I am the priest
who glides saintly
to the altar,
round and round
the censer goes
spewing foul fumes
known to hell alone,

while embers fly like those
that fell
before the world was made,
scattering in the congregation's midst;
gathered ghosts, visions
of all I once have been
come to watch the spectacle
with dull, grey eyes,
and tongues
too thin to sing:

Neighbourly Are We…..N.A.W.

Do we really care if Mandela is dead,
just another news item we’ve had a lot.
That a soldier shot his prisoner in the head,
they get our ooh’s an ahs but soon forgot.

Have we become saturated in raw death,
seeing it daily on telly, computer or phone.
No second look or sharp intake of breath,
acknowledging that in death, we are alone.

Do well
be good
good deeds are rarely forgotten

though many do
but
postmortem speaks of the whole truth
good as well as bad,

If one had AIDS
tis sad
and
if someone did pierce
tis worse.

I walked in the quiet,
where the mist swirled,
stretching the mind.
The mist retreated.

There in my view,
a placid pond.
My mind Jumped,
becoming aware.

I thought of you,
yet could not see.
In my glowing hand,
a pebble round and true.

I tossed it into the water.
There from the centre,
wave on wave grew.
My thoughts followed

Then I remembered you.

Good deeds like salt grains
Unseen, thankless, forgotten
pre or postmortem

The hell and heaven aren't the same,
one's cool, the other burns in shame,
the heaven's faces grin with smiles,
while hell's lost souls are strewn in piles.

The choice is ours which end to choose;
we either win or else we lose,
the roads we took have always led
which eternal lives we loved to tread.

estuary synchro
droplet drizzle
svelte line abbrev
sweet

thumbtack a pash
slide the tumblers
in harried haste
unbuttoning the evening
atrophy
hovering over
and filled with
its lurid paste urge
tinged in its passing
this watered light licking
raindrops

fan whirs
humming electrical
satisfaction
this heat rancid
the balcony awash in
ice and leavings
from a yesteryear
wayward storm

THE PRETENDER

He thrust his fist
to the heavens
and cursed the gods
in defiance
to claim his divine right
and alliance
with Dark Ones
who judge and condemn all Creativity
with mellifluous drippings
of false eloquence,

The Muses all
covered their faces
veils mourning black
and took to hidden places
for fear of an attack
and that one of his arrows
dipped in venomous bile
would find its mark
in their own heart

IL PRETENDENTE

"Where does reality come from,"
the title of a book of philosophy by Arne Naess.

Reality,
is it,
was it ever,
can it be,
or is it illusion,
who really knows what it is,
and why is it that we ask?

We question
the existence of existence,
so to speak,
we speak it,
it is when we speak
we hear it's voice,
it's creed.

We need to know,
but why?

What is there we can do with it?
Is there anything we can do with it?
No.

I'm between red nebula somewhere in space
and myriad red rain drops here

After I close my eyes I see the same
it's a huge planet without a mask

Touching a ghost with my ghostly hand
one step back, it's fluttering in the distance

Between death and noble gases
where might be nothing

A bursting in antimatter cloud
where truly might be nothing

While their atoms are changing structure
I think the sound is my step's sound