A cobblestone road
in a dark night dyed with woad.
Faint glitter under pale street lights.

Icy blue fog in the late night
turned electric by the passing lights
of rumbling cars that rush on by.

They leave their streaks of LED beams
that quickly fade as if a lost dream.
The night watches with a hint of a sigh.

I was chasing a perfect picture of myself
till now
Fooling myself, I thought the outward was the answer
Realizing the impermanence of our bodies
Sends warm shivers and prickles down my spine.

Where one is fighting gravity
Another one is fighting life itself
One may embrace poverty
Another one may struggle in rich hell

As strong as grief
The body will let go
Our minds repeat
The patterns ever-slow

This night's embrace
May only cause surrender
The outward image
Dissipates in madness

And only thing alive -
Quiet awareness.  
What's missing?
Our joy in hearts -
Therein lies only sadness.

Is there a solace for words?
A place to be, asides a page
A space to be, asides a line
Tell me, is there more for words?
Asides the guile of being spoken
Or is speech all there is,
For an art form so golden.

Is there a haven for thoughts?
Like souls, it seeks solace
A page, like flesh, holds it bound
And speech, like death, sets it free
is there more for words,
Asides that which eyes can see
is memory a grave,
And thoughts a curious dig.

Where do read poems go?
The heart, the ears or the soul?
If all there is for a poem is reading,
and all there is for a soul is living,
Where do dead poets go?
The hearth, the ether or a stow?

Man builds his palaces and fortresses of stone
to last him a thousand years
while clouds drift by that last not long,
as brief as the drop of one tear.

The clouds’ only constant is their change
as they curl into filigrane wisps,
or flocks of white sheep on a blue range,
or black towers wreathed by blitz.

But one day these monuments will topple and fall,
leaving behind only a trace
for future archaeologists who’ll struggle to recall
whatever had been in this place.

The clouds, meanwhile, disperse and reform
in the wandering winds that cover this earth
to tower up high in each new storm
as they constantly repeat rebirth.

Finally the sun has come out from behind the clouds to dry my wet cheeks. A gentle breeze hums through the trees and the sound of a blackbird singing anchors me in the moment. My heart is grateful for this green buffer of solace amidst a world gone crazy. Whilst the angry mobs, baying for blood, stalk the streets of a crumbling power hungry paradigm, there are glimmers of light appearing on the horizon as many more souls gather in love to dance to the beat of a different drum.

Once again I feel myself dwelling on the margins, quietly retreating to the edges to join my witchy ancestors, watching and waiting for the storm to pass.

My bones hold the memories of the burning times as I sink into the quiet earth and the cool wind caressing my skin brings some relief. Walking on the razors edge of longing for connection and needing to lie low, to hunker down in the one place I can feel safe, alone.

Around me I see signs of the storm passing and new buds appearing with the promise of another flowering and harvest to come. In the warm evening light, that kisses the tips of the leaves, a gentle smile wraps itself around my heart and a glimmer of hope returns. ‘This too shall pass’, the wind whispers, ‘this to shall pass’…

Graffiti artist
sprays to say that “I was here” —
Ozymandias

In a nook of an old stone church
a cherub basks in the vesper light —
A childlike innocence for which I’ve searched
that seems to slip into the onset of night
Fade not away, you sweet dear boy
and never lose your childlike joy
Fight, fight
the snares of twilight