What in Heaven is nature doing now?
Her summer leaves are turning autumn brown
Some say it must be salted wind that blows
Such clement air for Aphid’s frothy crown.
But cause for rusted windburn on the green
Prefers the pause and muse of pagan wells
For grey futures not yet known or seen
Are heard like peeled notes from fractured bells.
She knows the leavened denature of ways
That bond the who we are - to how we’ve been
Staring oil blunted in stunted gaze
At slow decay of wonder’s stay unseen.
And so we blank the signals that she sends.
Complacency, denies our season’s end.

You are the amber snow
on the mountain top of who I am.
The electric arc glimmer
crossing the cold lake of me -
a white poppy in the rape
of my doubt

I found a four leaf clover
It wasn’t sought - it just occurred
For me to peer below my tread and look for trove of luck.
I’ve wished upon its rarity for payback of my random find
Willing some consideration in the grand schema of being
Yet still I wait like a worn old coin resting on its side
Hoping the blackened cat of happenstance will show
The way that things could fall.

Only the heated pins of questioning
Can melt this wax figured spin
That denies the state we’re in.

Muting the padded batteries of flattery
To begin the ritual Voudoun dance
Of trance to Legba’s altered flags.

Raise them high on the air of denial!

Someone’s,
been cranking the handle
turning the gears of my day.
Mustering iron-like crunch of persistence
to tilt the balance of who I am.
They’ve been winding up the clock
with hands that circle the hours of my ways,
leveraging dedication with obligation,
and burdening my arms with plans to catch
the spinning cogs of responsibility.
I’ve been resisting the pull of these loaded wheels,
slipping the notches - slowing the steel pull of their load,
vaguely dodging my interlocked dependence on normality.
All this just to spy between twain and spite of grind -
straining to catch a fleeting glance of a silvered albatross,
cutting through the soaring blue above the machine.

That, is the beautiful distraction of you.

A fishball is
rotating round
the scrapes of
my luncheon
but only one
winner is in the
swim.

His shoalsnap
on the turn
of hunger’s tide
jumps at the sun
through surface
shroud.

I think of us
with all the
to and fro
of being, and
our own chase
for instinct’s
ride.

But for now
it is time to go -
the wasps are
out.

There’s a poet in the city,
bringing the lungs of emotion
to silver glass and steel.
Instant soul for the nervous,
throwing off corporate robes
wearing pressed badges of
attentiveness to the wonders of grind.
Suited hearts wilt under his proxied duress.
They say; “Bravo! This IS emotional,
look - we have the graphs
to prove it.”

Close

your eyes.

Picture the way

these words stumble

down the page. Visualise

the shape and form of what

they say. Evoke strong feelings

within yourself at the mysteries

conveyed. Just close your eyes

and imagine…

You’ve let someone in
like a tame fox gone
bad, wild in your head -
rattling the cage of you.
The harder you shake, the
more you’ll feel grizzled
by the persistence
of their snarling way.
Leave them to run. Let
them tire, let them calm -
you’ll only get rid when
their resistence has gone.

Before sky and below sea
a sharded tower - echo stilled
frozen clouds blown by cold
distilled whispers of season’s change.

Meltwater from this calm innocent
with no intent to deceive beyond
the quiet halo of noble modesty
and the glacial calves of beginning.

Growling like a lost white giant caught
in agitated seltzer of watered blue
an ice-eyed pinnacle scours flow
and grinds the floor of the world.

She craves the body of the whole.

My eyes are a boat

drifting on almond sea

from inlet to island

and tectonic continents

the lines of which guide

my tack - each curve

and hollow tracing

beguiled incredulity

like a dazzled pilgrim

travelling a worn path

I cannot help but stare

at the rhythms that are

the perfect composition

and surety of you.

Quick! Call the word police - there is someone writing poetry
Now! Arrest this voice that speaks direct to you but not to me
Without use of approved tools such foolishness should not be
They are raining down emotions - without embellished decorosity
Stop them! Sharing these thoughts. It’s too straightforward and easy
To fix such frigid magnetry and fit it in with greeting card mentality
This uncultured wordplay must cease! A chair without studied carpentry
A hunk of brutish wood that was once a useless, untamed tree
You must! You must! Ignore this common prose - for I, will not be moved.

Note: This poem features the self reflecting use of irony. No actual poets were harmed (or are addressed) in the making of this piece.

There is a spike of light within the shoal
Kaleidoscope corralled by ocean haul
Left flighted in the right hand swarm
Through co-ordinates unparalleled.
There is genius gold in the gravel bed
Silk patched to old corduroy of earth
Glow worm lit on abandoned track
Mesmerising strayed souls.
Darling voiced amongst the Starlings
You are the earliest, sweetest kiss
Of rain and storm to fall upon
the borders of this flock.

You shine where we are dulled.

Your modesty and restraint,
are wonderful gifts that entrance
like the pinpoint nurtured glow of a candle,
in the moss cleansed hood of nightime pine.
This is the undeniable attraction of inspiration
speaking quietly through the pores of doing,
breathing confidence though distinguished skin.
Such unshouting creativity flourishes and influences
our sight compelled to stretch beyond the catch of flame.
But we are vain to think such temporal majesty can be held!
It is humbled by its own brilliance - not humbling in itself.
And now you tell of vulnerability, of not being sure
of not believing in the cruelty of the winds we share.
There is even more intrigue in this disclosure
of you - who makes it all look so easy.

I’d love a strong-boned girl made from Reubens stock
Shouldering the boulders and moving the rock of me
I’d follow her love unfurled and the satin cloak of she
Dusky in the blanket musk through the gates of night.
She wouldn’t need to twist and I wouldn’t need to shout
Quietly potent in the scented motion of who we are
We’d be smouldering beholders in wonder of electricity
Together in the push and pull of what we’re all about.

There is no oil in the milk
of this coincidence, for you.
Chaperoned by the purity
of chance to read this now.

Words connect like the errant
stars you count - one by one.
But do you see all the silver
threaded textile sewn of night?

This shy reclusive truth you seek,
a search for comfort of whole.
All but the dullest pebble found
on the solitary basalt shores of now.

There’s a crazy kid trying to skim
stones across the ocean towards
somewhere they once were.
Tell them to move on.

You have infected the system of me.
Blocking the corridors of normal operation
like a smouldering fire in the ever green
insidious in the deciduous.

I didn’t know you were in me to start.
Waving for attention like a drowning fool
just waiting to see me waving back
oblivious to your litmus.

Your transmission was beamed deep.
Triggering a change in the process of myself
like a rogue signal without permission
moving the dial to denial.

So here you now are, resident in my veins.
Rocking my steadiness and surety
like a sleepless night-sweat child
harkening through the dark.

What do you want from me?

I’m not,
looking after myself.
Feels like my head’s been turned
inside out. One eye glued and
squinted like a drawstring bag
staying up until the late time.
I’ve been sleeping like a juggler on call
with fumbling hands that drop the ball.
Seeing steps to come but not gone by
auto piloting through the chore of day
This weariness now comes as standard
for these dry bones who need to rest
just can’t seem to concen ——–
——-trate.

You are the pilot of my naive ways
Perfectly maneuvering us through
A fog of ignorance and lack of guile
Klaxon like in the authority of you
Piercing the fated crowds of night
Across the simmered sea of doubt.

I trust your calm commands to shore
Away from drift over shallow shale
Above the wrecks of young mistake
For the tide of years is a wise captain
Who has dredged these paths before
And learned - all that you teach now

My ambivalence is an irrelevance.
For they, are the enthusiasm of life condensed.
Beautifully illuminated like playful little meteorites
plotting random vectors across my ordered sky.
The world is all but a wondrous climbing frame
for these busy souls - that cling with gravity
when told it’s time to leave.

My introspection is no exception.
For they, are the conscience of vain mundanity.
Their helium voiced, small-fry dive for pearls
is deep in the ocean of my everyday.
Jumping with such fine bones of glee,
into the boringness of me. In search, and trail
of some outrageous mystery.

My frustration should be celebration.
For they, are joyous in the suckle of discovery.
Like young bees in honey dance and thrill of find
of fragrant flowers’ golden powdered load.
My unbridled joy is in the moments shared
with their fledgling winged adventures
and wide eyed stories told.

My intent then, is the content of a diamond.
For they are oblivious to the drudge and toil -
no crowded hive or sad polluted sea and sky.
I pray that they continue to know this delight,
of whom they are today. Like moonlit flares
showing us all how amazing it is,
to be alive.

Have you ever licked a snowflake
Felt its crystal heart evaporate
Beautiful complexity briefly riding
On a red hot rodeo?

Have you ever blown a dandelion
Seen parachutes of wishseeds fall
Gossamer batalions to the wind
Scattered mission - no recall?

Have you ever heard a petal roll
Listened to golden hiss on air
The roll of nature ventured
In turning of the dial?

Next time you catch the rain
Feel it light on hand
See the raindrops form
Like tiny oceans held.

Think how complex
we all are.

He rises firm necked with the sun, calling servants from the day
Dawnbreak’s cry for fervent palm and guile of masculinity
He stands aloud before begins the stir, to service of his ways
Putting all my civil qualms aside from warm vicinity
All men know this potent balm and call - this will that
cannot be ignored. For these are the orders of this king
crowned in ascent, and I must bow to his fertility.