Sunday, January 13, 2019


What was, is no more,
and yet it holds to
memory and mind,
struggling against the

closing shades, as if
determined to remain
intact, even as the
material evidence is

removed. Do all things
remain forever in their
energetic state? Eternal,
unable to be touched by

the purely physical, for
once created, they can
never be destroyed-
only transformed?

Wednesday, January 2, 2019


How the fates
deceive and
trip us - smiling
always at our
folly. Yet with

Tuesday, January 1, 2019

Dark nights

Dreams in tatters,
hopes so deeply
frayed, optimism
languishes; so do
fears parade.


Holding to the
fantasies of past,
serves no end;
has no future.


Realms of dark
being, on the edge
of sleep, there do
demons dwell.


They haunt me,
hopes in stained
robes, drifting in

Pain pulls the draw
string on the small,
soft bag of self,
tying me into being.

Culled, cut finer
pruned by life's
blade, so are we

Scattered pieces,
mind in disarray;
soul selects to

Suffering is
the language
of this life-
its babble.


without sub
stance - taunt.


waits with
empty hands.

Monday, December 3, 2018


Suffering sits silent
in the bed of my own
making, huddled into
soiled covers, turned

in upon itself, holding
tight to the pillow of
grief, dampened with
tears of shame; so

does this withered
child of psyche, sleep
fitfully, in the midst
of life, ignoring hope.

Saturday, December 1, 2018

Broken world

And in that moment
when the world broke,
splitting in unseen
ways, as if destiny

had written itself into
invisible cracks, which
eventually, would be
prised open, in silent

tearing, to ensure the
known, scattered itself
in new ways, to allow
fate to mould another

shape, create different
form, not yet imagined
or perhaps dreamed,
and yet lying always

as the seed of some
thing which demanded
to be birthed, brought
forth from the ruins.

So the world smiled
in its brokeness and
promised hope from
the dregs of being,

as golden light ran
through the wounds,
identifying, healing
and offering beauty.

Wednesday, November 21, 2018


Desire laughs at tawdry
years, at softened flesh
and worn skin; mocks
the wrinkled realities

which time does bring,
because it is beyond
such trivialities and
petty concerns, running

deep as it does, tapping
into the river of Soul,
drowning in the depths
of delicious, liquid love

which flows in bright
waves, beyond borders
of the merely material:
Desire cares not for

years, or age, or the
frayed and wearied
edges of life, but sees
only the source, the

depths of self, which
remain untouched by
time; eternal, singing
always its erotic poem,

in a silence which veils
it from others; open
only to the two hearts
which are listening,

holding in a blossom
of being, which does
not fade, and where
each petal is perfect. 

Friday, November 16, 2018

The shower

I got you in the shower,
lathering your huddled
body, soaping, washing
your private parts, in a

hiss of steam, as if the
snake of grief raised
hooded head to strike;
and you wept, while

I washed; not knowing
what else could be
done but to clean the
physical, as the mental

grew in stinking mould,
and the heart hollowed
in your distress and fear;
so did the daughter play

attendant on this tragic
piece of theatre, of
life in all of its cruel
being- as if mere soap

and flannel, could
wash away what was;
remove the awful and
looming reality, that

you were alone, and
there was no-one else
to take his place, to
hold you up; and the

arms of a child, while
willing, would always
be too frightened frail
to soothe the pain.

So, I washed, at all that
you were and all he had
known, achieving little
but baptismal flesh.