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The stream (all workshops)

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I feel his touch
In the dwindling heat of the setting sun
In the heavy fragrance of flowers bright
In the soft feel of the cool evening breeze

I feel his touch
In the flickering twinkle of a thousand stars
In the soft light of the half moon
In the gentle waves of calm seas

I feel his touch
In the unending paths leading to nowhere
In the warm beat of a lonely heart
In the undulating sway of dancing shadows

losing the muse

We don't need words
as I pour my essence into you
we don't need to touch
all I have to do is be
exist, and you bleed art
this coexistence of ours
tiring but intoxicating

Slowly and surely
as candle melts,
I begin to fade into the night
as I have spent my days in your sight
with zilch to offer
death beckoning

Oh yes, let us rest
As I fall off the face of earth

Charles Manson

darkness evokes the very fabric of his frame & gait
a renegade for what he did to Sharon Tate
a following with Tex and the rest
what was going on inside his head

the walking dead
tried to blame it on a Beatles song
yet can't you all get along
at first you started out as peace then no relief
to your restless eyes
did it come at any big enough surprise
you were blinded by Satan's lies
Helter Skelter

No ego to devour
you are not as young
as I thought you would be
an angel composing silently
such exotic poetry

The men's hearts will bleed
they dare not compare
with the soul you set free
they will not bend a wee bit
in a beloved red wagon
their ego,
will them alone swallow
when they come to know
that compared to your
love, lust and passion
minus their love
they are seemingly
not so shallow

You say you’re honest and made of razor-sharp truth.
You take pride in being the real thing, a man with hot blood in his veins.
You claim to be an open book, ready to be yourself
and no one other than your passionate fierce self.


The aroma of fresh harvest,
it tugged at my senses.
Drifting me into another world,
a place where I was young again.

I missed the days of youth,
there my family were all intact.
Safe under the watchful eye of Mum,
supplied by my Father’s toils.

Days as the family spread,
contacting through letters.
No modern phones, or gizmos,
hand written, glorious words.

Love brought to us as a treat.
There a postman’s heavy feet.
A beloved red wagon,
parked down the street.

Political Pawns:

No morality
Dealing with duplicity
Loss of Sovereignty


Slowly I walk beneath tall oaks
their crowns at least one hundred feet high.
Their size and age almost chokes
all sunshine from the clear blue skies.

With each breeze the acorns fall
thus confirming time of year
when trees drop their mast and all
and antlers harden on buck deer.

The summer heat? mere memory
with hard frosts approaching fast
via, perhaps, this wind now cooling me
shaking the acorns loose at last.

Swan Song

When I am gone, I leave to you
the sunlight that sparkles on the lake
the fresh green grass and the scent of lilacs.
You may have all birdsong and a billion stars
and a soft warm breeze to touch you in my stead.
I leave you the seasons and their unending procession
deep roots and swallows swooping in summer blue sky.
White fluffy clouds and sunsets, you may have those too.
Fresh green leaves, ancient woodlands and gnarled bark,
the first crocus as it peeps through springs dark damp earth


I wonder if you exist
I’ve looked for you all my life
Even though there’s this voice in my head that insist
The signs seem to point to no afterlife.

There is so many interpretations of who you are.
Sometimes I ask myself, how can the bible be right?
How can someone that follows Jesus Christ, and is a hypocrite go to heaven,
And an honest working man be in hell because he was born in India?


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