Friday, December 15, 2017

What is love?

What is love, beyond that
yearning for connectedness,
the desire to join together,
to unite, establish union in

all forms, become as one,
be held together with bonds
unseen, and unremarkable,
but strong all the same?

What is love, but the slow
weaving of feelings, thoughts,
experiences, knitted into a
shawl of  soul, under which

it is possible to shelter, or
even to hide for a time ...?
Such is love as called by
heart and mind in being. 

Thursday, November 30, 2017


Image result for outback

Through the ancient landscape,
dust did slurry songs, calling
through the smooth, rubbed
hills - beckoning us on.

Scrabbled were the eucalypts,
raddled were the stones,
sucking heat from destiny as
demons danced and sang.

Footsteps fell in slow silence,
dressed in powdered years,
drawing through the soil unknown,
truths the heart could feel.

Bequeathed in endless images,
stories trailed through earth,
clay clenched drowning water -
painted face and breasts.

Distant was the inner yearning,
mournful was time's cry,
joyful was life's great promise-
no sound, but sandy sighs.

Lost in aching age of meaning,
driven deep beyond the cities,
so we walk with shuttered eyes,
curse and bless as we do grieve.

Through the ancient landscape,
back beyond our fear and dreams,
world's soul beats in rhythm-
truth licks lips and seals.

We dance the steps

We dance the steps eternal,
long written in old realms,
remembered now as feelings;
so do we live this world.

Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Little bits of life

The little bits of life,
collected, drawn and
tethered to memory,
holding together as

if they had known
their form, before
they existed; snap
shots of time and

being, pressed dry
between the pages
of years, held in
place so beautifully.

Sunday, October 15, 2017


The route we take is written,
no dearth of chances there,
what's possible is limited,
by natures individual, the

bulk of being long decided,
the stars do tweak the light,
but some pretense can drug
our minds, and challenge

who we are. It is in time
still teeming, the challenge
of our lives, we jump into
our being, and shock the

stories blind. For who we
are was long ago, the story
that we wrote, and sealed
in life material, on which

we make our notes. The
play of life is staged and
set, as we decreed and so,
each soul incarnates now:

we live so we may  know.

Friday, October 13, 2017

The ground

I stood upon the ground where they had been,
among the fallen stones and dark timbers,
and dreamt of life as they had known it once;
now gone, all broken, dispossessed around,
as detritus and ruin of a home once loved.
So did my ancestors still speak through rubble
and whisper dreams in ever-spreading dust.

There was no trace of life as they had lived,
mementos gone and attributes of being, all
carried off, or broken where they stood by
driven days and yearning years, held up in
mortal months where lack of human hand
decreed, they could not last and hold their
shape, no matter how much one may wish.

Cobbled into being through the mind and
heart, scrabbled from the ebb and flow of 
dregs, imagined shape of something now
long disappeared, was all which could be
summoned from the screed past did fling
in casual summons at my feet; daring me
to bring back what was irrevocably lost.

Only in the whims and dreams of fancy
can we recreate our history, and even 
then it holds no true form beyond poor
imagining and futile yearning, for what
is gone is always gone, unless it lives
eternal in a place beyond this jigsaw of
material, and for that, there is no proof.

Tuesday, October 10, 2017


I chiselled at your image,
revealed the puzzle clear,
made luminous your heart,
left nothing else to fear.

Dumb were left the angels,
superior and wise,
lucid was my loving;
hollow were your smiles.

Foreign were the moments,
feckless were your aims;
drank the wine of sorrow,
saw the darkening stain.

There would be no winner,
once the die was cast,
drunk on sour misery;
mourn our time now past.


Sunday, October 8, 2017




Feast of life does generate,

 the way to study time, and

 then to laugh and find escape,

 to sack the days not born.


The veins of soul lie empty,

 the Self no more than ghost,

torn the days of memory;

 heart's engine, broke and lost.


 So do the years then gather,

 rejoice in all that's been,

 call upon fate's angels,

 to close the gaps between.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

In the missing

It is in the missing that I find you,
in that place of absence, the shape
of loss, the void which remains
when you are not here, which holds

to itself, your form and substance,
moulded into my very being, drawn
finely with the hand of love, ensured
in firm presence of remembering -

that place which holds the truth, not
so much of who you are, but of who
I am, in ways which do not exist for
any other person I have ever known,

born deep in mutual liking, enduring
passion, connectedness through many
years and eternal moments, enduring:
it is in the missing that I find you.

Friday, September 22, 2017


Unity curls beckoning finger,
summoning psyche to attend,
requiring that Self and Soul
be joined, as one, and where

the many can be made as
one, united in that universe,
of human nature, that sure
reflection of consciousness

made manifest in the unique
and the particular, of many
worlds joined in circling
certainty, turning star-like

around and around in the
galaxy of eternal creation,
where the wonder and the
beauty of you and me is

drawn into meaningful
and purposeful, expression
of particularity and the
personal; from the source.


Wednesday, September 20, 2017


Is this world exactly as we see it,
or is it as we think it should be,
and in the doing, make it manifest
in ways beyond our imagining?

Is there such a thing as sound if
there is no ear to hear it, or is what
we call sound, no more than invisible
waves, rolling out from circumstance?

Is love real in the ways that we believe,
or, is it a need, desire, determination
to connect, hardwired into us before
we are born and in need of a name?

Is the past a reality, formed and held
enduring, in some unseen place, beyond
our ability to know other than fragments
of that which we call memories?

Is there anything which we can claim
is absolutely real, or is all that we feel,
see, experience, no more than intangible
workings, which blink in and out of being?

Is there an answer to all of our questions,
or, just more questions, lingering in the
darkness, waiting for the light of curiosity
to shine, brightly but briefly upon them?

Saturday, September 9, 2017

To search

To search within the almost seen, scramble in the mind,
to rummage through the coats of past, seeking so to find,
who I am and who I was and who I still might be;
so does love draw gentle hands across eternity.

Who was I then, who am I now, and who will I become,
so do the questions roll and taunt when certainty is gone,
and who I might have been, or could, has drifted on the wind;
so do potentials reach an end, before we can begin.

That morning when I woke in fear and huddled into Self,
as dreams and deep imaginings were tumbling from the shelf,
so then I saw in scattered wreck the tramplings of my heart;
and realised, that who I was, had never played a part.

And yet it had been written, this tortured, searching path,
which led from birth and on to death, as pure and soulful art,
for in the journey to become, to know and render true;
I learned the shape of  what was me, perceived, what was called you.

Tuesday, August 29, 2017


In that milky pout of bubble,
which births from your tiny
lips, there rests a purity of 
being; timeless, ancient, bliss
which resonates through
centuries as life's perfect kiss;
where virgin beginning, lives
in fragile hope of tender years,

before translucent hope can drift.

Sunday, August 27, 2017


Hammer at the feelings,
frame the thoughts denied,
dump the doubts and fears;
epic are the tides.

Rivers will keep flowing,
hours the list of days,
straight the moment calling;
protects you in all ways.

Sense the gusts of knowing,
hesitate no more,
let the fates do guidance;
abide by ancient law.

Wednesday, August 23, 2017


The real borders exist in the mind,
and have no form in the material
world, but are more powerful, than
any fence or wall or gate might be,

for they enclose our thoughts, our
beliefs, our attitudes and often, our
feelings, in ways which prevent the
truth of connection; in ways which

hold us in place, defined, if not
imprisoned behind the edifice of
fear, which made boundaries so
necessary, in the first place, and

which, is always, through distant
night, and hovering day, working
artfully, to replace the mortar, make
stronger the defences, reinforce the

walls, which hold us in and others
out, those boundaries of heart and
mind, of soul and psyche; those
borders we have so carefully built,

where trailing leaves, seeking roots,
perfumed blossoms, call always
from the other side, just out of our
reach, and beyond limited vision.

Sunday, August 20, 2017

Language of Lies

It was the first lie which led the way,
like an orange beacon on the hill of
deceit, beginning that march into evil,
which left love hanging on the broken

gate of betrayal, where more lies stood
as statues, carved in sad facts of denial,
and right, kneeled, whimpering in the
skirts of yesterday; adultery's hood had

defined my truth, hidden your face in such
blackness, that no amount of torches could
ever bring enough light to bear upon what
now was an impossible, searing, darkness.

New life

You became who you were in an exploration,
of becoming, through the marriage of male and 
female, woven into being in dark brightness,
where silence sang ancient songs through

watered, imaginings; drifting in an ocean
salted through time and love, breathing in
that slow way of creation, through all that
you were, or might be, as the angels drew

in scented books, the story of the life you 
would live and who you would become, as
you left the place where life had entered into

your soul, passing through each breath I
took, each surge of my blood and waiting
love, in that deep unknowing we both knew.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

The Flood

They've taken down the 
shining light, and the
river, has returned to its
blackened, hidden self.

In that place of dreams,
night beds down, slow
forgetting tides and flow,
calling to the darkness,

arched as innocent surrender,
true to sightless possibility,
nothing seen, just imagined,
sounds of suckling mud,

as it flows, out of sight,
drifting in that sure way 
of pure, and endless being, 
as I step into the dream and

have no questions, for all
may yet be made ready,
for the chill kiss of dawn,
revealing what has been

born in ebony caverns, those 
 ephemeral figures creep,
drawn from Akashic realms,
dipping trailing fingers

into the wash of waves;
allowing the drown of 
becoming, to release, 
bequeath, unknown treasures.

'What have you found?' 
The voice rides liquid crests,
somnolent, searching, sighing,
at the breast of Soul; in

deliquescent dressing drench
of formless, rich potential. 
'I found myself,' even though
I had not known I was lost.

 Evening moon glittering
on strewn harvest of 
luscious river weeds, torn
from their beds, and shaken

across the flooded earth,
dressing muddy realms, in
stalk, leaf and frond of now
slow rotting death and life.

Wednesday, August 16, 2017


You may say I'm a dreamer,
but my world is not as yours,
and in the making of my days,
the dream reveals the source,

for it is in deep imagining that
I can find my way, and dance
upon the cracks of life, neatly
stepping, through each chance,

scotching hops which do not
lead, across the squared nights
and rounded hours, chalked
lightly on the path of time...

you may say I'm a dreamer,
and I admit that I am, for the
dream is no more than the
mind of God made manifest.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Love and Loss

Laugh lightly at the end of days,
weep deeply in its warmth,
spice of wit dilutes the shock;
bird of love released.

Memories hold fast, in place,
twinkle in our dreams,
grow a quilt of trust;
and soothe the hours of grief.

Let love
lift up its voice in song,
to smooth life's coverlet,
so time
can bring its healing;
acceptance takes small steps.

 wren of hope sings quietly,
in words we may not hear,
but sing it does, eternally;
reminds us not to fear.

Friday, August 4, 2017


Run the music magically,
let the notes full shine,
sing the wonder deeply;
tease the stilted mind.

Hear the message flimsy,
know it is a truth,
soul does speak in silence;
trips up doubt as proof.

Three, the sacred number,
life's trilogy bespoke,
trace the Goddess line;
Mother, Maiden, Crone.

Tire not of the work,
let time call you on,
be the servant dutiful;

honouring her song.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

The End

Seconds break from ocean of time,
sculling through foaming minutes,
dragging waves of sodden hours,
thundering into dropped days as

they wash upon life's sandy feet;
crumbled careering of bubbled
beginnings, and frothing ends,
those months, years and decades

which sluice our hearts from birth
unto death, as seabirds scree and
sing above, darting through puff
of cloud and curious wind, in that

dance of life which has no end,
and yet which, in truth, has never
begun, for all is caught: an eternity
of bright and shining imagination.

Tuesday, August 1, 2017


When fear sucks in hope,

 holds breath, refuses

 release, the world seems

 to shrink inwards, denying


 possibility, promising pain,

 gritting brittle teeth

 in optimism's face;

 then  I wait for angels


 to whisper thoughts of

 comfort,  and prod

 open lips of despair;

 allowing bright exhale.



Bend the scent of sanity,
stitch the sail of time,
surrender the archaic;
trip the soul sublime.

Scan the vivid moment,
heat the pot of joy,
slice the sliver carefully;
cherish life as toy.

Follow in the calling,
let the hours shine,
all is an experiment;
God's world so divine.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017


Rain roils like fire in flaming torrents,
sucking in the air, devouring vision,
thundering crackle, consuming distance,
sodden smoking of nature's breath;

so do the heavens serenade the sighing
soil, drenching barren fear, sluicing
away the doubts of dying season, in
unexpected baring of glistening teeth,

lined at Winter's long-dried mouth, 
where voice of hope had been silenced,
flattened by dry, hard days and thirsty
nights, not even a sigh of dusty words,

as time surrendered to the certainty
of hopelessness, of looming death,
of crackled steps, wasted growth; until
that sudden moment when Life laughed

at Death, in glorious watered smile.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017


The words contain the images,
of memories profound, slow
written through the pages
which life bestows around,

the separating minutes, the
seconds in slow drip, divided
into days then months, as fallow
years do slip; forgetting all

the dreams, and moments lost
in sleep, as if they never were,
as if the angels keep, our very
self and being, in places surely

hid, so do we make our way
through time, so do we ride
the grid, of this pure place
of being, of this material

world, of flesh and bone and
exile, of hopes and loss, full
hurled, into the whirling
firmament, into the stream

of time, which Soul requires
to find itself, bestowed on
us as Mind. So does the dance
begin and end as Word;

we creatures so defined. 

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Hooded Self


Hooded self describing,
huddled on cold shores,
dark horizon distant;
pebbled mind perforce.

Twinned in all displacing,
gripped by fevered hand,
bird of grief defacing;
silently we stand.

So my alter ego calls,
draws soul to her side,
lures me to water's edge;
catch the morning tide.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Soul tired

My soul was tired, worn,
huddled under weariness
which clothed the days,
and broken minutes of

my mind, where detritus
of hope lay withered, in
a groping of itself, beyond
the place where it could

hold any shape, which
was recognisable. Yawning
in that cavern of forgetting,
soul languished, and in

ancient palms, observed;
slowly counted out the
moments of becoming:
calling all to account. 

Thursday, June 22, 2017


These days they call
the Autumn of years,
are really no different
to those which would be

called a Summer or a
Spring, or even a Winter,
for, like the seasons, there
is the constant hold of our

being, and the changing
costumes, picked up each
day, dropped at night, found
again, and worn in different

ways. Through all the seasons,
earth, sky, tree remain as them
selves, but dressed in varying
ways, which give the feeling

that they are not the same, and
yet, of course they are, in essence
and form, the same as they have
always been. As are we ….

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Moving house

Packing up the pieces
of a life now gone, soon
to be repeated, in another
home, and yet in the

moving, some things
will not last; different
time and spaces, their
own taste will cast.

In the ever-changing,
flow, of life and place,
there will be a change in
who and what you are.

Sift through those
belongings, treasure and
release, know they hold
no value, in any sense

that's real. People are
what matters, they're
the only plus - all the
rest will be reduced...

simply things and stuff.

Sunday, May 21, 2017



Run the music magically,
let the notes full shine,
sing the wonder deeply;
tease the stilted mind.

Hear the message flimsy,
know it is a truth,
soul does speak in silence;
trips up doubt as proof.

Three, the sacred number,
life's trilogy bespoke,
trace the Goddess line;
Mother, Maiden, Crone.

Tire not of the work,
let time call you on,
be the servant dutiful;
honouring her song.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Sharing the bed

I couldn't bear to think of you,
at nights when sleep denies,
but sitting always at my side,
the smell of you resides.

The bed had shrunk to hide me,
no room for you to share.
and yet your presence filled it;
in sheets of damp despair.

I couldn't bare to feel you,
at night when sleep won't come,
but sitting always at my side,
your form, in silence, hums.

Autumn leaves

Image result for autumn adelaide hills

Leaves linger in surrendered shrouds,
holding lightly to the last of Summer,
sodden in their fraying moments;
knowing that the hour draws closer

when they must fall and fall and fall
out of the place they called home,
finding new ways of being in the
dust of the chilly day; writing in

coloured prose, their message on
the ground, holding their arms up
to the inevitable rotting, which is
their destiny and always was the

place that they would find them
selves, in the ever-changing cycle
of life and death, written in the
heart of unforgiving seasons. 


Through retinal reflection mind dictates,
what image we will find and draw as true,
in order that the world beyond makes sense;
calls meaning, from that which is obscure.

There is no right or wrong in how we see,
just ways of pulling line and form to shape,
and finding purpose in all that we dream;
with life made manifest as source creates.

Sunday, May 14, 2017



Sign the moment quietly,
pull the tassel loud,
line the speakers solemnly;
tug on love's pure shroud.

Tap the board of honesty,
drum the song of hope,
work to build the bouquet;
hum with every stroke.

Drape the orange blanket,
fold the yellow cloth,
pleat the fading curtains;
interpret nature's wrath.

Tease beliefs enticingly,
poke at all you know,
stir the pot of questioning;
humbly shall you grow.

Thursday, May 11, 2017


Crush of  earth compacted,
suck of soil fulfilled,
dust is full created;
bed of life revealed.

Turn of clod and farrow,
dirt lays bare its face,
time in sandy marrow;
growth in darkest grace.

Seasons are the costume,
sun the roiling blood,
rain in fertile perfume;
nature's perfect food.

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Hollow heartbeat


Thrum the hollow heartbeat,
sigh the sodden mind,
court the lethal hurtings;
split the psyche blind.

Deck the soul with ivy,
strip the self till bare,
fight the row of sorrow;
murky glass of care.

Stay the moment lost,
hide the key of hope,
wallow in the grieving;
hang on bitter rope.

Friday, April 21, 2017


Sometimes the words just stop,
as if sulking in hidden corners,
resenting where they have been
taken, pouting in that soft-lipped

way they have, where the brutal
capacity is denied, and their
power is contained, because it
must be, even though the mind

does not understand why they
have retreated into that darkness
of isolation and surrender, as if
they have been chastised just

once too often, and now refuse
to make their presence known,
to allow themselves to be used,
as if to punish for what has been

done, unless, of course, it is a
reminder that sometimes it is
in silence that we find ourselves
and know truths beyond words.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Stone did sigh


Stone did sigh in sympathy,
leaf did listen close,
ants in follow carefully;
taste the crumbs of hope.

Bird did reach in comfort,
dog in turn of love,
test the barrier of time;
release the pure dove.

Nail my heart to silence,
scrape my mind full clear,
taste the breeze of sorrow;
fill the trunk of fear.

Friday, April 7, 2017

End of life

Pure luscious wings of life are spread,
As feathered days on dusty nights prepared,
To herald now the passing of our slowly drifting years;
An honouring of all that has been shared.

Surrendering of day and known self,
Softened folding, drape and fall of skin,
We shed the images of old and sadly drooping dreams;
To show the shape so long  and truly hid.

What lives behind the shining mask,
Ego-polished with  soft, worn rag of mind,
that holds us,  back,  with bright, death-awful glare;
Blinding sight to what lies lost and rare.

Desire to seek lies limply lost,
There is no call to hear or strive to find,
No dream that leads us on to mightier, noble truths;
We wait, abandoned by the rule of mind.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

The bulls stand silent...

The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,
the bulls stand silent in the lake,
the figure crucified is seen
upon the framework of the dream.

With arms spread wide and silent eyes
they lift her high upon the boughs
and turn her face towards the south
where white-flanked cows raise shining knives
above the meek and pious brows.

With sure and steady strokes they strip
pink flesh from each initiate,
to bathe in sacred waters then
the raw-bled truth of god and men.

NB: These were dream figures.

And I extended the poem thus, but did not include the rest for this Dverse post, but thought I would post it for those who might be interested where I took the dream:

The wise man watches, monkey-faced
and clasps each paw in full embrace
around the pierced and bleeding feet
of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.

Then gathered in small, blackened arms
the corpse is carried to the edge
of water, sanctified and deep
wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.

To lie beneath the water’s chill
and watch through full and empty eyes
the blood-washed sacrifice above

has been her greatest act of love.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Love leapt

Love leapt light, ridiculous,
drew cartwheels in the air,
turned upside down and
spun around, delighted to
be here - that dance of life,
fantastic, that dream of 
song revered, that minuet
of madness - that gift
of you bequeathed.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Lullaby of grief

Crystalline the lullaby of grief,
in shining, blackened, arched
and keening sighs, vibrations
which do resonate with angel
smiles,  as spirit holds the
bucket God has given, to fill
with green and swaying leaves
of memory, budding, like the
waterlily, floating on deep
ponds, in scattering of images,
reflecting on the surface, opal-
glittered dreams of what was;

tattered pages, leaf by leaf,
of sacred verse, which holds
the pearl so precious of our
love, for soul to fish again,
for secrets, rocking in the boat
which heaven built, as ancient
hands keep writing, telling tales
of joy and great bewilderment,
while horses of new hope stand,
waiting by the plank which still
connects the drifting mind, to
solid, sure rememberings. 

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Autumn leaf

Laughter eloquent as leaf,
in golden, shimmer shudders,
to dress the sky so briefly;
and haunt the soil in time.

These offerings of Autumn
hang lightly in the air,
and dance decays becoming;
twixt life and death ensnared.

Each one is born in solitude,
and dies alone at last,
in crumbling drifts eternal;
from tree to waiting earth.

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

The river

The ring of water grew slowly; washing,
in circling, funnelled, constancy,
against the earth on which she sat. The
floods had come, both literal and symbolic,

watering the dry, hard ground of psyche and
of  soil. It was, they whispered, just
a stage that she was going through, or was
that growing through? In the silence,

on the edge of fallowed fields of broken
grain, she could almost imagine that
the land would be swallowed by that suck
of snaking river, released, when dams

broke, further upstream - in places she
had never seen and of which she could
only dream. Dust settled between bare
toes, and sighed in dark sorrow at

the edge of sole, until, at last, as the
sun fell limply into stubbled fields,
she dropped her feet over the edge;
and washed the grains of dirt and memory

from all that she had become in that
time, at the edge of ageing worlds.

Saturday, March 18, 2017


Your thoughts applied
so physically; thick and
barely formed, to paint
the essence critically;
dark colours, blurred,
forlorn. And in the drip
of wet, soft fear, the tones
reduced my heart, with
grey and black and solemn
strokes, tearing me apart.
No light allowed, no sun
could reach, no play of hope
bestowed, and sunset drew
the dawn’s bright face;
death’s cock would
mournful crow.

Meet the Bar with impressionism

Thursday, March 16, 2017


days write large in moments,
weeks which seal the hours,
months to make it solid;
so the years are formed.

in the drip of minutes, in
the fall of days, in the hold
of months, we see... our
lives are full displayed. 

Tuesday, March 14, 2017


Spring of teal plays nautical,
hawsers set in flight, 
secured upward curvature;
released from deepest hide.

Flinging wash of moment, 
season rises fast, 
mattress for the Summer;
blossoms quickly cast.

Equinox is vernal,
solstice beckons strong,
power is coil eternal;
seed in bursting song.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017


In that moment when hope
screams hollow, lost for all
time, falling down into a
darkness which cannot be

imagined, and yet which is
always feared; hidden from
sight, but not thought; that
is when despair pegs itself

to the line of consciousness,
held in place, at the mercy
of the winds, and blazing
sun, for what seems eternity.

Monday, March 6, 2017


It has faded, the image
of Christ, we bought in
Russia. Neither of us
believed, but valued

the art of the icon, in
which others invest so
much faith, hope and
trust, deserving to have

it more than we did,
and yet, perhaps in that
place of non-belief, we
put our coins on the

counter, as an act of
trust, hope and faith,
even if we did not know
it, or, even dared to think

that it might possess a
power beyond its small,
material self, which,
while faded, in that time

bleeding which happens
to all things, still offers
beauty, grace, and a faint
sense of pure possibility.


I pose the possibility
that prose is not a word
to fit with any poetry;
the concept is absurd.

For prose is just the way
we speak, no metre, and
no rhyme; no meeting to
be had, in poetry sublime.


Reflected, in the mirror
of your eyes, remembering
in that dream of who you
were, who I was, or might

have been, if things had
been different, if the depths
of your being, had, like the
lake, flung back the truth

of who you were, who I
was, or might be; and yet
even if it had, I would only
ever have been a reflection.

Small stones for March

March 1

Days draw deep 
and quiet, as noisy 
magpies sing.

March 2
Autumn whispers through
the tangled skirts of 
fading Summer.

March 4

Love breathes hollow,
ashen-faced, upon
hard chest of grief.

March 3

Clotted skies of 
sombre brooding;
Autumn taps her feet.
March 5
Hope, holds steady
pace, on Fear’s
parade ground.

March 6.

Rain like mist,
whispers to the
reaching grass.

Thursday, March 2, 2017

On caring

There are times when those,
we love, become ravelled in
deep places, dark abodes, of
being, and they can no longer

hear our voice, sense our
presence, feel our love, and
instead, they build walls of
thought, to hold back the tides

of connection; placing cold
fingers in seeping cracks, to
ensure, that the feelings will
not break through, to wash

them clean of the pain, and
hurt, and all we can do, on
the other side, is pray with
love and bright compassion.

Monday, February 13, 2017



Prayers carved brown
the detail, written deep
in doors, ignoring ancient
papers, to set the stone
once more.

Fire bled into being,
seared body, mind and
soul, as soldiers now
victorious , dreamed of
home long gone.

Time dragged ragged
fingernails, across the page
of life, and rent the darkness
viciously, to show us
something bright.

Sunday, February 5, 2017



Life  does often seek to manage mind,
where sanity demands another face,
and reason edits out discordant sound;
so is the heart embraced in mental vice.

Reality  becomes a ghastly, raging foe,
where thoughts fill  narrow ranks as demons,
defies the bounds of what we want to know;
hope on salted ground is surely leavened.

Insanity can hold the upper stony ground,
and mock from echoed distance all we are,
so do the angels hold out waiting hand;
salvation shines although its touch is rare.

Slant does twist the world of outer truth,
invokes that dance polarity to then ensure,
a mirror which reflects what is, as both;
in opposites,  all then revealed as pure.  


Tuesday, January 10, 2017

The soul does sing


The soul does sing in silence,

Eloquent, profound –

The loudest whisper redolent,

The source of all now known.


Ah, love and joy are fastest,

Ingredients of life,

Knitted in as symphony;

So is the self defined.