Rain-drenched
with the bad weather of tiring moods
I dream of landscapes
and shores drowning
in an abundance of sun
and simple sand-and-***** castles
and silhouettes dancing shimmeringly
against an immense horizon -
blue and blue and blue
dotted sparsely by pure white sails.

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

Injured to mutter in mad ways
(a town's sneer won't let him scream)
his eyes settle for blind sights drawn
from painless but poisonous prods -

their targets a scrapbook of wheat and chaff
in this womb where no one watches
the self-embraced death of desire
that blocks hidden tears from surging
to a valley tomb.

There was something comforting
in being back in London;
crawling out of Euston station
and climbing into a cab.

The taxi-driver was polite and diplomatic
as I soon warmed up to the idea of beans on toast.

Sailing on blue skies
of music
composed all of 300
years
ago -
then,
swooping down
from the orchestrated
heavens
into the depths of
Aegean
green waters.

Wombing
as always
into
all that joy
is and was.

Sandals.

Probably seeing
not much future in anything;
direction, conspiracy or destination
they play ball with indifference
and walk along,
feeling comfortably ignored
and alone.

Wise nouns
who live neutrally
in a downtrodden world.

They have seen
the scratches on their buckles and their hides
outlive
the downfall and demise
of innumerable generations.

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.

Slate,
brittle
and chipping away
at the edges -

like
growing
old!

Snapshot.

Cheerful
cloths-pegs
of many colours
hanging
against
a background
of bare trees
and a grey
sky.

Soft rains
falling
onto the quiet
unobstrusive
mornings
as seas lap
gently
against
the winter-weary
shores
of
hearts
and souls.

Buds
sprouting
and shooting
their green-rich
heads
towards
an inebriated
sun;
upwards
and outwards
in the delicate
art
of crowning
the bare bones
of skeletal
trees.

Wet grasses
slowly
changing hue
on desolate pastures
of brown
rot and decay.

Wood and soil,
flesh and blood
animated with an
optimism
going wild
with newborn
joy.

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.

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.

Storm at sea -
fishing boats
tossed about
in the spume
of giant waves.

Each pause
in the onslaught
like been offered
a last cigarette
before they blindfold
you.

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.

Swirling
through the fresh snowflakes
of my mind;

feeling
warm and sociable
in the taverns
of my contented heart -

I embrace this winter's day
as a benevolent gift selected
from Your inexhaustable
chest of treasures.

The past a millstone of regrets
permeating, like a rosary-beads
of penance, the present.
The future a misty dream
of fading ideals.

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).

The cradle is truly submerged
but the cot lingers there
in a haze of prison-like bars,
painted faintly blue -
mother and child sharing intimately
darkening dusks
as shadowy phantoms dance
and flit on the ceiling and walls
around an open-hearth fire.

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

Forever,
you walk through dry pastures
admired by the ghosts of dead civilizations;
resting in a sand-dusted corner
you savour the wine
as it wets men's throats
without twitching a nerve.

You make a fool of the camel
who insists on appearing satirical;
being so strong as to let
pockets of stabbing light
pierce your pools of welcome shade.

Finally,
you are never totally surprised
and with a shrug of the shoulders
say: 'Let us get on with the job!'

The heart in it's own world
is filled with rivers, mountains
and deep oceans,
currents, heights and depths
beyond comprehension.

Nearly drowning
in dark pools of failure,
guilt and regrets
it beats and breaths again
the joy of the  salmon's leap.

Pulsing forth
through good weather and bad;
one minute pessimism
but more often than not
the resilient common-sense of hope.

Love-shaped, vulnerable Cupid-target;
Hamlet died for you.

You are the betwixt-and-between
who commandeers the foetal spring
and death's heavily laden bed.

The impressions of the day
mould into memories
fleeting across the pages
of time and space
while reclining in a metaphysical armchair -

before entering night's
palace of dreams and countless desires.

The intangible touches me,
now and then.

It is always gone again
before
I can reach out
and embrace it.

The moon
is full
and bright
as the stars
glitter
through gaps
in the clouds.

All traffic
to and from Schiphol
at a rest
as Handel
makes
his joyous
entry -

and I dance!
and I dance!
and I dance
and dance!

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.

Lulls
and intervals
interspersed
with Your
divine
touches -

illuminating
the night's
marathon.

The oncoming night
shall witness the gods
agonising over the destinies
of doubting souls -

bequeathed with numerous
apprehensions painted over
by theatrical lies
not revealing
admissions and guilt.

The owls line up
in the vicinity,
the street lamps
switch on;
traffic trundling by
with homeward bound
hungry crowds.

The kitchens hives
of domestic industry
as broadcasts
prepare to invade
the living rooms
of the temporary retired.

Night falls.

The placenta of poetry.

At 25
still young and arrogant
but with some modesty creeping in

more fully fledged
in the void's vale
of dropping foundation blocks
into pools of quicksand

tenements are always prey
to vulnerabilities of one kind
or other

if someone sneeze
I am uncomfortably cold

one sleeve of my pullover
is rolled up above the elbow -
it is threadbare!

There are no stabs of conscience
as memory, understanding and will
all work together in constructive harmony;

yet the spirit's sad gaze
looks out from the window of it's heart
at the transience of passing flotillas
of sleep-invoking clouds.

There is an easy way
and a difficult path;
but most of the time
life is not gentle.

We nearly all end up
politely wiping our feet
on a tear-soaked mat
before the door of death.

There is a woman,
so kind and great of heart,
who visits our church.

From Eastern Europe
she is tinier
than even the smallest Piaf.

When she sings
in praise and adoration of her Creator,
you can almost see
the pillars tremble
in harmony;

as her voice
totally and powerfully
pervades the innermost depths
of the entire congregation.

There is serenity
in the realms of heart and mind
as soft-coloured music
flows harmoniously
through the waters
of my iridescent
soul.

The sea,
dark tonight -

lights twinkle on a hill
and there is the sinister sound
of shingle been dragged down
into reluctant depths.

Above,
a foreign-bound jet
flies into the distances
of refreshing differences
and welcome change.

The sluices of the heart
suddenly open
and pour their torrents
into every atom
of my entity
filling the spirit
with an inexpressionable anguish
and drowning even the mind's
darkest and most hidden crevices
in a flood of salinity.

The spirit
of Erasmus
of Rotterdam
still does
and always
will
thrive
in me.

The village sleeps
when I retire.

The village sleeps
when I arise.

One man's land
counting grains of sand

while travelling towards eternity.

The white-horses of the mind,
approaching the shores of the body,
never, ultimately, reach their destination
but break and disappear
leaving time's waves
to slowly erode
our animal allotments.

The world

does not care

if your days and nights

are torn asunder

by the crimes and tragic mistakes

of yesteryear.

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!

This heart
weighs heavy
on the shoulders
of my existence

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

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.

Time out ?

To set aside the radio,
television, cups of tea,
**** and chat. Sever the finger
of contact and easy content.
draw the curtains, climb into bed
and listen to the rain drumming down.

To be human
is almost everything
in itself -

and is the happy-go-lucky mess
that still turns this planet around.

Today
in the dry harbour
of my mind
the words
lie on their sides
incapable
of setting to sea.

To
people alone
in single rooms
and countless cities
listening to sad music
with heads resting on hunched up shoulders.

Triumph,
triumph,
triumph!

A fanfare of triump,
a fanfare of life
marching on -

anew,
anew,
anew!

Life anew,
life anew
bursting the seams
of it's winter clothes

into the dazzling dance
of a newly arrived spring!

Up there,
above the crowns
of darkened bare wintry trees
the rabbits delight
in all the joys of good conversation.

They are no more afraid
of eavesdroppers
or of the colour
of their coats.

View from a hilltop.

A white sail-boat
glides along, swiftly,
some distance on a river -

interrupting the reflections
of summer trees
on deep, dark waters.

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.