The beat of a black desert heart
Playing a symphony on the strings of time
The inner tide flows in tune
Rising
Falling
Souring
A sweet melody struck from the wreckage of the poverty of storms
Lifted up by communities grace to sing in gods castle
Whilst patent red leather shoes tread the tiles of an economists dream
Imagining creativities warm embrace
When the apple fell from the tree
The wind blew it far away
To an islands peril
And an aching heart
Waiting for news
Of survival

You appear before me, a chance introduction
I feel that familiar flutter deep in my core
I do not let it show
Blonde curls, blue eyes, a warm smile
Who could resist
I observe you quietly, over lunch
You are engaging, I am engaged
Your head tips back exposing the lines of your throat
As your slender fingers raise the oyster shell to your lips
A tremor drifts back and forth between my gut and my heart
O, to run my hands over the curves of your being
To grip those curls as you cry out for more
Your hand brushes mine as the salmon passes between us
An electric tingle runs from my fingers to the curve of my groin
My body no longer pays heed to my brain
No one notices the brief, reflexive flush
You gaze into my heart
And the inner music of chemistry sings me a souring melody
My being, alive with the electricity of forbidden desire
The o, so sweet torture of lust unquenched
Coffee comes and goes, as do you
The excruciating, exquisite glow lingers on

Encase me in nature
smother me in leaves
let me flow with the river
hug me a tree
When mother comes calling
greet her embrace
immerse in her wisdom
universal grace
Yet, we exploit her
pillage her soils
feed from her *******
pollute her with spoils
Scarring her beauty
no thought for her care
t urning our backs
ignoring her tears
But a mother enraged
is a sight to behold
you should be afraid
if her love, she withholds
Her temper will fray
her might will unleash
call us to account
there will be no peace
Fire and brimstone
floods and high tides
eruptions and cyclones
oceans, acidified
The nature I love
the universe of dreams
who sung us a future
unravels before me

Psychedelic flour rains from the sky as a siren sings a melody so sweet it tastes like fairy floss enfolding me in clouds of saintly bliss.  Reality subsides fast into the shade of whimsy shaped in hairpieces parading around the castle of coloured lights hung by the architects of air for our pleasure.  Beer flows along streams of grass lined by flags flying the patriotism of the artists lament crooning over crowds of disciples gathered as the faithful before the alter of sin seeking redemption from life's bright glare.

Just Hangin
Screeching
Squawking
Bickering
Bats

Looking in to the inner space of the minds inner eye
Traces of you in stories written on postcards of sandstone carved at the village well
Tales mixed together as digital palettes spray colors on the psychedelic walls
Looking into the window of the soul brings the outside world to the inside space
Hypnotizing the patient fragile as glass
Shedding a tear for the artists lament illuminating societies collective debt
Alone with your thoughts in a moment of stillness
Madness is like gravity all it takes is a little push

She speaks to me
from the screen
of poets
passion
and poetry
The backdrop
a bookshelf
a piano
a nobel man
I listen from my couch
on the bus
from my bed on a Sunday morning
Mesmerised by the poetic of the speaker
The sound of a passing train on its way to Adlestrop
where Edwards captured a moment of ease
But moments can turn in an instant
like Sexton
lost in the obliquity of bad poetry
***
church steeples
Is poetry lost
out the window of the bus in the rain?
If I am a poet am I in danger
like Silvia
of dying in darkness
in the shade of the yew tree?
For she cannot hear me
though I speak to the screen
of my love for poetry and a dream
The silent piano
a ventriloquist
rescues the poet
and her poetry from the fishhouses of gods sea
Yet I cannot believe in a god
who leaves the beggar I see out the window of the bus
to sleep in the rain alone
In the mill
I grind words for politicians
who make the beds of stone
for the beggar to sleep on in the rain
whilst they fatten the pockets
of the privileged and the rich
I board the bus covered in flour
that sticks to me like guilt
for my part in the grinding
But once on the bus
I must follow my heart
unless it is broken
Then I must lead it to mending
through words tied together with strings and feeling