A personable person propogated passion
Beneath my heavy heart
Alas, cried the caterpillar
You are not dead!
Though I have spent hours molesting your windowsill
Rapeseed!
Huckleberry!
Gingerbread Pie!
All these things and more have I maliciously misunderstood
But the lies of the soothsayer are frequently true
They are passionate pomegranates from me to you
The obelisks of oppression overpower your heartstrings
And there's nothing you can do

My villain!
My thief!
The princess of my misery!
The fiery orb and the blasphemous pirates!
Staring at your shoulders I see only my reflection
Turning on your heel my eyelids sparkle and linger at your doorstep

It's Goliath's head
Salmon and bread
Those deathly ideas which you purposely said
Tic tac guru
Just what is he to you?
And which of my words have you read?

Butterflies...across my face
Is what you said my words were to you

Wings of brown drifting
across two pools of ice blue

Slender fingers laced with red
Outstretched across the bed

And yet there was a pause
a sudden close of doors

Keys clattered and locks shut
A yes, a no,a sighed but...

Hawthorn high and bluebells droop
The morning star, the endless loop

My mouth formed the shape
and you fell out soft vowel
Mine a consonant, low like an owl

Flash of blue, rapeseed gold
A white lace flower
A secret to hold.

we had potential,
-kx, and with respect to
x, *******.
we could've been
a masterwork,
Fields of Rapeseed, 1883, painted
in Prague, oil on
canvas.
but no,
you had to be
Mr. ******* Fantastic,
stretching yourself thin and
stretching my patience
again and again like
so much taffy to be made
palatable.
I have always been
difficult to stomach, even
at the best of times,
and you thought you could be the
Zeus to my Europa, whisk me
away and act like it'd all be okay.
but you didn't understand,
I was Europa, but
not the myth, the moon,
and I desired nothing more than to
drag you into my orbit and
drag you down to your demise.

cotton clouds formed in such sky as frost shivered me so
fingers chilled to warmth not met
biting in the cold
ground so hard no flower formed
bring me summer bring me warm

smell of grass so freshly cut
can see a summer coming
golden fields full the oil ..rapeseed  sneeze a tissue feel
hear young voices playing out
screams of water splashed out loud

bring me summer where smiles do form
eating ice cream on ones lawn
rays of sun do burn my back
sleepy me ...to skin pealed back

bring me summer as i freeze
throw this coldest oh yes please  
soon be there not long to go
summer feeling ...no more snow

I will go back to that silent evening;
the night a silver haze.
Thick with the smell of rapeseed
and there we stood together.

I will go back to that silent hill,
the valley rolling out below us.
The moon casts about these
shadows; violet upon the track.

I will go back to that silent place
deep inside my chest.
On mid-summers eve we watched
almost all the night pass by.

I will go back to that silent room;
we both know what came next.
All the blossom on the ground,
and grass stains on our clothes.

I will go back to that silent evening
and not know the people there.
These strangers in my memory
embraced mid-summers night.

so much time spent in forests
maybe it was natural to want these plains
of wheat, barley, rapeseed, concrete,
but then, we build cities
—we’re forest people still

after the cedar, the oak
after the oak, the pine,
after the pine, the palm, the kapok…
we’re good at turning things into names;
at coding the world, then remaking it:
we can cut an entire forest of kauri
into the image of San Francisco

I am lately entranced by neo-noir,
The criminal mysteries of Europe
And the wilds of Canada and Britain.
There is rarely running, screaming
Or endless car chases through
London, Ottawa or Ystad,
Unlike the reckless pursuits
In Manhattan or L.A. streets.
These detectives don’t sashay
In long coats or wear black leather,
(Except for a couple).
They wake up hung over,
Like Wallander, or grieving
Like Perez from Fair Isle
And Matthias, self-exiled to Wales.

Bodies surface or are found
In gorgeous forests.
The detectives overcome depression
To quarrel with irrational superiors
(Who may themselves be guilty),
Yet they don’t yell like sergeants
In the gritty precincts of NYC.
They drive their Volvos through
Rolling fields of rye and rapeseed.
And even the mysterious quarries
Where bodies are found in Poland and Wales
Are beautiful—not like the junkyards
Of Barstow or east coast borderlands.
Some detectives are lucky, like Matthias,
In hiding in Hinterland.
He walks the shores of Aberstwyth
As Wallander does the fields of Malmo.
When suspects are caught, they aren’t beaten.
Their jails are neat and clean;
The prisoners get mattresses, pillows and TV!
The police question suspects casually,
As if they would rather be in bed.
The female cops are clever and quiet;
They rarely show their anger
When chided or ignored,
But carry on with dignity
And show the others
How work is really done.

At last, the assailant is charged,
Sun sets through the mist,
Sheep graze on manicured fields.
Village streets glow with low light
Reflected off rain-washed stone.
But despite the ambiance, people die
In weird ways: falling off of towers,
Shot while picnicking in costumes,
Lynched by a group of church goers
Floating past in a lake or river,
Or set on fire in a flowery field.
It’s as if the deaths are staged,
To match the serenity of the old world.
The slow machinations of justice
And drained eyes of the officers
Comfort me like a sedative
Always there, watching over their flock
As soothing as a soft, wool blanket
Hiding a frightened child.
When I am asleep, let
Matthias run along the cliff,
Let Wallander drink his wine
While Endeavour swoons to opera
And Cardinal stands in the birch grove,
All as semi-sedated sentinels
In the dusk or midnight sun.
I only ask that American blues
Take a page from these good constables
Across the sea or north of the border;
Imagine the settling peace
In the wide, new world,
If people of color were never smothered,
Or shot when carrying a phone
And people protesting were not gassed,
But spoken to with weary eyes
And a mind prompting peace officers
To listen, protect and serve.

Brought a scent.
Calliope and rapeseed;
     a choir inhaled
and then
     indeed
               Expelled!
(your blessing)

               Bitte!

I'm sitting on a wooden bench, atop a hill, facing acres of nature's finest. A hundred metres to my left is a paved road, and other signs of human interruption are scattered around in my field of view.

Despite this however, despite the destruction I know tarmac and paths and civilisation to cause, the scape was dominated by sky and trees and fields; the blue of air, the green of pine, and yellow of rapeseed.

Found litter in hand, and songs from the wood in my ear (both literally the Jethro Tull album and figuratively the birds through the creaking of trees), I realise that here at least there is balance. We as a species believe that we wield so much power over the rest of the earth, and count as evidence the cities we've built that flatten anything that lived their previously. But we are nothing new, when landslides and hurricanes, floods and earthquakes do just the same. We may be a natural disaster in many places but we are still natural.

And nature does not break, it only bends. Everything is assimilated; growing up around the fences are new walls of sweet-smelling gorse and pine. Ivy twists up towers and cement cracks to make way for persistent weeds that conquer through tenacity mankind's best attempts at order.

We have never sat on the throne of Earth, this is not our kingdom, but a niche into which we have been able to nestle ourselves, between the plants and animals which tolerate us as a nuisance but not one that is ultimately devastating.

A thousand years from now the tall turbines in the distance and the marking paint in the forest beside me will be gone, but the wind and the trees on which they rely will be unchanged. There lies the true power on Earth.

I wish people could see the world as I see it right now.
Bleak British fog and thundering rain grazes
The bus windows, as we enter the seventh hour.

Ryan Adams is singing Sylvia Plath, as rapeseed fields
Threaten to bring colour to the north. The pills are
Working, and I’d cry for joy or for poverty if I could.

This isn’t the spring I was promised, but that’s okay.
I have learned that a promise is but a sincere lie,
And expectation can only offer far-off feelings and

No time. I’ve stopped throttling the goose to demand
My supper. I have stopped walking through the rain
And complaining about the weather.

It is time to start living.