Where to go from here
on this most intimate journey
towards eternity?

I do not know
but my faith remains firm
in trusting Your most precious wisdom!

Purpose -
to bring something
into existence
baptize it with a name
and bless it's frail tangibility
with an aura of poignant grace.

Yet again
the stars
are out
in all their
stupendous
glory;

as ever,
a silent
fireworks
of constant
dismay,

while
You knock
on the door
of my heart.

Please enter,
quickly,
that I
might
convey
to the world
with candlelike
signals

something of
the joys
of Your
workings
in, through
and  around
humankind.

Sounding
deep and deeper
into a myriad of memories;
into the archives of the mind's tomes;
into the roots and foundations
of a flowing and alternatively stagnant consciousness;
into the labyrinths
of emotional conflicts and behaviour;
into why there is anger, bitterness and contempt
and in the next beat love, compassion and even laughter.

Sometimes with daunting deduction there is a revelation
springing forth from the secret realms
of the subliminal self.

The hundrum existence of millions of lives suddenly ceased
as did their obedience to the drudgery of habit -
taking to the sea, to their gardens, to boats, cool drinks,
sun-tan lotions, ice-creams, cool dresses,
to light and shade as dictated to by desire.

Sand scorching to the naked foot glitters like gold for the having
and every square of every town shelters under a haven of umbrellas
and lazy liquor assisted sensuous talk.

The farmers work on a Sunday too
and weekend traffic jams sweat it out
to the blaring of radio cheerfulness in the extreme.

Spotless blue skies progress to star-lit canopies
and barbecues are the dominant feature of the early hours.

Sun and good humour, honest abandonment, salads and heavy foliage rule.

August sunlight
coupled with carefree breezes
flit through the well dressed oaks
outside of my rectangular window

and illuminate a stopgap
in the ongoing transience
of the seasons and time.

Celestial long summer days
bring us back to the joys of hide-and-seek,
tickling long grasses and blue infinite skies -
the innocence of childhood ways
played close to the ground
while travelling incredible imaginary distances
to attend a momentary symphony
of pastoral vision and sound.

Thundering on,
thundering
and thundering
on
the charge of spring
is begun,
riding over the plains
in a feast of virginal
and tender life;

vibrating and vibrating
with no stone
left unturned -


every space of goodness
in creation
fermenting
into abundance
and fresh, fresh
breathtaking
greener than green
growth.

Lulls
and intervals
interspersed
with Your
divine
touches -

illuminating
the night's
marathon.

Precious
the days,
the hours
and the minutes
for the creation and cutting
of verbal diamonds
and rolling rhythms
in Your name.

The race is on!

I trust that
all Your
comings and goings
are for my own
and others' benefit
as You deem necessary
in Your divine
omniscience.

I am
going
to Your
house
to
receive
You
into my heart -

that
I might
translate
something
of
Your
ethereal heights
into
everyday
life.

Walking
in a field
surrounded
by a forest
light streams down
and the sound of winged voices
drowns the senses in sheer simple drunkeness.

I feel as if I have just begun;
just been born and am 4000 years old.

Poets like blackbirds must sing
at the dawning and ending of each day;
tear the worm of nothingness
from the heart of existence
and embrace every miracle of chance
encountered or revealed
in every stream of light.

Sun and seed
warmly embracing;

the caterpillar
winding it's way
to incendiary flight.

Dichotomy
between the struggle
to be born,
the will to live
and a crestfallen
and ignominous
exit.

The sun exits, ever so slowly,
down behind the heights of bursting-into-leaf beeches
as gym-shoe-running children
are called in to supper and to bed.

Voices sound from balconies and neighbours' gardens
while blackbirds bid, contentedly, the day farewell.
Lawnmowers cease their whirring sounds
and clippers, rakes and hoes clank in wooden or plastic sheds.

Fragrances roam the evening air,
invading every square metre with terrestial joy,
and cigarettes are passed around
as the face next door has ceased
being a removed nod and smile.

Eventually, the curtains are drawn on a happy ending
while tentative talk succeeds in silencing
any riotous upheavals that might occur
in the night's discourses and dreams.

In the supine despair
that infiltrates every corner
of the spirit's, sometimes,
suffocating privacies

we yearn
to grasp and breath
hope and the simplest of joys.

This heart
weighs heavy
on the shoulders
of my existence

as a Welsh choir
bleeds forth
another lament
for and about
mankind.

Your door
was always
open -

this time,
I entered
from the weatherbeaten
steppes
of my non-being

never to leave
again.

Is there to be no reprieve
from the mental rack
of present hauntings
resurrecting a persistent
and pervading past ?

Into the more than endless night
they loom, dressed in cloaks
and armed with countless daggers,
rusted in their deep graves.

They plunge and contort
the heart into a shapeless mass
of free-floating anxieties
dominating and dissecting
every half-conscious syllable

destroying all feeble endeavours
at any semblance of normality.

I'm
a fool , a fool,
a fool
with a pen;

sometimes
a happy fool
with a pen,
with a pen
in his den.

Sometimes
a happy fool!

Violin strings
being fully stretched

as the world sleeps
through it's woes -

a dolorous tune
for mankind

heard
by but the few.

King of the night
with no servant in sight.

Most lights out
just me up and about

I stare at the snow
in between handling
my precious words with care.

Seeds that must grow and grow
in the springtime of my soul
being laid bare.

The village sleeps
when I retire.

The village sleeps
when I arise.

One man's land
counting grains of sand

while travelling towards eternity.

A piece -

too terribly beautiful,

too extremely poignant

and too utterly perfect

in expressing

the emotions

of a frail

and pathetically

limited heart.

During
a symphony
a fusion
of Your cross,
Munch's Scream
and my Mona Lisa's
innumerable faces
breath
a sense of completion.

Haunting music
fills this soul
to the brim,
in it's quest
for meaning
and dignity
in the wherewithal
of this meagre and aimless
existence.

A piano sonata
echoes
from the valleys
of a heart's
optimism,
in a night
winding down.

While celebrating
the late hours
in a silent, white
and sleeping village -

an Elizabethan Serenade
enchants a heart
playing solitaire.

A shot of music.

A human voice -
a voice of Slavic magic
storms into
the dried out
wastelands
of my parched soul.

At last!

Cheerful notes flood

the heart's empty chambers

and encourage impromptu steps

in a momentary jig of joy.

Slate,
brittle
and chipping away
at the edges -

like
growing
old!

The drums pound away
as an army of associations
and disconnected thoughts
invade the, already seething, chaos
of my enduring self.

Your heart here
is like a beacon
guiding burdened mortals
from the surfaces of ever darkening waters
to the shores of a safe place of shelter.

For Marie Shine.

The best 4 lines that I ever read:

The stone is a perfect creature,
equal to itself,
mindful of it's limits
and filled exactly with a pebbly meaning.

(Zbigniew Herbert).

I have another friend.

He was intensely unhappy
and jumped from a bridge.

Now he sits
in a wheelchair
and is intensely happy!

I have a friend
who can't read or write.

I listen to him.

He always
hits the nail on the head!

Days , weeks?,
gone by -

stubbles,
beards appear
like weeds
in a garden;

the wash undone,
no clean clothes;

***** dishes
suffocating
a small kitchen
space;

plants not watered;

post unanswered;

knocks on the door
ignored.

The poison
must first run
it's course!

Then
there were no barriers,
inhibitions or obstacle courses
to be scaled or completed
before the advance was made.

Now
every inch of progress
had to be measured in reams and miles
of pure print and aimless wanderings.

Then
action was!

Now
it is a Calvary gone
numbly insane.

In the void of our ignorance
we see ourselves as objects
floating in the helpless realms
of Einstein's dot
infinitely robbed of ageing transcience
and comfort in a happy-go-lucky existence.

Now
we live not to die
and lie not to live
but lie to survive.

Then
none of that mattered.

Then
time ignored clocks
and man-made habits,
complimenting
the agnostic-god of system.

Winding up by the sea

Even the grown-ups appear content
as the first paces of evening
bring a freshening breeze with them.

Time for packing,
beachballs to deflate,
togs to wring out

and uncomfortable grains of sand
to wash away from the nigglies of one's toes
by the cold-water tap
at the local strong smelling
convenience.

In the awesome arrival
of your transcendent brilliance,
with all storm-clouds driven away,
my soul ignites into profound conflagration -
being endlessly consumed with raptures untold.

Reaching out
in a waste
of dark spaces
time endures
in the fervent hope
of a meeting
with Your
celestial brightness.

Let
some solace
come
from the fire
and brimstone
rampant
in my soul.

Let
a soft and gentle
lyre
transform
the black clouds
permeating
my mind
with
condemnation
and gloom.

Let
the rivers
bursting
the banks
of  my heart
subside
and flow
to a tranquil
ocean.

Mr. Williams
and his guitar
bring aesthetics
to a new level
in the paradise of my room -

my entire being
totally ravaged
for 3 odd minutes.

6 degrees Celsius

From my balcony,
yes! the atlas
of my balcony;
with the music
of the masters
pouring forth,
from within,
I follow the stars
direction Norway
and Sweden
while around the corner
one looks
towards Iceland
and 'those islands'.
Cleeve is just across the way
and Paris and Brussels
down the road.

This is my mainland!

Impervious to the time of day
and suffering the idleness
of sitting in a near lifeless limbo
I am at last compelled
to take up my pen
in the almost vain hope
of resuscitating an interest
in the rhythms of the joyful
side of life.

But being of a disposition
that too easily dons the coat of distraction
my attentions are soon reduced:
to impoverished thoughts
and reflections concerning small talk
about the weather
while standing still in lifts;
to thinking about the same old heads
nodding to each other
in rain-soaked streets;
to pondering greygreen corridors
that stretch the imagination
into cheerless silences
of absolute emptyness.

See!
The savage will's sinking fangs
bite deep down into the bubbling head
of the madly laughing larynx
where the screaming- in-silence turbulences
are launched through melting marble eyes
into the distant heights of blue celestial skies
where they become bloated
and explode into nothingness,
beautifully lost in their pre-existence.

Look!
Here's a body speaking
some clues to answers sprung
from a tired and exhausted mind.

Just watch the rippling apple in the throat
contort the face and tear the lips apart.

Picture to yourself
in a single moment's breath
the pounding voice in the head
sledgehammering them shut again
till they take the appearance
of a fist gripping itself
in the teeth of it's piercing pain.

Where the winds blow;
where the roads roam;
where the sun drys;
where the waters flow;
where the mountains soar;
where the towns lie;
where the oceans swell;
where seeds grow;
where the rains fall;
where the flowers bloom
You are there!

A walk -
cold to begin with
but the blood soon warms up
and everything becomes
invigorating.

Sun and frost -
the trees sentinel
bare silhouettes
in a winter landscape,
as train traffic
can, more than, clearly be heard
crossing the Rhine
near Oosterbeek.

On the way
crisp reflections
on general and particular
affairs;
a clear sober mind
plotting and planning
the immediate future.

Refreshed,
with all things translucent
and in their proper places
I head for home
and coffee and a cigar.