Think not about
the gossamer windings
of feeble minds
for our souls' inner
structure
is by sacred design
and as we roam
and spin and
consume in flame
we do our best
to soothe our
own inner pain
and when the seedlings
burst forth
their silken fire
and the dam breaks loose
with longing desire
    we strive to remain
on top of the tide
in undertow rush
and unravelling pride
It is these moments
that we snap into shards
in a  mosaic of selves
veins mapping
                heart
and our arteries  burst
into rhythms that slide
as shifting polar sparks
           ignite waves of time
tectonic plates quake
as we are torn apart
        from inside
our cells reconstructing
our fibers re-defined
This is spirit recreation -
a tiny flare in the dark
for we are dying to survive
our own inner hell
we are ******* the breath
of that life-giving spell
we do all of this and more
                    as we crumble
                               and spew
on our knees at rock-bottom
searching for new
So fear not
those depths
of the unlit abyss
for it's our own
shining eyes
that stir
light's
fervent
              kiss

A wind-turbine’s lament. (29 January 2017)

I am a wind-turbine. For five and a half years
I have been stood on this nice hill,
Turning my blades as I was taught.
They say I am making something called ‘power’
So you can boil your kettles and make tea,
Turn on your heating and snuggle up
Cosy and warm when it’s cold; or run the air-conditioning
When it gets hot.

My name is Wallie,
And I am very sad.
From my hill I used to see
A sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
in the same winds that turn my blades.
I really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like me
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

And you walked there as well, sometimes,
And saw the flowers, and your dogs ran along
Between the sand-dunes, and rushed in and out of the waves
Which broke on the beach, where your children played
And built sand-castles.

But now people have come;
They had huge orange diggers which clashed with the soft
Colours of beach and sea and sky;
And they ripped up the grass and the flowers and the sand-dunes,
And then people laid sterilized turf
And made bunkers full of infertile sand
Where nothing grew.
And the whole beach was walled off, so no-one could walk there.
And the dogs no longer chased their tails, and the flowers no longer bloomed;
And all the gulls which used to swoop over the foam
Went away.

And now all I have to look at
Is people with check trousers and garish hats,
And serfs carrying bags full of funny-shaped sticks;
They walk about on the turf and hit little *****
And then they go to where they’ve landed –
Not on foot, with dogs and children running –
But in little carts in clashing colours.

I asked the wind-turbine next to me,
Which can get pirate radio frequencies on its antennae,
What was going on and he said
(his name’s Wallie too); they are playing ‘golf’.
And I said: why? and he said: they have nothing better to do.

The other turbines and I (we’re all called ‘Wallie’)
discussed what to do;
And we decided I should write this letter
To any newspaper which will print it, and complain:

‘We used to have a nice view from this hill,
Of a sandy bay, with lots of nice grass
Growing along its edge, and pretty flowers bobbing
In the same winds that turn our blades.
We really liked those flowers,
And felt close to them. They danced like us
In the cold winds, warm winds, summer breezes
And autumn gales coming off the sea.

But now all we have to look at
Is barren grass, denatured sand,
And people in garish clothes who do not care
For flowers and grass and dogs and seagulls
But just hit little ***** about.

No one asked us
If we wanted this change; we were not consulted
And we want to know why we, who serve you faithfully
And give you heat and light, and power your homes
Are worth less than these other people,
Just because they are ‘rich’?’

We are only wind-turbines,
But our voice should also count.
And it you don’t agree
Ask yourself: how much is your own voice worth?
And why?’

Why am I still tripping over your words?
when my ears can't hear you speak
a thousand miles away;
when my feet can't run into your arms
a thousand miles away.

Why am I still putting you in a frame?
when I can't look at your smile everyday
a thousand miles away;
when I can't touch what's behind the glass
a thousand miles away.

Why am I singing your favorite songs?
when you left your microphone
a thousand miles away;
when the word love will never reach you
a thousand miles away.

Why am I writing poems about you?
when you never read them anyways
when we were both
a thousand miles away
from where I am now without you.

A melting snowflake
hopelessly enamored by a summer rain -
a blind shot that I’m in love.
But what if I’m playing Russian roulette without a bullet?

My eyes have made enough lunch dates with the ground for marriage.
My hands have caressed a pen
trying to capture the aesthetic of her name on a blank page
because releasing “hello” is too much of a struggle against my tongue’s heart.

I live my life through passing fogs
cleared only by hearing “beautiful”
tumble off her pink, cracked lips.
I’m only beautiful when she needs me.

Her rejection fades in disparaging comparison
to her absence of words.
No is an answer.
Silence is Anxiety’s lover.

And coffee has never been my cup of tea,
but if she were willing to invite me,
I would drink a ***
to listen to her talk about Shakespeare as if they lived in the same time.

I want nothing more than to trace the soft wrinkles on the backs of her hands
the way my finger yearns to chase raindrops across a splintered windshield.
My mind is a vagabond that wanders through memories I have never experienced
and wonders if she would open her umbrella to me when the clouds weep.

She is everybody’s normal, but
she is my perfection.

Killing fields in Texas are no place for a pull over love affair,
Even if you're thinking about voting for the Zodiac Killer in this election.
Velvet skin against corn husks that look like the birds nesting on Trump's head -
It's no wonder they're so painful, but it doesn't hurt as much when you're loving a man who has more experience than Bernie has years;
No one has to know about this, baby, just as long as you promise to always love me and never send me any emails.

Let's just table this discussion
so I can table you.