A Grain of Salt

fading into time

a grain of salt

in the pillar of

looking back


the over the shoulder robes

slip on a clavicle,

a harpsichord

with no Bach’s flower remedy


a tincture of infinity

bound tight in sand,

a seed of truth

to worry into pearls


the salt of the earth

comes out of tears

shed as many scales

in the lack of balance


a couturier sublime

etched in the cloth

of human folly

making proud stalagmites


centuries and bastions

standing Easter Island guard

unless something sneaks past

on a whimsical wind


all the herring and rollmops

which curl up the tongue

to a shot of Aquavit

can’t curl enough


sweeping the ice

scoring it deep

and no rubbing of brass

will bring back the past


an echo of maybe and might

whispers goodnight

onto the pillow of dreams

wet now from eyes


and a love now destroyed

simpers and dies

for want of humility

as scarce as a scarecrow’s heart


the last train home

leaves the platform of will

forever now

and what price the bill?


and that which we do

unto those whom we love

is the most terrible cost

of a bitter revenge


passing now forever

a brief echo of a life

jaundiced by pride

as sad as a tourniquet


to share and to bind

one to another

its midnight now

and no turning space


fading into time

a grain of salt

in the pillar of

looking back


Empty Paths

beyond the point

of primal,

causal origination,

no cognition

nor perception


a void awakens

shimmering the nothing

into becoming

empty and yet Dao,

no re-cognition


before the void

no time

no place

no recollection

or, any memory


wide empty paths

towards the infinite

have no ending

nor any start,

the essence of being


a Soul alone,

sole and soular

radiates into space

a single spark

of a cosmic fire


beyond the point

of primal,

causal origination,

no cognition

nor perception


at the point before mind

bodhi svāhā

Tickling the Future

Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting.


Grasping things

brings sorrow

releasing tight fingers

unfurls joy


A free bird of light

which cannot

know cages

for they are not there


An open hand

can tickle all the futures

as a feather

blown on the wind


A closed hand

has no eyes

and a fist

no love


There is no room

at the inn

for it,

no manger


The wind of mind

blows free

through the fingers

the open palm, a nest


Where infinity is born

soft harmless

in touch

a kernel


A delicate Dove


under the armpits

a giggle


Better to tickle

the future

than to grab

at it


Finger through

dreams slip

a rainbow trout

in a mountain stream


Haste fails

nascence waits

dressed dew like

in patient dawns


No force

no demands

only flowers

opening softly

to cherish the sun

and tickle the future


With Blind Man’s Eyes

And the blind man’s

Certain fingers

Take the cotton wool fabric

From the shelf

And in his magic gloves

Of pristine white


He paints the picture

Only he can see

For his canvas

Comes from out


… ……The sea


That wells

And swells inside

To burst the walls

Of wounded knee


And with his will

He lights the flame

For inner vision

Needs no eyes


Simply the silence


To hear the pin-drop waves

That now dress the shore

In the deepest

Golden ore


In the toreador

Corridor of fate

The stage curtain

Rises in the blink

Of a floating iris


And the scent of it

Warms the wind

As it floats to infinity

And beyond

Where all are joined

In the common dream


That dances us all

In the majesty

Of the coming dawn

Johnny Two Worlds

It is possible that I had PTSD like behavioural issues resulting from a boating accident in the middle of an African game park when I was aged 11 and in which two men died, one by drowning, the other by crocodile. This is also a metaphor for other-world journeys.


He was never the same

When he came back

Those eyes

Had seen too much

Those ears

Had heard too much

He often joked

About the crack

In him

Quiet as a mouse

He scurries down the corridors

Polite and friendly to all

Johnny is warm

And he laughs a lot

On the turn of a penny

He is at the front again

Running down the chattering nests

Of Kalashnikov rain

All battle plans

And lights, camera, action

And then he is far away

Lost in the tranquil dreams

Of another land

Of rustic charm and mystic dew

Of soft and yielding maids

And battleaxe dragons

When he isn’t looking

The passion plays

And he speaks in ways

That no-one forgets

Yet each time he does this

They all know

And look again

And then pretend

They haven’t heard

For somehow it is impolite

To stray from the weather

Johnny knows that

People seek him

So he hides

He told me it was gravity

And it was better to hide

Than to say no

Because he rarely takes

People are somehow

Ill at ease

They want him to give

Yet know there is no balance

Johnny said it was the crack

That made him a little mad

And that, lights were best


Under the carpet

Johnny two worlds

Is a practical man

He gets stuff done

Johnny two worlds

Is as reliable as bread





And Johnny two worlds

Walks the thunder

And the wonder



He was never the same

When he came back

Those eyes

Had seen too much

Those ears

Had heard too much