Nearly Seen.

Through the thinnest of veils there exists
worlds behind and between
mind-tides of seeming reality, semblance
of things intentionally waive
what is thought as experience and effects
on immediate senses.
Not dreams but live essences divined in
the universe as earthly yet
creatureless air holds shape-shifter faces
biding in every corner as
shifting shadows taking different forms.
Speech tho' unvoiced conveys
more in silence from dimensional planes
for primal harmony obeys
awareness of self together with presence
and felt power reverberates
with non-visible beauty in many guises
before assuming any shift
in available love-morphed configuration
to frame the rarely seen.
To those who use viewing beyond things
enough suitable reason
to receive, unafraid, spiritual aid toward
infinity come vague feelings
through thinnest of veils that there exists
worlds behind and between.

Too soon comes Autumn, nipping the heels
of unwary Summer while it stealthily seals
subtle changes in verdant leaf-laden trees.


Ripened fruits begin dropping unhinged by
rattle of branches in which Autumn hides.


Before battle commences its volatile breeze
scatters copper-thin shivers through obese
Summer with its cunningly capricious ease.


Autumn comes running nor stands aside
while plants adjust to its dynamic stride.


It tosses relentless as with bounty it plays
and douses growth's hold by raining days
of voracious havoc onto Summer's ill-fate.


Scurrying birds sense the warning of chill
as Autumn's sigh pecks at my window-sill.


All life battens down to change of season
for as Summer recedes, fight must yield.


Flower buds crumble and last roses fade
knowing Autumn comes running, to stay.

Six-petaled lily and five-fold rose,
tall spirals of prettiness
now garden grown
yet rotating round order
symmetry-driven,
where went the wildness those
flowers had known ?

Laboratory-tamed by generation
pale blooms tho still twining
seek lost fragrance
for from ****-sterile loam
growth begets fight,
as with freedom abated, disease
makes itself home.

So beautifully tasteless becomes
cultivation when plants
yield big money
not left to live out unpampered,
each to its own,
as does nature's floral abundance
found in all hedgerows.

Shunted back home, grey-faced
from war's front come tired men,
longing to be understood.

To start life again in same roads
full of faces they fought to save
needs no password of proof.

Veterans brave clapping crowds,
with traffic compounding stress,
in heads addled already.

Minds slowly engage, befuddled
and sunk still in battle ground din
the norm feels unsteady.

Note how killing fields maim lads     
who in their unwinding stay mute
about those lost in pain.

May homesters remember "effect
follows cause" so hope cruel wars
never happen again.

The Few.

A tribute to those who man Lifeboats.

There are the mere few
........................ still used by the many,
Who always refuse
...................to turn back from danger,
And in whose wet shoes
.........................not many would walk.
Who never misuse
............................the credit of heroes.
They need no excuses
............................to face raging ocean
And those it's abusing,
....................yet fight with small boats
For souls they won't lose.
...............................Life-saving angels
Are whom we would choose
.......................to wrap in God's caring
When sea-storms effuse
..............................their terrible worst.

Who has not heard the very
first whisper
Of sonorous change as it catches
the drift
In tremulous breeze and starts
to quiver ?
An inward shuddering swells
to myriads
Of differing encores chiming to
sighing winds.

Who of us has measured each
rhythm blown
Thru trees and expertly echoes
all the notes
That ****** in my swinging pipes
of chrome ?
The chatter when changing key
by rota,
Makes wind-chiming music sing
in motion.

Who has explained this addiction
for more
Tunes as wind's move transfixes
with awe ?
Mad moments subdued by mystic
sound draws
From ringing a peace not met with
before.
Stress-mood relieved proves chimes
can transform

Love, said the Guru,
         does not hold back,
  love has no lack.
Love does not inhibit,
     love knows no limit.
Love will not abuse,
   love's flow is continuous.
  Love is not blind,
     love heeds no time.
Love, he stated, is not frugal,
   love is inside you.
Love stays alive, never dies,
      Love asks but for use.

Shyly quiet,
hunched in servile pretense,
the white coat
of one seagull crunches old
paper, ruffles
wind-bunched feathers and
waits astride
a cliff-top fence while I, car
encased, unwrap
my lunch and admire views
in a welcome break,
but yellow-eyed tactics strut
a strategy, to win
open windows and ******
guilt in people
who throw half-eaten crusts
as easy pickings.
Guile rewarded, fights begin
for wily wings
soon muster to shove others
in screaming war
as one feeding bird becomes
transformed to four
then ravenous dozens until
not a crumb left
as I close the car door on yet
more skirmish.
At hunger's worst, its gnaw
serves self first
by law of nature in the raw.

I am me,
the product of timeless eternity.
You are you
for whom wisdom created earth's beauty.
We are
citizens of great universality.
Let us
make it a place in which Love is the rule.

There are those
who would of a whim destroy nations
Bring to quick
end proven power of regeneration.
You friend
are he who can change course of history.
I am me who
though weak can add the weight needed.

We individually can make difference
believable.
Together humanity can choose lasting
peace.

Watching with bird pride
Working the cliff-side
Looking for noon fare,
Freezing in mid-air
Hovering, sharp-eyed
Swooping, he nose-dived
Spreading a wide wing
Sweeping, his claws cling
Avoiding a sharp beak
Emitting a high squeak
Running, a small shrew
Avoiding the next cue
Missing , the bird soared
Pulsating, his eyes bored
Trailing the same line
Waiting for next time.
Predatory Kestral
Doing his best.

Met once, in the harbour of need,
She found a soul she thought was akin
To her own, lonely and bleeding
For want of love  and she felt it  begin.

For a while days took on the glow
of feeling alive, blew away mists from
dull disillusion knowing he
mattered more than his actual kisses.

Distance became a mutual
sore and as never before tears began
staining her hours, duty
bound her and she became fearful.

Pouring out verses of angst
served to assert her desperation, she
survived but control, reserved
for good writing became essential.

And gone now, she wanted no more.
Sleep failed her, she was assailed
With sickness she'd not known before
And vivacity became veiled.

Now looked at, her yesterday-thoughts
Brought back miserable night-black times,
When her words scribed non-action, taught
Nothing but how to keep whining.

Lost love held the winning hand, truth
Was labelled by her own longing.
Compassionate chores  wore duty
Reluctantly, rhymes spun sad songs.


But her soul saw a more hopeful rest.
She found life demands detachment,
Then phrases write themselves sensibly
And acceptance of "now"  enraptures.

Yesterday's thinking was halted,
Captured in poetic fore-thought.

Catching the Moon.

Water, transparent as crystal
tastes of darkness when night falls,
and on evening sands, in fitful
patterns, pebbles gleam
in trelissed shawls,
faintly glimmering daylight's white.

Moon willfully plays shadow games
of catch-as-you-can, its sheen,
repeating sun's stronger rays, framed
now in lunalight, helps dreams
re-appear, moon-faced and bright.

Not pearls hidden in rocky seas,
nor all the gull-haunted bays
can keep me from penning meaning
into this time with verses
caught by magic of orb-stored light.

Whispers from wine-coloured moonlight have now
blighted old river grass.
No-one will pass by this flood's blistering chorus of
frustrated past outcry.
The waters stay silted with years-long, war-seared
bitterness as each ill-timed
Peace talk crumbled to finish killed by conclusions
of coated top-brass.


Dreams of the tortoise-shelled butterfly days faded
long before turbulent rapids
Drew young men and women toward battles over
naught but misapplied fears.
Lifetimes float hormonally by in river-side history
as pride's facade of need for action.
Forces of folk press-mustered, taught naught but
allegiance to mindless leads.


Listening I hear victims' pathetic exits still weeping
regrets for conceding to hate.
Wisps of blood-to-come days surface from tainted
mould as no war sits easily.
What happens when, hit by flows of violence peace
can no longer struggle for gain ?
Reddened under-tow of sacrifice rises from victims
caught in sightless obedience.

Never Again.

Never this day again,
never this moment of potent sensation.

Air of sharp crystalline
will not again invade this exact skyline.

The same sun's high display
will never perform this grandeur again.

Not again this daytime
when whirling seagulls hunt high tide.

No more this moment's sheen
diamantéing each ripple over the sea.

Never again this morning
when quiet eats into sound and form.

Nature's speech, in this second
only, will never be bettered for effect.