Eyes grace the celestial mechanics that
scatter our skies with glittering objects
alive with humming ancient materials.
Down here Man can't see deeply enough
into the skies so brimming with beauty
that he forgets to marvel at the above.
Although the ground is rich with earth
so delightful and thriving with life so pure,
so simple it is to focus solely on the crust.
What objects and footprints grace our ground
and with what items they hold in their hands
is not so important when looking from clouds.
Precious and selfish, pathetic and cruel can't
do justice for the description of Man
and tracing the stars should help one think.
Think with the mind and not with the eyes,
there is far too much that hasn't been seen
yet by curious, clever, keen minds.

Coarse granite slabs split the earth
glinting at the fractured sunlight.
Sly winds whip and lash the grass and gorse;
disconsolate skies weep upon the land.

Rain rushes in to bloat the meagre streams,
and gulleys slash the sinewed  clay.
Pulse and sluice.  Erosion fashions
new forms of contoured legends.

Ragged crows snag the horizon
blasted and cursed. Little else
between the walls of weathered stones:
hand-laboured one on one.

The moor muscles its independence,
frowning at the low land,
bragging to the skies
its ancient splendour.

The shadows of us fall away,
Opening portals within ourselves,
The joy of us, the song,
Fills us together.

We fall as one, our shadows unite,
Our sunrise opens across the sky
The landscape of us stretches out
As this dawn dampens our tears
To the silver sky.

Poorly built Jenga towers
Polka-dot the moor
The cows and sheep, for centuries
Have wondered what they're for

Perhaps they're ancient ladders
Leading straight to heaven
But the last young lamb to try it
Fell down and smashed his head in

The cows tried them as markers
To work out where they are
But in their field that's useless
As they never travel far

Ash Tree, Scorhill, Dartmoor.How many times did I pass you?Gnarled, twisted, soulful;You were a gateway to my otherworld,A silver portal to the circle of my heart,The winds have shaped your passage,Like a grey ship on stormy seas you have endured.The wave years have taken their toll,Branches bend now in nodding sleep…Your roots entwine the grey granite rocks,Smooth and strong, they bore my silent tear streaked dreams away….

These trees are like creatures;
Singing earth held songs of ancient
Untold time
Bracken Moss Fuelled
Stories run down the mossy
Branches and slide into
My humble thoughts
Sitting here amongst such
Quiet shouting knowledge

And I wonder when mere words
Are done with
And the world again speaks
Again with wild language
What these earth bound trees will say of us
To the starred heavens above

Tavy CleaveWhen I walked along your leats;The hawk soared the sky,Singing it's song like prayer,Cutting through blue time.Round your corner of hill majesty,Tawny colours grew;Grass: dun as a horses back;Cleaved hills knitted my fissured flesh and heart.Empted I approached:The blue river of you flowed through me,Where echoed waterfalls reached deep pools,Sweet wild songs rose to the top of your granite shoulders.

The soft welcome healed me
In this valley  of sheltered dreams.

Time wound it’s way down muddy tracks
And flower streaked hedges shared my pain.

Rivers wove their pebbled course around me,
With every passing day my heart began to heal.

Now, slowly the oak greened night draws in ,
Owls call me to sleep as silvered words
rise to the star spangled sky

Etched into my dream memory.Joy, laughter, regret, despairThat moment, frozen in time,A piece of myself reflected in a landscape,The hills of my heart blur and fade….Sharpen and sing.

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

I want to travel far and wide.
See much more of the English countryside.

Beautiful beaches that surround us in Cornwall and Devon, remind us we live  in our own corner of Heaven.

Mystical places with tales of legends to tell.
So much to do and see, I'll do my best to make it sell.

Tintagel such a mystic place, where legend has it King Arthur had his chair.
He had a roundtable it held many Knights, all ready to defend, always ready for a fight.

In York a Viking museum to tell how they came upon our shores, with longboats, a 60 man crew, paddled with their oars.

Bath has the best Roman baths to be found, laze and spoil yourself in the steam rooms built in Roman surrounds.

In Wales, there's Snowdonia for you to climb, or the less active can take a train ride.
A castle in Caernarfon where Princes are appointed by H M The Queen, the sword on the shoulder duly declares arise HRH Prince of Wales, the crowd are waiting for the new Prince to be seen.

In Scotland there's Edinburgh with a castle tall and round sits atop a very high mound.
The lowlands and the Highlands are a sight of well known beauty, driving around the lochs at night keep your eyes open for a monstrous sight, nessie fact or fiction,

Of course there are the lakes of England too, Windermere the largest draws the biggest crowd. Find a cottage out of sight, snuggle up with a loved one, cuddle tight.
Put on your water skis, hire a boat, sail your wind surfing board, fire up your jet ski any of these activities can be fun and available to be done, daily.

The Cotswolds, for take your breath away beauty, small villages, luscious village greens, cricket playing in the field, Large Houses, Lord of the Manors, old worldly pubs, thatched pubs and rivers waiting to be seen.

There are Dartmoor, Bodmin Moor and Exmoor too, Peak District, Lake District mountain ranges, many a zoo.

I'm not in a rush to leave this place.
I'm in no hurry, it's not a race.

I'd like to take it real slow.
So many stunning  places to go.

So much to do, so much to see.
On your doorstep, no need to stray.
Whatever you do, wherever you go, have a happy holiday.

The sign said no entry,it meant me,I know it,I rode on right through it and thought that I knew it
all.
The policeman in a court date said that I, just would not wait for the lights to go green and he'd seen me do eighty in a thirty mile zone.
I was sent to a home for the wayward and flighty,a light sentence upon me,could not believe I was not free.

See me, on a saturday and I'm back on the racetrack,known as the M thirty motorway and I'm clocked at a ton by the feds in the lay by,who with sirens mad blaring came a tearing along after me,nicked,apprehended me and again,I could not believe I was not free,
I got four months in Dartmoor which get a poor recommendation,it's no picnic park for the youth of this nation,released in September,though it should have been May and soon after that in a 93 Fiat with go faster stripes,I was striped up quite rightly by the boys in blue and tightly,
handcuffed and roughed up and locked up again.

the full moon is out, prime orb ever changing,
no talk here of grit and mundane,
i never speak of myself as a genius,
more like a plumber, i am, a plumber,
and poetry is like fixing a pipe,
i go in... and as quickly get the **** out,
it's painful to brood over volumes of excuses,
poetry is just as mundane as any other job,
it's a nasty affair of the heart,
whereas philosophy can build the Trojan wall
of systematisation akin to ever other sunrise or
sunset, poetry's wall is honesty and spontaneity,
divorce the two and you're writing poetry in
your spare time... ever wonder why Hegel etc.
didn't write their works in spare time?
it's because they were wholly engrossed, so that you
could speak about their "improper" jobs in your
salon spare time like a Pavlov experiment:
salivating drool to the knee like Rapunzel growing her hair;
there is no such thing as a failed artist,
unless his failures are best expressed by a woman
not having a hairdresser, i.e. the Assisi oath
of the Renaissance pundits - drunk stare twice,
carousel approach, master the spider-eye-effect
and you'll paint the Sistine chapel eventually,
catching Beelzebub eventually in colour.

i wrote an A-level essay on the counter-reformation,
apparently i was awarded the resulting grade with
much esteem from the post-graduate OCR...
hence the title... versus Cabaret Voltaire...
hence Cabaret Loyola... the former became a shadowy
version of the cure mixing with depeche mode anyway,
a mediocre club of cowgate in Edinburgh (cowgate
the origin of Heart of Midlothian football club, begun by
tango dancers or caleigh dancers or something)...
but in spirit of the cabaret as a makeshift church,
in guise of a priest, albeit spy-like plain clothes no uniform
no marching orders, the grand union, a marriage;
i know i didn't do the proper arithmetic on this example,
but how a marriage works when two poets collide,
Sylvia Plath's *new year at dartmoor (1962) a
and Ted Hughes' crow's vanity (circa 1972) b, i.e.:

this is newness: every little ****** (excuse),
looking close in the evil mirror crow saw
obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
mistings of civilizations  (,)   towers   (,)   gardens
glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto.
(with) battles he wiped the glass   (,)    but there came
only you, not knowing what to make of the sudden slippiness,
(a) spread of swampferns fronded on the mistings
the blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
a trickling spider   (,)   he wiped the glass   (,)   he peered
there's no getting up it by the words you know.
for a glimpse of the usual grinning face
no getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
but it was no good he was breathing too heavy
we have only come to look.
and too hot    (,)   and space was too cold
you are too new to want the world in a glass hat.
and here came the misty ballerinas
the burning gulfs    (,) the hanging gardens (;) it was eerie.

(as the priest added: dear children of the word / of words,
you have come to this blank piece of paper
so that the ink might seal your fingerprints
over one another in the presence of punctuation
and the literate community. literate union is
sacred in that it enriches others, but robs you.
it binds those who enter it to be faithful only unto
themselves and unfaithful unto others.
etc. etc. - and whereas some pinpoint the event:
afar in articulation the two horrid articles:
i do does not necessarily mean i will -
and with what ******* are you to write a prenupital?
the bets are off... the priest has gone mad,
because he can't be bothered revising the vows with
a secular consent)...

         yes, i did pair up the poems with one
arithmetic coming short and the other exceeding the potential
of interaction... after all, he lived much longer,
and she was baking cranium & cartilage pie in an open
oven.