The stream (all workshops)
the heart sways the branches
but I am more shadow than you
the rub is silk in silence
between the moments of morning
so that thin birds slip through
this is the limit of the light
mushroom and clover things
shaping their form in dry leaves
with every nothing of the world
into spring
At What Cost a Christian Chequebook …
Doesn’t anyone find it disgustingly odd?
that a book meant for a saintly tomb.
Written by men who’re said to be of god,
is worth more than the fruit of the womb.
They say negotiations went incredibly well,
purchasing this book for nine million pounds.
I say they and the book should burn in hell,
I mean this is as stupid, as it bloody sounds.
Free these city streets
beneath her feet
burden by concrete
sky tower, tenements, pigeons perched
gutter rats dwindle from the light
there's something kinda beautiful here
to early rise
a yellow ball east of China town
off broadway and the bridge buckling down
the city illusive . . .
with no ninjas just chaotic chinese
chopped into Bruce Lee videos and wind chimes
continue to ring in dingy take outs
doorway standing nursing a plastic container
rice noodles, baby bok choy
The minds manifest has so many weights
one such corner has the best enclave
to reminisce for the events gone by
yet imagine ones ahead
in the creation of one’s mind
bold, stout and fervent
the dreams one gets are heaven sent,
if there be one
otherwise dreams are the seeds of rejuvenation
a man can only create and procreate
with visual injection
of thoughts deeds and action
which manifest from sheer virtual imagination
the impossible is a deterrent,
the positivity is cornered
poor, poor little girl
she wants to be grown up
longing for a home
while she sits and sulks
and thinks and thinks
of how to play this game
go fastfastfast
until you get enough
but you never get enough
so shut up kid
when the sky is this blue she must envy it
she must be set apart, yet she must be the same
so cool and clever, so deliberately far from the box
that damnable, evil mold everyone falls victim to
whatever you say dear
you'll have your time to fly high
IT IS
Something else and something else,
why does that sing a song
one where the words
forgotten
keep on coming along
beside me, through me
as I go
to where I do not know
who is looking,
what is looking
our consciousness
the brain its ticking time
where does awareness go
when there is nothing to be aware of
any more
we are a part
apart
yet joined to all that is
what is,
is something, nothing, nought
and yet its there
It is.
Nordic cloud.
Its a good night he says,
Its a good night
for a race in the full moon light
I will sing an Ave Maria,
if it ever comes again.
These shackles are jewel speckled,
donned from generation to the next.
We passed them on,
though they were painful,
under the eye of an aging world,
we guarded them with our lives
and what was left of our sanity.
Like sheep we are led to the slaughter
of reason,
and the judges;
book cases from Plato to Kant,
look down on us;
yet still we proudly walk on,
proud of our parent's yoke:
Dear England
Ho’ dear England let me rest
and my worldly travel end,
My spirit lies in your silken bed
from my taunts of life to spend,
To rest away from the throbbing guns
that count the pace of life,
Safe within thy dream like-hold
as my mother’s kiss goodnight,
Embrace me like the dampened arms
of a lover's jealous hold,
and replace that dream before the dawn
my darkened nightmare stole.
.
There was movement at the Nursing Home for word had got around
that the Neolith Olympics was today
and the medals were all ready, first prize a hundred pounds,
so all the aged had gathered to the fray.
All the tired and bloated oldies, from Homes from near and far,
had gathered at the crisis muster point.
They'd come by bus, by train and plane, and some had come by car.
They'd be stopped by neither frame nor aching joint.
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