making zzzzzzz's
is a must
dreaming compulsory

platform to speak up
up speak poets.

8000
8000
8000

warriors arrayed
8000
dead poems

8000
stories told.

the constant feed of 80's music
my Fathers chosen radio station
Is doing my head in, all over again

light is combustible
and someone lit the match

each breath a confirmation
love has your back

Squeezed into your needs
be met
please God.

its a biographical love story, like no other

playing catch up
is a lifelong
following breadcrumbs

Resonance of waves
your voice
vibrates
my heart.

Death is patient
in no hurry
almost
nonchalant.

Peace trumps happiness
but happy are the peaceful.

make your sacrifices
untangle yourself
find your freedom.

to be master
not servant
of base desires

Amen.

never discount mystery
the ability to be real

one day to sing
this day be

opportunity.

tidal flux
shifting sand
a star new born.

Silence can be comfortingly loud
a gentle squidgy giant.

a 9mm bullet is harmless
unless you swallow it.

An SMG spits 9mm bullets
I was a pretty good shot.

A medic armed for self defence only
following the Geneva Convention.

And believe me the red cross
is no guarantee quarter will be given

-to the medic
or the wounded.

SMG...small machine gun
9mm
we were medics
sure as hell the Geneva Convention
written down to make clear
we could defend ourselves
and our wounded charges
we sure as hell did

a 9mm for breakfast
one more for lunch
war-torn moments
ever had someone
hate you so much
they want you dead.

a spin
sound

hear
sometimes

thud
drum

love
ok

stretched light thought
a prism triangle
misty tears goodbye

sweet sticky sickly sauce
slavar licking till your ill

our ******* missiles are so much bigger than yours.

Acorns do matter
and slow growth
is so underestimated

wanting to love
is as good
as loving itself

the poets wish
die before finished
leave them guessing

3pm and that **** phone could wake the long dead,
half a mile away buried in the small cemetery
surrounding the quaint stone built church,
nestled next the sea on the road to the one Island shop.
Passing it frequently twice you notice the flowers
and the grey older large monoliths erected over
long dead unknowns, unknown to anybody left living this
side of the boundary wall. Knowing you will take your place
among them one day, and it will come all too soon.
So offering up a small prayer for the dead as you
speed past would seem prudent, if not a pure act
of love, for the repose of their souls, through the mercy of God,
and swapping the ring tone on the phone to a more pleasing sound
would go a long way to achieving that end.

I climb this mountain
everyday.
The distance
between a new day and
a night left behind
can be steep.
There is no map of
today. But when night
comes back around.
I will survey all
in a backward glance
and memory will play
her part. And I will see
just how far I climbed.

gyrating through space

a balanced dance

as best you can

light and dark

dark and light

You danced across the skyline
oblivious to my sight
You danced because you could
abandoned to a secret song.

the steady thrum of nothingness
where daily you run round the wheel
getting nowhere but sleep
to wake to the hum and thrum
the thrum of "Good day" "Hello"
"How are you"?
I am trying not to fall as my feet scramble
-keeping up with the speed of the wheel
as it turns at a speed I can hardly keep up"
Well keep going, have you tried getting a loan?
what about insuring someone and hoping they die pretty quick?
A bank robbery? Writing a poem that sets the world on fire?

seeing in secret
hidden away

whispers of truth
loud as the sky

a valley of trees
a barren road

solitudes fullness
cradling love.

a poet can become a Bat hanging upside down in the day
and wait for their element, the dark dark night
-to fly out their dark dark cave
poetry can be as simple as life
and the life of a poet is always unique
they can accept the dark as if it was brightest day.

Help us Daddy
to be and
to be loving

I bring you my gravelled hands and knees
and you kiss away my hurt;
always gentle always concerned for my good;
you brush aside all my falls;
and set me on my feet again

Help me Daddy
why have you forsaken me?

Our Daddy shared with Jesu
why have you forsaken me?

to write but more than this ABC
to rearrange. see underneath,
to go underground, overground
to grow a stalk from a womb
woman you are the Universe
giving succour to stars and moons
not least your child a babe born
in a manger, all poor children
all put down women, all birth
all life all wronged all rights
all everything all silence, all
this ABC to communicate what
all know to be true, and truth.

My 9 year old Niece tells me she set light to her classmates ( not literally she adds, as if I was too old to understand) Telling them that this uncle of hers has a beard like Santa. We never met until she was 7, owing to the distance we live apart. I am glad she is intelligent enough to get a laugh out her classmates at my beards expense, and hey Santa is not that bad a comparison, I could think of a whole lot worse.

they say everything is a mathematical equation
poetry even is a numbered metre
I wonder if our two sums, the sum of you, and the sum of me
make for a beautiful equals =

you can talk your way into a corner
or free yourself to sing

its all up to you poet
choices, choices

I want to share beauty
let the beautiful reign

the beauty of nature
and the beauty of the Human spirit

so here goes nothing
you are the most amazing creature

living amongst other amazing creatures
and its a beautiful miracle on a grand scale.

Poets need poets
its self-evident
a beautiful truth.

Each day you rise from out the dust from which you were fashioned
up out the material that's hemming in your soul, to stand upright in a world where gravity is constantly keeping you safe, and a captive all at once, to end your day losing the battle, a bed to sleep in, a bed to die in, a bed to await your resurrection.

I have never been down this part of the road
it looks so familiar, a lot like yesterday,
but it is unique and I am too.
So it makes the travelling a little mysterious
even though I am tempted to fall into a boring rut
nothing could in fact be further from the truth.
I am easily deceived and easily pleased all at once
the computations are endless and I do not mind at all
just so long at the end of day I have a bed to dream in.

a bell tolls
doors open
we see spaces
our juices chemical signs
leading onward
death awaits each new day.

we are the ultimate magic trick
conjured from nothing
the only mistake was giving us free will.

she was a girl from Texas
wearing a Stetson and boots
and not much else
a six gun on her hip
and cigar between her teeth
oil ran through her veins
and her mind was full of sand
but my how I loved her
that Texan called Aberline.

a best guess is close as it gets sometimes
and a little faith in others goodness
to help make it to your destination
can get you the whole way there.