You can say all roads lead to Rome
And a few lead to Wytham
Yes, a few lead to Wytham
As quiet as it is, but roam
Your way, on your bus, on your car:
I only know one, I only want one
And it may be long to go so far
On so little, but I shan't be gone
Unless it be by foot or on a bicycle
Run past the ruins of Godstow, the road
A minefield in sweet quiet from the bridge, tickle
The Trout, press the hedges at the goad
Of yet another motor, on bike or foot
On bike or foot, that I may kiss the ground
In pilgrimage to memory and childhood
Before the shades in which we're lost, we're found.

Why are the houses languishing
well, there's no one inside that's full of life
insects and reptiles
eat away at the decaying
little sounds
dust of obsolescence
piled up as wind cuts across
the parts have become so dull
from lacking a mind and soul
within
beauty of humanity deadened
by decadence
a void
corrupts the ignorant whole
I tried
to open the closed door
but i'm afraid
the locks on it
too rusted and corroded
if any life were to be breathed into the house
all doors have to be broken down
i have tried
to unlock the stone of wisdom
with the key of my thought
but i fear the medicated brain
is too rigid and tight
if the flotsam
is willing to be reborn
i will
pour some enlightened spirit
into the sensible nerves
the sun in the sky is celebrated
because the shine of it gives forth
life
the flower on the ground is too
because it's manifest
there's always a readiness
to absorb
that source.

In each vault: a fifty pound note—
How fragile our consciousness must be!
From each well: an overflow of oil,
Gently trickling into the village's stream.
And, for all their wealth, no sons to be seen;
No daughters frolicking across the effervescent green.
Only weapons adorn their mantlepiece.
No pictures of family. No memories amassed.
No records for spiritual esteem.

a shy sunrise over the hills
the quietness of frozen earth
dead leaves blessed with crystal
delicate magic
pine trees, white fir trees,
like untouchable heights
of my garden
the cherry tree dreaming
of cherries and the birds
in the sky
and my heart cracked opened
by the crisp wonder
of a winter spirit

After all these years
when i step into
the land of rye
i can still hear summer
its most authentic heartbeat
roar of the machine takes over
from the rasping scythe
cutting through stalks
when the grains are harvested to the barn
they'll be no more painful stubble at the feet
after many years
the summer is still so **** hot
i like it just as before
the season of mellow mango scent
and pleasant earthly aroma of barley
though all beings are a little deflated
no one wishes to light the flame
at the moment i miss the dense woods in the distance
because that's where cool breezes are born
i appreciate the hospitality of the cotton and corn
they keep bringing the joy of maturity
flowers are exceptionally generous
they keep painting the landscape
standing on the fresh verdant ground
let the rainstorm clean my dusty soul
summer is the season of zeal
i will extract the poetic fragrance
on every lush green plant
so that folks longing for a peaceful mind
can get a peaceful lyrical feeling
across this summer
i especially like the other side of the water
where i can dance with the shy lotus
this summer i've gathered
a bowlful of poems to read
with you.

move to the countryside
(cities crowd judgement)
   and carve a tree upon my heart

span life in walks
   and scrapes with harsh weather

soon to leather myself
   into a practical creature

earn lighter being
  seldom to pass stressful thought

Trees are tall their leaves fall,
We look them up and down and see beauty,
The vision of growth and strength in the overpowering Branches,
There are funny little shaped trunks,
They are claimed they are hugged,
They are drawn and sawn,
Trees are our friends when we let them be,
Trees contain the destruction,
In mother nature's grace,
We love the trees all the same because they give us space.

When the morning first is born
With darkness on the run.
Warmth and light then greet the morn'
And make the way for sun.

When night-time creatures take their bed
And daytime things appear;
That's the time, I've often said,
When heaven is most near.

To stand and view the coloured show
With flowers of each kind;
The vivid hues of petals glow,
They intoxicate your mind.

To walk amongst the dewy grass
Which sparkles in the light.
Their blades salute you as you pass
And chase away the night.

To look above and see the sky
As blue as blue can be.
To stand below and wonder why
The blue is all you see.

Except the sun invades the blue
And gilded splendour cast;
A vestige that the day is new
And yesterday is past.

This day is noble, like my bird,
A beauty to behold.
This day is special, take my word;
Vivid, sparkling, blue and gold

Longing for the land of my lineage
I am dying here, in Beggar Country
Here, where fools act the wise
Pseudo Intellectualism steadily on the rise
Where the disease celebritism has took hold
Forced out the tried and true for the shiny yet old
Where the idiom
The more things that change, the more remains the same
Is unquestionably fact
I long for Ireland
I long to go back

Give me land that's green
And rolling countryside
Give me tide to rival hell's fury
And people that mean well, amid gales so dreary
I miss fog
Like that kicked up by the mire

Give me land that's hungry
Give me people that's tired