Thursday, January 29, 2015


wings indigoblue

Wings of ink expanding,
silent body held,
feathered grace demanding;
so we all are called.

Held in world material,
cold and hard beneath,
silent in its judgement;
angels at our feet.

Drawn upon the moment,
traced in dusted call,
tears do course eternal;
grieve because we fell.


Cold the measured moments,
chill the deepening gloom,
icy in those reveries;
so the end does loom.

Powerful the relationship,
solid, stiff and strong,
woven through the decades;
breaking down in form.

Depraved the motivations,
enraged the tortured heart,
helpless in the passions;
so our souls did part.


Woven thoughts controlled,
made still, braided into place,
held in patterns tightly set;
so our minds do grace.

Symbol of our psyche,
reflecting who we are,
cut the locks, let them fall;
naked from our brows.

Power rests within our hair,
honoured through all time,
seen as source of reason;
life, as plaits we wind.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Earth and sky


Trite the mind compounded,
earth did scorch blue sky,
spell of soil resounded;
words could not describe.

Sun in searing, silent aim,
birthed the sign above,
spirit danced upon the earth;
land does chime with love.

Born in maybe moments,
world and soul combine,
heiros gamos entered;
so the life  sublime.

Saturday, January 24, 2015


My sorrows! Lying, listing, listed, sighing!
And yet somehow, they live, requiring,
denying, surrendering, demanding, confusing

soul and psyche, imprisoning heart, which
holds with hands so bone-cold, the remains
of what had been; crumbling memories.

So does mind make of the impossible, some
thing which can be borne, carried forth on
crushed shoulders, held aloft, until the place

is reached, where the burden can be put down;
the offering of suffering can be laid at the feet
of grief, settled on the altar of deep becoming.

So is the Self carved cautiously by time,
so is Life revealed in poignant form, as mine.

My letters! All dead paper, mute and white!
And yet they seem alive and quivering
Against my tremulous hands which loose the string
And let them drop down on my knee to-night.
This said,– he wished to have me in his sight
Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring
To come and touch my hand…a simple thing,
Yet I wept for it! – this, …the paper’s light..
Said, Dear, I love thee; and I sank and quailed
As if God’s future thundered on my past.
This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled
With lying at my heart that beat too fast.
And this…O Love, thy words have ill availed
If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
—-  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Green eyed monster

Flickering, that eye, over many years,
reflected in the gleaming scales which
spread, across the moments when we
have been together, in places shared

as family or friends, where cloths of
change polish at the hardened coat
of memory; glittering, carapace which
clings across the body of self-bound

relationship; heart-held connection
offered by soul, because we have
been drawn together in this lifetime,
to learn and to grow, and jealousy

is a most powerful teacher, devoted
ally, and cruel enemy to both of us
when it rises in dragon ripples from
the bed of invisibility, lurches from

the pond of feeling and confusion,
writhes and rages, through the weed
choked realms of possibility, tearing
at the once serene surface of our

lives, roiling through all reason and
sanity; curling, turning, destroying
all that was, until it falls again into
submerged rest, where only the in-

frequent gleam of observant green,
can be detected, now and again,
held beneath the surface, trapped
in fluid of liquid harmony, waiting

only for the moment, when it is
called, and must rise again in all
its shocking glory, to break us
once more, so we can be remade.

Sunday, January 18, 2015



I am waiting for that moment,

when life sets again, after melting,

like  jelly, liquefied, unstable,

sloshing at the edges with every


movement of the heart, rippling

with every shudder of mind,

spilling in slow slide with each

tipping of Soul, as it moves


against the sides of Self, as it

is contained within the bowl

of being, shimmering, clear

and resonating with potential,


which requires only that slow

congealing from outside, into

the expectant centre as all

firms into something which


is sure, steady, moving only

barely with the touch of

hesitant fingers of feeling;

no longer without form, and


unreliable; no longer unable

to hold a certain shape, no

matter how often it is rudely

knocked - at last confirmed.



Days mark time for me in

bitter expectation, knocking

on the door of waiting, which

desperation has surely locked,

as lingering minutes stand,

in line, ready to be called,

but hearing only silence,

that hanging in a universe


of possibility, breathing

songs choked of potential,

lying in deceitful wait as

glittered, bitter hoping,


quiescent in remission of

what might be, and all that

I had wished; dormant is

my heart, held in latent


intermission as futures

hide abeyant, now that you

are gone and love huddles

in the recess of my being -


time is now postponed

and the angels counsel

patience and acceptance,

Friday, January 16, 2015


Day disappeared in shrouded gloom,
intense, secret and chilled to bone,
drifts of wondering possibility were
borne, in sightless, sundered feeling,

as if the sun had crumpled to its feet,
as I had, falling down onto cold, hard
earth, where, the ear could feel faint
but steady thump of dusted heart, and

mind could hear the call from stilled,
salted, frozen oceans which lay down
below the surface of my soul, calling
for the light to shine through fragments

of vision, swirling in that misted place
of nonbeing, dancing slowly with
broken steps, across the ground of the
past, where nothing could be seen as

form, or shape, or truth, and only the
glare of memory was mocking from
deliquescent depths of frosted night;
the fog within reflected in my world.

Thursday, January 15, 2015


Distracted and divided,
no genuine domains,
no place for inner sanity,
devoid of modest gains.

Psyche then does separate,
heart is then required,
to call the soul together
that reason is inspired.




Condemn the hopes of angels,
list inky dreams and then,
capitulate to misery;
render hopes defamed.

Generate a single goal,
sense that bitter end,
channel fears toward it;
smell the fires of hell.


Code of self eternal,
mystery of the soul,
cipher of my being;
enigma known of old.

Oracle of spirit,
star of inner worlds,
secrets of my psyche;
so the story's told.

Key to inner mind,
password of the heart,
classified and magical;
all that I impart.

So the hidden senses,
call in deepest song,
esoteric fantasies;
where the me belongs.


Sunday, January 11, 2015

What happened to you

What happened to you?
I wish that I could ask,
that question, but mostly
I wish that you could

answer it. Perhaps you
can, but I suspect you
cannot, and anyway, I
cannot ask it, just as I

cannot ask, where did
you go, this person we
knew for so long, who
was replaced by some

one so different, so un
like you, so much a
stranger, and yet in
your form, with your

face, your voice and
all of those physical
things we had always
known, as you, but

now, revealed as some
one, so different, so
changed, so distant,
so unknown, with no

way of knowing how
it all happened, or
even why, the you we
knew was now gone,

and could not be found
by us, and perhaps not
even you, that is, if you
knew that you, was even

missing, and I think you
must, but still, psyche
demands you take new
form and so I cannot ask,

What happened to you?


Sometimes I wish I could curl up
in a small corner of my life,
huddled between two walls,
catching the rays of hope which

fall, like forgotten sunshine into
the shadows, warming the cold,
hard floor, soothing my weary
bones as they fold into myself,

caressing the edges of my form,
reminding me that there is
safety, seclusion and forgetting,
as light fades across my eyes,

and night calls the day to a close,
allowing just the fading of the
moon, to settle down with me;
until once again, I must stand.

Saturday, January 10, 2015


Electric minds made manifest,
in passionate embrace,
that savage call of purest lust;
so does the heart full race.

In colour rushing relevant,
in thrilling, deep, disgrace,
so does the force of nature,
of reason leave no trace.

World is wondrous amplified,
in feelings deep intense,
magnificent and frightening;
rejoicing every sense.

That dance of purest being,
surrendering to sex,
uncontrolled and thrilling,
until the moment's spent.

Electric, adjective: Of, worked by, charged with, or producing electricity; (of a musical instrument) amplified through a loudspeaker; (of a color) brilliant and vivid; having or producing a sudden sense of thrilling excitement.

Passionate, adjective: Showing or caused by strong feelings or a strong belief; showing or caused by intense feelings of sexual love.

Savage, adjective: (Of an animal or force of nature) fierce, violent, and uncontrolled; cruel and vicious; aggressively hostile; (chiefly in historical or literary contexts) primitive; uncivilized; (of a place) wild-looking and inhospitable; uncultivated; (of something bad or negative) very great; severe; noun: A member of a people regarded as primitive and uncivilized; a brutal or vicious person; verb: (especially of a dog or wild animal) attack ferociously and maul. 

Thursday, January 8, 2015



Sigh of love abandoned,
deep scars of loss and grief,
full heart alone and silent;
that holy place bereaved.

Arrival of some healing,
stray chords of the soul,
pale but still believing;
chime of sorrow's toll.

Days ingest the minutes,
years the many months,
plain the diet of healing;
laughing, hurt confronts.

Time salves any wounds,
angels do the rest,
hope remains eternal,
through the darkest test.