to talk of dead folk

i was quietly drawing
at the old table and as

one can, I felt someone

behind me on the work
shelf

i turned
as it skittered away
with its prize to chew

outside

the last of my dead
mummifieds is gone

eaten as before

i am drawing some odd

stuff these days. meanwhile

my mobile still makes capitals
so I changes that

the breeze comes through the
window

while down by the hedge I get
bitten

it must be tiring
with all the heat
of summer

it was cool here yesterday
down the estuary

and rain came about 7.30

refreshing while walking

no use when your job is baling
when the baler is jammed

so we had a break in the back garden
six feet apart and talked about policemen

remembering earlier times

later a friend rang and said it was good
to hear a different perspective on things

i also was interested to hear a different

perspective on things

we come lately
we come with more
promise

with bird song
this morning

so why the darkness
some days

is that natural?

there is a clear pool up by the mountain
where recently visitors have left litter

dark clouds gathering

Oh! Humiliated  mother world
You got the territory,
I have been sitting on the ground destroying you
Engaged in a drunken game.

Yet, you have spread your love
In the green ceremony,
I sit on it and put fire on it
In the betrayal of ignorance.

The whole world gazing it
But, everyone is dumb,
Your comfort is our comfort
We don't understand, why!

Pardon me being forgiving
Oh! Mother world,
And will not make any mistake knowingly
Kissing your prosperous land.

My tears are dry
as a bone. I cried
many teardrops
that froze to my

face. They turned
to icicles and cut
as razor blades. I bled
out all the red myself

in bed. I turned
hard from the cold, as
the grass in my yard
under a blanket of

snow. I’ve dug
an impression none can
see. The sun doesn’t shine
on me. When you’re a rock

they look at you
as a mismatched sock. None
can tell I fought to grow
between the blades and bitter snow.

Along side the old railroad track
A harsh breeze keep an eagle suspended
While the wind whistles
Through the massive power lines
The Fundy water red with clay
Although I've never been
I'm sure it's comparable to
The great Muddy Mississippi
Always seems to be an osprey in the air
and gulls and geese at low tide
Feeding to the delight of hikers
Come see us someday where there is
No politics in play
Just fresh air and clean visuals
Refreshing to say the least
Like a mushroom high

Go sit up all night,
Go sit up on the Arm's wall.

I'm going to take it all in
and think about it all.

The moonlight on the water
striking me in the eye,

Mighty Blue Heron
under intermittent sky.

Ducks knocking back shellfish,
Fuelling up for the flight into fall.

Here I sit, quiet, on a stone,
so glad to be on the Arm's wall.

Cast out Faith
into the wind
and Doubt
upon the Sea.

Believe your Self empty,
to be filled.

Cast away Hope
to the Earth
and your despair
to the Stars.

Be done with your version
of Right and Wrong.

Cast away Righteousness
into the deep
and malice where
it cannot be dredged.

Stand to replace these with Vision,
Vision and Truth.

Cast out your Human desires,
cast away your mask..
be God within you,
without you, through you.

Be done with that mask,
become your Self.

Cast them away..
Faith, Hope,
Doubt and Despair.

With rigorous Humility
choose to be Disciplined.

Cast your Self clean,
relieve your Self of these,
becoming empty to be
filled with greater things.

The tiny town's talented tailor
swiftly sews silken suits,
in his shop he plays the Wailers,
Bob Marley fills his boots.
Beside his shop
sits Susie's Sushie,
she serves him lunch
every Tuesday.
He leaves a tip because
she treats him well,
He's got a crush and
she can tell.
After lunch
it's back to work,
measuring here
and stitching there,
everthing is done
just savoirfaire.
All the town folk
say he is the master.
He smiles at this
and works all the faster.
Then on the corner
the clock strikes five,
with the last suit hung
he says enough of this jive.
He shuts the light
and locks the door.
Nine bells tomorrow
and he'll be back for more.

I’m an imposter.

I’m an imposter and no one can know.

I may end up on the street in rags that once were my clothes.

Money isn’t everything,
But being poor blows

And I’m facing the clock.

What then felt like freedom now feels like a box;

Like a long leash
in a big yard
Where the gate’s always locked.