A Fleet of Moments

Sailing in the wind

searching for the aft

in too-fro

 two-four time


lost gone

 both seconds


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


set ‘gainst fate


with singular point

of focus



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




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




the sorrow

of tomorrow

comes fast

in seems



on cloth

in sand grain’s



knit one

pearl one

out of all

has beens


 time pinches

the eggs


quick, slow


He said that

Aesop’s foibles

are all ours

to stow


And the fleet of moments

sails by






where only

is the




A jury

on a




a mantram

and a



found not

on blade’s




for eyes

that cannot see

the fleet of moments




hear not me


gone they are

with  n’er return


I wonder

will I




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



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



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




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!”


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


 …….. 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



Of words

 Touches not


And they know not

What they do


For the spoke

Of it



And to Caesar

Must I go….


For the hands

Of it are washed


Yet the clean

Is yet to seen






Into your hands

I commend my spirit


And so with it

As you will


For your will



Be done

This day


THAT which

Comes from




Now be done

 And I will

 I will


 The sword


Of MY truth

To bear


For my arm

Is rested


 Now ready


In the darkest


I have wandered


And now found




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