In the alleyway of sorcerers
and tricksters
One step back, ten deepward
away, away, from sun and lime,

forms, thickened smoke, gone
all the familiar, but fear

an industrial hammer
beating to a pneumatic heart
pulverized, powdered glass

Now lining the string to my kite
soaring, one among the shapes
dotting the kaleidoscope
Retreat!, I can cut.

bangles, once they were
I gave you

Hooded, darkened, enveloped
in hushed hymns and
chimed mutterances
come hands held out of cloaks
that I accept for friendship
cold, as the heartless should be

erased, gone among
the shadows, lost a young soul
tottering at the edge of a cliff
tremor that ripped the heartland
blocks of stone, elevated
icons of hope and love
lining the pathway here
disfigured so beyond repair
even moonlight cannot restore

once a thinker, a poet, a scholar

where peddle the whispered
offerings of an underworld

I am searching past these dunes
and dune song

It was easier then,
easier then.

ghost-like come
echoing in the winds,
drenched in the sands,
wrapped in the folds of time

comeuppances
coming undead
appearances

there go flying past,
those petals, dried,
fragrant still after these years

that with eyes moist,
I cannot say.

few them petals,
uncut rhyme
on the knees

but you know, I know
codwelling

through alleyways of life.

that was all, that was all

Saying, I don't say.
It is all an intention
in percussion.

Feelings
from those wellsprings
we know not
but are aware of.

Muggy muggy reflection
them canopies warm certainties
this misty morning, tall
brooding over a ray of light
silences all around, for crickets

splashes a worry, a leaf
reed-song of mourning
against grey-greenery rippled
bright painted gay pink
fuzzy fudged hope emerging
floating fleeting deafening
broken hush of the wood

speaking colours, mute, them
thoughts stuck in the web
confounded, rioting rebelling
colours, shoots, many petals
of a resolving healing love

I was not there when it all began
[ there in this fractal space, I know,
    beginnings can nest in beginnings]

but when I peered back in time,
I saw your shadow
stirring in the mists

yes, you measured out the verses,
threefold.

it was all in the pre-dawn hours,
before light

I bowed down to your majesty
and smote them who did not
I bowed down to your majesty
and cursed them who did not
I bowed down to your majesty
and loved them who did not

I bowed down to your majesty
and blessed them who did not

unsure
if it was you, or if it must be you
or if it must be anyone at all,

stirring in the shadows

or if my looking glass went
kaleido, before scopia.

but I know, of deep
where thoughts stir

I've seen your footprints
on the ***** of time.

they too know, the gulls,
the seas, and the skies,
and they know no war and death.
it must be you.

December 2005; January

2006, Summer that year.

           2008 round the middle - no not the crash.

          2009, yes the muddle.

Tell me about how May 2010

was axed by December 2010.

Palm, palm, date palm, ash cloud.

February, April, August 2011 and
that dreaded December.

last grasp of the kite string,

off goes the dreamed of high
far far away the anchor moorings

when transmission stopped, all white
noise since then, empty

prattle chatter of the key board,

two millennia and counting thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen, march, October, March!

January 2016. A new landing.

Leaves that rustle in the shadows
this moonlit night, silent, sleeping
with the mynas on those distant trees,
let them whisper to the winds
this mortal moment: rest, rest on my
shoulder, creeper-like, smile just
that little my heart shudders;
All the world now silent, sleeping
as mist settles, obscuring thoughts
this heavy winter heaving in sighs,
to part or not this is the question, veil:
little, just a quiver, when waves recede

Ancient this mistletoe, dug deep
into the heart of time,
Shadows of the dagger ******
into wet sands, shining silver handle
Ever-closing guillotine of the minute-hand
ticking closer to the neck-line
Mini-Babel rising triumphant a banner
of rebellious spirit run aground
Treachery of the trickster exploiting
the fissures in the fistful of sand
that fertile febrile mass of unknown
possibilities, harbouring seedlings of hope
and future buds of fragrant roses of love.

There is a chorus rising, chiming in the wind
chant for chant, a contest of emotions
yet when the hour calls, let me withhold,
for thus, untouched the petal blooms,
past shadows of dancing fish.

paper boats of hope running wet in the rains,

in the dimpled puddles closed, them odd schools

unstopping cheer

after that long hot season rain, rain


first we take off return in rain heavy rain

meetings and business and eating out wet

cloudy mourning before pale mornings,


then the lakes brimmed another spell

where the water flows, but we did not see,

too busy our lives, we did not see