope shoulders heavy
burdens, wrapped tightly

in cloth of disappointment,
tied with knots of silken
possibility, slippery, and
barely holding it all in

place; parcelled on that
plate of becoming, with
edges chipped, stained
and soiled; residue of

sorrow, which can never
be scrubbed clean, cast
eternal, written in stone
of being, as Fate mocks.


Calculating cleverly deep
psyche does display, a path
full sourced in scheming,
requiring that we play.

And whether it is messy,
or neat and tidy too,
we will be pulled along,
for that is what we do.

As envious do  mock us,
the wise will hide their face,
but destiny will take us,
toward that hidden grace.

Wednesday, March 4, 2015


That voice so faint and distant,
whispering through words,
which roil and roll in mind;
Where are you meant to be?

How can there be an answer,
when nothing is defined,
nor made clear by life as to
where one is meant to be?

Is there indeed a meant, or,
is there just a succession
of moments strung along
the wire of this existence?

Where sits sullen, while in
shadowed wait is Who, and
curled asleep in the corner is
What, and they do not speak.


Evil is live spelled backwards,
that place where circumstance
is not productive, nor sourced
in a place of positive creation,

but trapped, in that which is
not conducive to optimal and
healthy growth, of soul, self,
life and being, whether  it is

for the individual, the nation,
or the world itself, and so we
must remember that the worst
is no more than the best, which

is not realised, and shadows
can be dismissed when the
light of love and reason is
turned toward the darkness.


The dead have silent teeth and empty throats,
they have no voice with which to speak, to cry
of all the horrors they have seen and been and
known; to call for justice, freedom from the

power of those who kill to claim what is not
theirs, the land of others, who suffocate children
in waves of dust and shredded metal moments,
where blood and tears and destiny are driven

deep into the waiting earth; dressing broken
fragments of their lives, their souls, their
hearts, that costuming of evil which war does
primp and posture into place, for those who

are the victims, for those who cannot speak,
and for whom the only hope can be for others,
that their throats are not empty, their teeth
are not silent, their words are not crushed

beneath the boot of evil and injustice and
military might, and that in the darkened
quietness of this awful, suppurating wound,
their only hope is that the voices of the living

will be speaking out for those who lie strewn,
fleshed like scattered crops, in that harvest
which bleeds and grieves and slowly seeds
the fields of future justice in aching Palestine.