everything was so mundane,
no sound,
no name.

the silence watched over us like a hawk,
resting it’s talons on the trees above.

there was no thud,
no beat,
no reverb.

the machines did not whir,
or click,
or crackle.

the strings never hummed,
the girl never sang,
and the child never played.

neurons following a set circuit,
run,
stop,
go.

the sun always set,
yet it had never risen.

hardwired to the equipment,
but the machine never worked,

because the processor was coated in a mundane molasses.

moving through gray honey,
black and white retinas perceive gray things
for our slow-moving hands to paint.

the words were the same,
the day never changed,


it was, and always will be
the same.

There once was a scorpion

who lived under a rock

who dreamed every night

that he was a hawk

in dreams he would soar

through the night's skies

searching the seas

for his most wanted prize

there was always a scorpion

who was truly a hawk

but at the end of each night

he would crawl under his rock

He would continue to do this

until he got his true wish

that someday he would catch

a lightning like fish

There will be a bird

who once was a hawk

who lived as a scorpion

under a rock

a bird so colorful

because he got his true wish

that one day he'd catch

a lightning like fish

As I walked over the mountain tops
with glory in my hair.
I saw a bird upon the wing.
It floated in the air.

It hovered near, above my head
not leaving for a while.
Just glared at me, like food for free.
I swear I saw a smile.

I swear this bird, this soaring beast
had me in terrors grips.
It longed to be the end of me
to ******* blood... one sip.

But I was not a weakened soul,
and on these heights I strode.
As surely as the sun was high
and in this bitter cold.

This bird would never get to me
or strike in me a fear
of being eaten dead alive.
Worms crawling in my ear.

Oh bird alight, please fly away.
I'm fearful of your stares.
On this day, I surely know, you'll
linger in my nightmares.

of an innate perception
the squawking hawk's morning cry
he felt rain within his veins
arriving by night

If you see a hawk
on a bough at field's edge
beyond the corner you should have turned
maybe it's a sign to go on.

Such as during an improvisation on
Flamingo or I've Got You Under My Skin
you play in the wrong key or mode completely
maybe it's a sign to go on, in the wrong key.

Or when my sons cry not wanting
to be alone, I'm upstairs writing
or just enjoying trees in every direction
it too may be a sign to go on alone.

Some people don't always know what they're doing
Including me in the congregation
But some know exactly what they're doing
Down with the tunnel snakes
Looking to shake
The acidic bottle
To see how chaotic the peace becomes
I see you, watching how you swindle the naive
You're brilliant, aren't you?
Brilliantly distorted
Eyes like a Hawk
That rarely gawks
At what is in front of me
I see it everywhere
From the mountains of Nepal to the cold, harsh cities of Delaware
People look forward to impair
The full circles, the healthy plant in the desert
Prospering like it should
Don't make me laugh with your intent
You'll make enough dents
But everything will hold like a steel tent
I can jump over any fence
And penetrate any defense
You're able to implement
Don't lower your guard
Regardless of being a race car driver or a Bard
I know sinister yards
and I'm growing in disguise
You won't see it
Until you find yourself in a completed cat and mouse game
How is your game working out now?

The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnation shards sway
With this violent advent of day.

In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the groping canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.

Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly  loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.

The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of blood.

Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather,
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient-
Kindness remains deficient.