A Fleet of Moments

Sailing in the wind

searching for the aft

in too-fro

 two-four time

 

lost gone

 both seconds

and

now have passed

 

when choice

had not courage

to find deep

its voice

 

and spoken knots

were all

that tongues

could unwind

 

fare laid on tables

platitude’s plates

with goblet greed

chin

set ‘gainst fate

 

with singular point

of focus

 me

 

where the capital M

barbs the wired fence

 

for brothers know

longer are

 

You are U

And not I

 

yet at end

all must die

 

colours and flags

their tattered

tattoos

 fly

 

else to pause

and pose

that dreadful,

dreadful, why

 

 And that fleet of moments

 

weighs anchor

to measure twice

and cut

but one

 

live we must

with all

we’ve

done

 

the sorrow

of tomorrow

comes fast

in seems

 

threadbare

on cloth

in sand grain’s

flow

 

knit one

pearl one

out of all

has beens

 

 time pinches

the eggs

quick

quick, slow

 

He said that

Aesop’s foibles

are all ours

to stow

 

And the fleet of moments

sails by

so

quick,

quick

……slow

 

where only

is the

single

If

 

A jury

on a

wasted

life

 

a mantram

and a

present

 

found not

on blade’s

sharpest

knife

 

for eyes

that cannot see

the fleet of moments

 

they,

they

hear not me

 

gone they are

with  n’er return

 

I wonder

will I

ever

learn?

 

The Pages of a Day

a ripple in space,

a warp in time

and a leafy memory

turns the pages

 

a dog eared day

thumbs its way

down the watery lanes

of muddy battlefields

 

where an agenda

plants ice cold rivets

into metallic hearts.

there to rust

 

that iron oxide

is not magnetic

no flecks of gold

glisten in sunlight

 

the sepia kaleidoscope,

an unnourished rainbow

at the end of the pier which

wears out of season shutters

 

that bench cut deep

with initials and hearts

and those 4 evers,

hopes vainly for a haunting

 

a seagull worries

some soggy chips

as damp puddles

reflect upon a year

 

there are no voices here

save for the wind’s whisper

and the sea’s rustle

as tiny pebbles sigh on the beach

 

the Christmas lights

are jauntily gawky

flickering in the grey

grey, of a falling day

 

an envelope of dampness

wraps this little parcel

no name tag to attach

well not anymore

 

pink candyfloss in a bin

drips watery tears, silently

a bucket and a spade

with no castles to build

 

are abandoned in the corner

the harlequin windmill

angled deep in its guts

still turns, just a little

 

as night falls on tip toes

the curtains draw pictures

on the face of town

and sodium, yellows the streets

 

snug on all the sofas

the TV remote controls

are batons in the conductors hands

as the sweet nocturnes now sound

 

a ripple in space,

a warp in time

and a leafy memory

turns the pages of another day

Strange Calm

Here pervades in Autumn sun

dressed in filigree bird song

and the haze of meadowsweet,

a light serene in the fields

 

A strange calm

 

The faint buzz of chainsaws

prepares logs for winter hearths

and I remember when they called

called at dinner time

 

A strange calm

 

Hints perhaps at journeys new

the shiver in my belly

has now passed with the letters

eased out my fingers

 

A strange calm

 

Waits here and around the corner

in a far off land

should eyes but see and hear,

fate will take another bow

 

A strange calm

 

A most peculiar life to date

and as sure as sixpence

this is so very true.

What does that fletcher have in store?

 

A strange calm

 

As the arrows are prepared,

points are sharpened

and they are feathered for flight

then put in quivers to be cosy

 

A strange calm

 

Soon the sun will kiss the sky

all perfect pink and rosy

and when the stars have gone abed

the morning star will usher

a new day

 

and it will not find me

where this one left me

 

A strange calm

Floating Things

We human beings can imagine that we understand where someone else is coming from, be convinced we know their motives and then find it difficult not to opine thereupon.

——————————————————————

On the wind,

Carried by the wings of perception,

It comes.

 

The words of another,

Telling of how you feel.

Convinced and convicted in the beginning.

 

Tenuous and stretching,

Well meaning but wrong,

Painting themselves in impressionist points.

 

The message and the shield,

To massage and deflect,

Holding that point in sea of the floating things.

 

Formed in the rust of trust,

Sewn into the fledgling in the nest,

And rewarded by the worm of the early bird.

 

The clamour of the glamour of it all.

Life is too short to be right.

 

Dressed in dead-letter logic,

And the twelve-bar blues of again and again,

The so-called facts question.

 

But hidden beneath and,

In different clothes,

The sound echoes an empty tone, going through the motions.

 

Under the carpet,

Where all the fears lie,

Are brushed the fragile bones that hold the tissue intact.

 

The cabbage patch dolls,

Huddle to write their play, to have their say,

Performing to conform and looking at their cake.

 

Consent and compromise,

Coerce and corrupt, rob the spirit,

And drive the man from the parapet.

 

The courage of silence is not.

Life is too short to be rite.

 

In the clay cup he puts the Tea,

Pours water and takes the brush,

Deftly he stirs.

 

In the swirled of the floating things,

Searching inside for:

The meaning of it.

 

The raft of bubbles breaks,

And foams in the Maya of it all,

Yet another storm in a teacup?

 

Words like tiny purses,

Score double top, as sharply,

As the dart players take chalk in hand.

 

Five hundred and one,

Itches under his skin like mosquito bites,

On a summer’s night.

 

He never liked the Joneses anyway,

Their white picket fence and pet crocodile,

Were Saatchi and Saatchi.

 

The salt of the Ganges is ours.

Life is too short not to write.

 

What is a truth,

And how does it taste?

Clear on the palate and fresh on the tongue.

 

Far from the pre-packed and processed,

Wrapped in cling film

And sold at Sainsbury’s on Saturdays.

 

Personal and specific,

Not agreed by committee,

A feeling of feelings and a knowing of knowledge.

 

No less than a flame,

Kindled inside and singular,

An island in the floating things.

 

Seen in a dream as in the dream,

Watched in the circus,

Without puppeteers’ strings.

 

There is more to life than process,

Immeasurable and imprecise,

No key performance indicators here.

 

The air that we breathe is free.

Life is too short not to read.

 

The pages of Kells,

Illuminated with love

And decorated with care on the journey of the Dove.

 

Set free from the Ark,

The un-caged bird in search of the olive branch,

Comes back in sea of floating things.

 

Soaring in gentleness,

White with vulnerable beauty,

To tell of its travels and share of its fare.

 

The memory of before,

And the sense of the divine in each,

And the eyes of a child, awestruck and in awe.

 

The warnings are there,

The cloying sterility of the Vulcan mind

Overpowers the beating passion of the heart.

 

I re-member Martin,

And the Christ in each of us.

I have a dream and it dreams me now.

 

Brave heart be strong and beat on.

Life is too short not to see red.

 

Flex – Reflex

Sometimes it is better to pause and think before we speak.

————————————————-

Taking the dazzling blade,

Folded a thousand

Careful times

And warmed in Nagoya’s

Fiery forge

 

Caressing with Indigo’s

Softest shining silk

And placed in the

Intricate, excellent

Scabbard

 

Feeling the angry

Reflection in the mirror

Drawing and cutting

The head

To the floor

 

Taking the reputation

Of fame’s

Highest mount

Garnered in a

Lifetime’s work

 

Remembering the toes

Already stood upon

And placed in the

Dusty, darkened

Cupboard

 

Seeing the actions

That are my own

Speaking and scything

The spirit

To its core

 

Taking the dazzling letters

Spoken a thousand

Careless times

And formed in the self righteous

Forgetful forge

 

Pulling them back across

The fountain

Finger tips

To mark the ridges

In my blood

 

To stay the wayward

Windward tongue

And place them in the

Intricate, excellent

Scabbard

 

Woven

Every word they said

Each thing done

Have been the engineers

The architects

 

The geysers of emotion

Washed my skin

Sometimes in acid anger

And betrayal

 

Soft balms of love

And support

Rare at this stake

No blues here!

 

For every trace

On the trellis of life

Has me woven

Into tapestry

 

Each eggshell shard

Of knowledge stored

With the winter squirrels

Under the oak

 

At the point before mind

The nascent world

Is yet to become

And so still, it’s here

 

Each soft caress of fate

Has sculpted my clay

And fired me

In the ovens

 

Eyes without glaze

Look cosmos past

The aching mundane

To Sirius and beyond

 

And were it not

For each hand

Each finger

I would not be where

 

At this place

In this time

Now the eternal

The fleeting second of forever

Soft Trickles of Melancholy {boys don’t cry}

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

write their rivulets

 

falling onto the desk

to break the hymen of silence,

so that the world, can hear

 

the sanguine wine

leaks from out the eyes

and bloodies the bitten lips

 

and that melancholy ache

can never be quenched

under a searing, fiery sun

 

the scorpion of fate

curls back through time

to sting and sting again

 

the scorching wadis

of just, righteous mind

tell us always, it is so

 

the heart entombed

in the dungeon of mind

as yet, still stirs

 

it beats its timpani

off the score

to no preordained libretto

 

one day that concrete damn

will start to leak

and at that very first fissure

 

on the desert dusty parchment

soft trickles of melancholy

will start their rivulets, anew

 

the tear of dew

will rip out an oasis

a font, a spring

 

and desert lore will say

as the aeons pass,

“That is where love was born!”

Sanctus

He was wounded by our transgressions and crushed for our inequities; by His wounds were we healed.

——————————–

Those that live by the sword

Die by the sword

 

In these hands I hold

The dove

Of human kind-ness

 

I kiss her

Behind the ear

And whisper

Sweet nothing

In her ear

 

Now bearing the infinite

I set her free

 

To seek

 And

 …….. to find

 

In the whip and the nail

Of my Passion

And the silence

That would not

To speak

 

For to sully

The silence

With the earth bound

Sound

 

Of words

 Touches not

 

And they know not

What they do

 

For the spoke

Of it

Unwinds

 

And to Caesar

Must I go….

 

For the hands

Of it are washed

 

Yet the clean

Is yet to seen

 

Sanctus

 Sanctus

 Dominus

 

Into your hands

I commend my spirit

 

And so with it

As you will

 

For your will

And NOT

Mine

Be done

This day

 

THAT which

Comes from

Above

Now

 

Now be done

 And I will

 I will

 Bring

 The sword

 

Of MY truth

To bear

 

For my arm

Is rested

 And

 Now ready

 

In the darkest

Tomb

I have wandered

 

And now found

 It

 It

 Begins

Alpine “Haiku”

When the light is just right and the setting sun is starting to pink, the Berner Oberland is an exquisite marvel to behold from afar.

—————————————————–

the mountain cannot move

for it sits upon a lotus

whose petals are tender

 

Eiger, Mönch und Jungfrau

a Tripitaka of baskets,

and so very full of fish

 

each leaf of knowledge

peels back a clarion,

bells sound in a tower

 

things older than us

observe all the ants

scurrying so very fast

 

the glacier teaches

even a mountain,

the grind of permanence

 

and all those teeth

which chew upon sand

shall one day fade

 

a spring time meadow

so full of flowers,

brushes her hair

 

primroses and daisies

wait the passing snow

and then smile, radiant

The Twilight Echo

That subtle imprint,

The etch

The sketch of him

 

Never saw the germ

Sneak under my skin

That gentle djinn

 

No showers or spas

Might lather away

Those twilight echoes

 

Nor would I want

 

His eyes tattooed me

His soul embraced

And it soothed

 

To be understood

And held so,

Caressed in tears

 

That profound

The meaning

A sublime

 

And none but I

Can tell