I dreamt last night that you were with me
and we walked along that path leading to the river and the ferry across.
(do you remember the ferry?)

It was summer, or so it seemed,
and the air was heavy & hot.
The sky was blue, cloudless, except for distant flecks of white.
Insects and small birds shared the air
— I’m sure I saw a dragonfly, iridescent blue/green
hovering over a flowering thistle

The path we walked was as I remembered it;
narrow and hedged on each side
by waist high wild plants & flowers - blue and white, some blood red,
green, alive, hosting many flying fauna that buzzed and flitted
from bloom to bloom.

But interspersed among the verdant growths were
angry-thorned wild roses, nettles
and the dark brown and black of dying flora.

I wanted to hold your hand but the nettles and harsh-thorned plants
grabbed at our clothes and gashed bare skin.
So we plodded single-file, not talking;
I knew you were behind me but had to keep turning round to be sure.

It felt as though we had been walking for an eternity
until rounding a bend in the path,
we saw the river in the near distance.
Blue-green-still, dappled by sunlight,
its surface broken by occasional movements
from creatures beneath.

As we drew close the to river’s edge and the grey wooden jetty,
I noticed the buzzing insects and flying birds had ceased their aerobatics;
there was silence, not even the gentle lapping of water against the riverbank.

Looking across to that distant bank it seemed blurred and indistinct;
an eerie mist hovered at that far shore.

There was a brass bell atop a post standing at the back of the jetty,
aged and stained.

You came to my side and took my hand but spoke no words.

I reached out to ring the bell but you squeezed my hand.
I looked to you and your eyes were fearful.
Shaking your head, you mouthed ‘No!’

I nonetheless reached up and grabbed the cord tied to the striker
and rang the bell.
Three times I did this.
But not a sound was made.

The silence was heavy now & looking skyward I realised dusk had crept upon us.

I looked out at the river and the mist that moments before
had been at the distant shore was now edging towards us.

The air chilled suddenly and in the silence
I could hear my heart pounding in my ears.

Your hand still clasped mine; it was clammy, cold.

I looked at you but your eyes were drawn to that distant river’s edge
And the mist that crept towards us.

I strained too to see into the approaching brume and saw a yellow light
in the now black, starless darkness around us.
It appeared to be hanging in the air.

Moments later, a small boat loomed from the mist,
the light bobbing on a spar at its prow.
And the ferryman, thrusting his pole into the green-dark depths of the river,
tall, thin, indistinct in the half light.

Silently the boat came to rest at the end of the jetty.
The ferryman caught my eye: I do not recall his face,
it was as though it was devoid of features.

He raised an arm and gestured towards us.
You pulled your hand from mine.
I looked at you but your eyes were locked on the ferryman.

He gestured again and you turned to me, smiled, and walked onto the jetty.
I wanted to reach out to you but I was frozen, paralysed.
I tried to speak but could not form any words.

In a few steps you were at the end of the jetty and stepped onto the boat;
it didn’t rock, almost as though you were as weightless as the mist around it.

I tried to call out to you but again no words came out.
You turned to me then.
Your eyes were sad.
You touched your hand to your heart then turned away.

The boat began to move away, back into the brume
and was soon lost to the night  …

He spoke a truth; I ate the lie.
He gave me his word; I gagged on the hollow promise.
He touched me; my skin crawled.
He kissed me; his breath was foul.
He spat his sins in my face; I absorbed them, bore them.
He held me; my heart stuttered
He looked at me; his eyes were empty.
He loosed his hold; I moved to him.
I grasped his hand; it was clammy, chilled.
He pulled away; I tightened my grip.
He begged for release; I ignored his pleas.
He whispered, “Why?”; I would not hear.
I struck him down; he was still.
I mouthed “Amen”, then turned away.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t understand the question.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t know what you mean.

‘Who are you?’

Why do you keep asking that?

‘Who are you?’

Please stop asking me.

‘Who are you?’

I am just me.

‘Who are you?’

I told you, just me.

‘Who are you?’

I don’t know!

‘Who are you?’

I am no-one.

‘Who are you?’

I am nothing.

‘Who are you?’

I am dead.

‘Who are you?’

I told you, I am dead.

‘Who are you?’

I am an echo.

‘Who are you?’

I am you. I am your echo. I am your shadow. I am your yin & yang. I am your id. I am your ego. I am your psyche. I am your reflection.  

‘Who are you?’

'I am your soul.’

© DS 7/2016

Gaia sighed. Not a sigh like lovers sigh looking deeply into each other's eyes. This was a sigh of resignation. In all her long life, there had never been a time she felt as unheeded as now.

Yes, there had been a time once, a time of oneness when all her multitudinous inhabitants had coexisted, when species knew their place in the chain of life and cycled through their existence, not always at peace but with respect for one another: the lion hunted the swift gazelle which in turn fed on the fruits of the trees, parasitic birds and insects grazed upon her and they in turn were the prey of others. ‘Yes,’ Gaia thought, ‘there was a time.’

She sighed again. She remembered when humans first came to prominence in the twilight of her existence. To them, she was the Great Mother, the Creator of life. Was it not she who bore all her inhabitants and was it not to her that they all returned to continue the cycle?

Gaia felt old now, old and forgotten. That respect, that devotion was all gone now. She felt the hurt as the careful balance she had sought to maintain was eroded, not by wind and elements, but by the ravages of humans.

‘They have overstepped their bounds,’ she mused. ‘They must be taught a lesson.’

She pondered on that thought for a moment and for a moment felt a surge of effervescent warmth flow through her form. But grim reality broke through her musings and she shuddered at the horror of the reality. Her memories were dim and misty now. She could remember her birth but only just. How she had taken form from the cosmic flotsam and jetsam all those countless aeons ago. She remembered the youthful exuberance she exhibited then and she smiled in embarrassed recollection. No life could have survived upon her surface then for she was wild and wilful, hot and inhospitable, prone to savage outpourings. But she grew, she gained the experience of time passing, and slowly, slowly, her voluble exterior became calm and gradually her form was blanketed in a kindly cloak of life-sustaining gases. The soup of her oceans spawned and multiplied a myriad of lives and forms and she thought of how many she had seen come and go.

The present again broke through her meditation of what has gone before. Now she was approaching the nighttime of her existence and, like the old elephant, one of her favourite inhabitants, she knew her time was near. She had tried so hard to adapt, to compromise but, like a cancer, the human scourge had spread beyond all control. Oh yes, there had been a few voices raised in concern and some, she knew, spoke with all the sincerity she knew the species was capable of. But, those voices went unheeded, listened to by a few but ignored by the many. Gaia was tired. She hurt. Sol bore down on her savagely, relentlessly and she felt her protective shroud growing weaker and weaker as every moment passed. It was now, the time had come...

© David Simons 2001 (revised 2016)

I
Panic flits swiftly
as the cat's stealthy claw strikes;
a sparrow lies dead.

II
Shards of rain shatter
the oppressive summer sky.
As the rainclouds burst.

III
This is my death time.
I regret my life's errors
but it is too late.

A time for living
and a time for dying too;
how pointless it seems.

In that dark time
coldest before dawn
did you come to me;
Night’s Whisper.

You are as frail as falling leaves
or the whisper of a summer breeze.
Your alabaster skin,
eyes like a starless night,
lips blood red.
And your breath so sweet.

You folded those diaphanous wings
to your perfect frame.
You reached out to me
and I knew it was right
and enfolded you in my embrace.

I felt your heart race, or was it mine
as our lips touched in the lightest of caresses?
I was the artist painting that final gentle stroke.

Ours was a passion that could never be contained
and my dread at the thought of losing you forced my hand;
please forgive me for my terrible deed.

You were too delicate, too perfect to wear those harsh cold shackles
so I bound you with these spider’s silks.

I will never forget the terror I saw in your eyes
at once pleading, questioning, uncomprehending,
now dull and resigned, downcast and melancholy.

I have created this prison for you my love
and share it with you every moment of the day
and the long dark nights.

And so have you been these long years;
my prize that I can no longer take joy in,
my perfect love I can no longer bring myself to hold.

What a strange place this is, hovering between the perpetual dark and the grey light of dawn. It was nowhere you would find on any map. It was said to exist only in the psyche, in that moment between sleep and wakefulness. But  I found it and, should these words ever be read, you will know that I am there still …

Tall ramparts of the dullest stone rise up skyward. Sightless windows stare out across a strange landscape: it is not possible to make out any landmark for the mists twine in psychotic patterns making the tangible invisible to the eye.

I came to this place … I don’t how I got to be here. As I write down these words, I try to recall my journey but my memories are as fogged as the barren mist-infused heath below me. It is as though I have been here for a lifetime, maybe more. I seem to have a sense of having been somewhere other than this place but it is impossible to draw a coherent recollection from my mind.

It is cold here in my room high in the turret of this place. The cold stone arch that is my only eye to this outside world is presently covered with a ragged curtain. There are faded colours discernible on it; age has dulled them. It ***** forlornly in the insignificant breeze that blows through the window. It is dark outside the window. I know it must be as the tears in the drape are showing no light coming through.

On my writing table is a candle that is burning with a yellow flame. It sputters as the breeze catches it unawares. My candle casts a little light; enough to write with. I look down at the yellowed paper and my words you have just been reading. In my hand is my pen. How old-fashioned; a feathered quill. At the top of the table is a small *** and the trail of ink suggest this is my ink-***. Strange. It seems perfectly natural and familiar to be writing these words in this archaic fashion yet oddly out of place also as though a thread of a memory is tugging somewhere in my brain telling me it cannot be real. My hand reaches out to rub the surface of the table. It is rough, hewn not by a skilled artisan but functional. A shiver courses through me and I draw my rough cloak closer about me …

I don’t know if I had slept but becoming aware of my surroundings, I can see a little greyness coming through the drape over my window. It is not daylight in the sense you would know it; it is never daylight here. The candle is no more than a stub now and it’s flame is gasping it’s last breath. My surroundings are eerily visible now in this dull light. I can see the door across to my right. It is old and heavy with a large handle and studded panels. I expect to see a bed but craning my neck all I can see is a rough straw pallet in the opposite corner. That part of the room is still hidden in shadow so I am surmising that the rumpled pallet and rough blanket heaped against the wall is where I sleep. But I do not remember sleeping.

My pen is laid down next to the sheaves of manuscript I had clearly been working on. All this time, whether sleeping or writing, I had not considered whether I was alone here in my room. There was nothing in that moment I considered it to suggest I was here in anything but solitary isolation. Yet something made me look again at the rumpled bed in that dark corner. I realised then with a start that what I had assumed to be just my bedding had a clear form. Straining my eyes against the grey shadow, I saw an imperceptible movement. I held my breath, unsure if my eyes were deceiving me in this half light. I pushed against the table to lift myself as quietly as I could from my chair and padded over to the bed in the corner.

Crouched against the wall was the form of a woman. Her breathing almost imperceptible, coming in short, tremulous whispers. Clearly she was sleeping but something told me it was not a comfortable sleep but rather a sleep brought on by sheer exhaustion. Her pose was unnatural; half lying, half crouching. Her hands were clasped against her chest and rose and fell with each breath. I staggered backward my heart pounding in my ears, drowning out the sound of her breathing.

Turning to the table, my trembling hand reached for the candle and, cupping my hand to protect the dying light, I crept back to her. In the faint yellow cast of the flame I could see her more clearly. A once silvery gown now grey and tattered covered her small frame. There was a rough blanket draped carelessly across her shoulders. Her elfin face was as pale and dull as the grey light and threads of golden hair hung across her face. I found myself reaching out to her only to brush a strand from across her eyes. In that moment her eyes flew open and stared wild and frightened. Immediately she cowered back against the wall whimpering like a cornered animal. The shock of her awakening startled me and I fell back from my crouched position. Her hands flew up to protect her perfect face and to my horror, I saw they were bound at the wrist. Who was she? Why in all the gods’ names was she here, my apparent prisoner?

I recovered my senses and as gently as I could I approached her again. The blanket had fallen from her shoulders and in the still guttering candle flame I saw what I could only guess were silver feathers seemingly growing from her shoulders. This was impossible. The light was playing with my senses surely?

Reaching out to her I ever so gently touched her clasped hands now held against her face as though in prayer. She let my take them in mine – so delicate, so perfect, so cold to the touch – and my fingers slid down to her bound wrists. The binding was a dull silver, so flimsy yet seemingly strong enough to hold her hands together. There were welts where the bindings had dug into the flesh. And now she stared unblinkingly at me, sheer terror in her eyes.

I let her hands go with more force than I intended and recoiled from this scene, my whole frame trembling, my skin crawling with cold dread. Had I done this? I cannot remember. If I had, why? I closed my eyes willing it to be no more than a nightdread. Opening them seconds later I realised what I knew; that this was real, as real as anything could be in this strange world I found myself in.

I knew then what I must do and turning to my table I looked frantically amongst the sheaves and found the blade I had been using to pare my quills. Grasping it I returned to the pallet and approached her, blade in one hand, sputtering flame in the other. She gasped in horror as I drew close to her. How stupid of me. The poor creature was terrified of me, terrified by the cruelties I must have inflicted upon her.

“Hush, I mean you no harm.” My words seemed to belong to someone else. I placed the candle on the floor and reached out for her hands again. Pulling them toward me, I told her I was going to remove her bonds. She seemed to understand and, though still staring wildly like a frightened child, she let me insert the blade under her bindings. I could only imagine she had trusted me once and was now prepared to do so again. With a deft flick, the bindings parted to the blade and slithered to the floor. She turned her eyes from me for the first time to inspect her wrists massaging them lightly. She looked up at me once more and though she spoke no words, her eyes framed the question, “Why now? Why now after so long?”

I stood up and backed away from her and gestured toward the door: “It is time, that’s all, time for you to go.”

Rising uncertainly from her rude bed, this angel, for that is surely what she was, stood before me trembling. I removed the cloak from my shoulders and placed it about hers, my fingers lightly brushing the feathers on her shoulder blades. I gestured toward the door once again saying as I did so: “Walk toward it; I shan’t stop you. There is no lock; it will freely let you pass. I will not follow.”

The poor creature turned from me and walked to the door. Grasping the handle, it opened with a groan. She passed through and was gone …

In a stupor, I went toward the window and pulled the drape to one side. The sky was still grey but now a silver moon hung in my vision. I sensed a movement to my left and saw my angel soar across the face of the moon and into the gloom.

I walked back to my table and sat heavily down. Grasping my quill and dipping it into the inkpot, I reached for another sheet of parchment and continued to write in the hope that you will find these words and tell my story …

“You may go now.
Come, let me loose your bonds.
Yes, caress the scars: there, soothing, isn’t it?
Why, you’re trembling …
Are you cold?
Not afraid, surely?
You’re free now.
Here, let me brush your golden hair from your eye, wipe the tear from your cheek.
Your face is cold; take my cloak.
I can see the question in your eyes: why now? Why now after so long?
It is time, that’s all, time for you to go.

There’s the door;
stand and walk toward it;
I shan’t stop you.
There is no lock; it will freely let you pass.
See, it opens willingly.
Now pass through, I will not follow.”

I turn to face the moon framed in the cold stone arch
and watch you soar across Her face into the darkness …

I could answer your questions with a simple, off-the-cuff explanation but have ended up writing this essay: the more I thought about what you’d asked, the more the I felt it warranted a fuller explanation so I will try to explain why I call myself a Wiccan and how I come to be following the Wicca Path. And apologies in advance for the length of this!

As well as my love of Literature, I love History with a similar passion. My degree was in English and History and although I specialised in Shakespearian and post-Shakespearian literature and Modern History, I have a long held fascination with Celtic and pre-Celtic history, beliefs and spirituality. It is the mysticism of the Old Religion that seemed to attract me most and I found myself drawn particularly to the Celtic and Welsh mythology and have read extensively about it: Cornwall and Wales (mid Wales in particular) are my two favourite places in the world. I have read a lot about Celtic and pre-Celtic history, beliefs and religion over the years, both fiction and non-fiction.

Although Jewish by birth, I was brought up by my father who was a confirmed atheist so I lost out on any formal religious influence as I was growing up. Perhaps because of his views, I developed a distrust of formal, mainstream religion. That’s not to say I felt I had no spiritual beliefs at all, it’s just they were untapped and unidentified; I felt I was reaching out for something but it never took on any tangible form, rather like in a dream when you cannot see clearly the faces or forms of the inhabitants of your dreams.

By the time I got into my forties, I realised there was something seriously lacking in the spiritual side of my life. These beliefs were compounded by three events:

    * reading James Lovelock's Gaia theory [which inspired me to write one of my favourite stories, Gaia's Last, published here];
    * my discovery of Jean Auel's Earth's Children series of books , Clan of the Cave Bear, etc. which go into extraordinary detail of Cro-Magnon peoples' belief in nature spirits, worship of The Mother and Shamanism;
    * a sudden change in my circumstances that forced me to re-evaluate every aspect of my life and my existence.

It was at this time I began to research the Old Religion: paganism, nature-worship, whatever you want to call it, and this led me to discover Wicca.

The more I read about it, the more I realised it fitted in with my current state of mind and outlook on life. Maybe there is a sense of escapism inasmuch as the roots of Wicca look backward to a simpler time and as I was having difficulty coping with the complexities of the changed circumstances in my life at the time. Wicca seemed to offer exactly the spiritual needs I was lacking.

That is not to say that Wicca is old-fashioned and out of date. Rather the contrary in fact. Whilst its roots acknowledge the Old Religion, Wicca is relatively modern having been developed by a guy called Gerald Gardner who published a book called Witchcraft Today in the 1940s I believe which re-established in the public eye the old pagan beliefs that have been around since the dawn of man. These beliefs never really disappeared even through the worst of the atrocities perpetrated against followers of the Old Religion [The Burning Times ]. (And just to make an important point about the title of the book and Wicca in general, Witchcraft in the pagan and Wicca context is NOT Black Magic or Satanism as the tabloid press or mainstream religion would have you believe; it could not be further from them. It is simply an acknowledgement of the existence of natural forces that can be used or channelled by those who choose to learn these ancient skills).

I have seen Wicca [and other forms of Paganism] referred to as Green Magic and that seems the perfect definition; it is immensely comforting to work so closely with the natural world and to feel such a part of it.

So for me, Wicca is an ideal spiritual antidote for the impossibly fast-paced, self-serving lifestyles we all seem to be caught up in these days, often through no choice of our own. It is as valid a belief system as any other practised throughout the world and is nothing like the forms of Wicca popularised in the media with TV shows like Charmed and its ilk!

Wicca is it is not something to be taken on lightly - Wicca practices should be treated with the same reverence as those in any other belief system. It requires study, practice and dedication.’

I have to confess to have been lacking in all three since I originally wrote this so have vowed to myself to rectify these shortcomings. I feel excited about my rekindled sense of spirituality and more at peace with myself for making this decision.

Go in Love & Light!

I need to write; I have ideas swirling around my mind most of the time. But if I haven’t got somewhere or something to note these ideas down, they drift off, lost.

I’d like to think I’m a good writer, but I know I’m not. Or maybe I’m too self-deprecating. It’s a cultural thing with me, which I’m not going to talk about here at this time. Some other time will feel right for that.

Having said that, words come easily to me. I can create wordscapes with my writing. I’ll write about many things, about love, loss, death, desire, hope and defeat. The images I see when I pen something are real, the patterns the words create are tangible to me.

But I’m also a lazy writer. I love the fact I can find on-line a multitude of sites offering advice for writers, rules to follow to help make you a good writer. I spend a lot of time reading these. What I need to be doing is writing, not reading about writing! You will be amused how many novels I have started to write. Some have evolved into short stories, others into free verse poems. One day I may actually write the novel that’s in me; I’m certainly not short of ideas, when I remember them! And I have folders full of novels I’ve started. Some of them end up as short stories. Lazy, see …

What is hard for me is to focus that inner discipline to write. But when I do tame the procrastinating voices, words spill out in a rush of creativity.

Is that approach wrong? I feel guilty if I haven’t written in a while but I’m good at riding the guilt. Yet if an idea comes to me and then disappears, as is often the case, it annoys me. It’s like a dream you wake from and, for a moment, can remember it vividly, then it’s gone. You grasp at those wisps of recollection but they’re always just out of reach and it frustrates me when that happens.

Then there’s those times when creativity does burst out of me. Perhaps it’s the build-up of guilt that erupts creating a pyroclastic flow of ideas hurtling towards blank page. Liken it to an artist who splatters paint randomly on a canvas; unplanned and random, the words tumbling onto the page, vying for position, for supremacy.

I have to accept that this is the way it is, that’s the way I write. Perhaps after my death, people will say, “He was quite a good writer, shame he didn’t write that novel …

You've hurt me beyond belief
and it is beyond all comprehension
why you have done this.
What perverse pleasure do you get
from making me feel this way?
I want to exact my revenge on you
tenfold ...

Simplify

You've hurt me so badly
and I don't understand why.
Do you enjoy making me feel like this?
I want to take my revenge
tenfold ...

Simplify

You've hurt me a lot
but why?
Do you enjoy it?
I want to get back at you
tenfold ...

Simplify

You hurt me.
Why?
Enjoy it?
I will get back at you
tenfold ...

Simplify

I'm hurt.
You did it.
Liked it?
My turn
tenfold ...

Simplify

I hurt.
Now you
tenfold ...

Simplify ...

(1)

In a moment
the adrenalin rush
courses through my veins;
a torrent of frustration.

Rational expression gives way to loss of all reason
as vitriol spurts forth from my lips;
a stream of abuse:

I want to goad you
I want to hurt you
I want to abuse you

The foul profanities are carefully aimed
sent hurtling from my mouth
in a barrage of spittle, all semblance of sanity gone,
and the air reeks with rankness from my verbal barrage.

A vein pulses at my temple
and the crescendo of my heartbeat
is a rhythmic chant that drives me on
to ever greater extremes.

And as this onslaught congeals and festers in an instant
inside my head, it forms into a clenched fist
that assumes control of its own existence
to strike out and feel the satisfaction as it makes contact
with your soft flesh and delicate bone.

My froth and spittle is flecked with your blood
but I am removed from the person flailing you,
punishing you,
and I have no control over him.

My eyes, if I could see them reflected in your fearful eyes,
are wide and wild,
my lips are curled back over my teeth,
my mouth opens widely as my screams of rage
are vomited at you,
my gasping breath rasps between rants,
my chest pistoning,
as you lie at my feet bloodied and subdued.

Now as I stand over you panting: an animal subjugating my ****,
your eyes look furtively and fearfully into mine,
wide and frightened.

(2)

In a moment my wild triumph flees and such regret washes over me as I kneel, cradling your head in my hands, brushing away the sweat-bonded strands from your face.

I plant a soft kiss on your lips and our tears mingle saltily:

I lick my lips and taste that salt
But it only serves to heighten my guilt.

‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, and pull you close, letting your tremulous heartbeat calm me.

I stare mesmerized at the dancing flames
cavorting like cheap ******
now red, now blue,
twisting and turning lasciviously,
each striving for my attention.

Occasional sparks flash and fizz
as each flame tries to o'er leap the next
until, exhausted, they are ****** back
into the charcoal darkness,
turning deep crimson,
hissing and spitting
like a cornered cat and
sinking still further into the blackened remains

Until all that is left
are the dying embers.

Sometimes it happens that
a war breaks out:
the atrocities know no bounds
and we in the ‘civilised’ world
question who? how? and why?

Sometimes it happens that
a child dies:
no-one knows the real cause
but there are people on hand
to counsel and console.

Sometimes it happens that
an epidemic takes hold
and the toll mounts with
the innocent and old
the most news-worthy victims.

Sometimes it happens that
faces of famine haunt the TV screen
and we wring our hands in disbelief
waiting for those with a conscience
to cajole us into action.

Sometimes it happens that
we question our faith,
our belief in who or what
controls our fortune and fate.

There is no answer:
Sometimes it happens.

mini

[=small car]

mal

[=preface
as in 'malformed']

minim

[=musical note]

al

[=aluminium]

minimalism

is

art
in
its
simplest
form­
its
fundamental
features

in
words

[start again from the top]
[read beckett]

in
art

[look at stella]
[look at judd]


in
music

[listen]
[hear]
[each]
[note]

iteration

breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

wake
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

wash
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

coffee
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

cigarette
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

dress
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

work
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

eat
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

relax
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

sleep
breathe in
breathe out
beat
beat beat

Continue iterations until cycle complete .....

sleep
sleep
sleep ...

I am dead,
but do not weep for me.

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

the dispossessed that walk your streets
homeless and lost
hands held out for some morsel of change
or maybe just a kindly word
or a glance of recognition.

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

emaciated waifs
clinging to the tattered robes
of their mother
flies buzzing round the fetid sores
that pock their melancholy faces

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

pathetic souls that huddle
in the rubble of their homes
scratching at the ruins in vain hope
of finding those lost in the onslaught of
Nature's wrath

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

the lost children
who will search in vain
for those nurturing hands
and soothing words
gone in a hail of lead
scattered in a blast of revenge
to splatter the faces of these innocent ones

Save your false tears and shallow platitudes for these:

your regrets
your mistakes
your knowledge
that you stood by and allowed
these assaults on humanity to continue
day upon day
life upon life

I am dead
so will you be
and ask yourself now
who will weep for you?

Not these.

There was once an artist and a poet.

The artist was renowned throughout the land for his sublime skill with the brush, his superb eye for colour, his ability to define the truth of nature with each stroke, bringing the canvas to life in a glorious cacophony of colour. People looked on in awe as he painted, watching the scene come alive as each moment passed. When he put the brush down, there was a hushed silence and many watchers shed a tear at the beauty of his creation.

The poet was also held in the highest esteem. He could captivate an audience with his magical use of words, his lilting rhythms, his passion that created a vivid tapestry in the mind’s eyes of his enthralled listeners. He transported them to wondrous places far beyond the imagination. And when he spoke the last word of the last verse, his audience were silent in their admiration of what they had heard, overcome with the emotion of his words.

Then one day it came to pass that the artist, now grey and of rheumy eye, realised he could no longer paint the vibrant beauty of all that he saw around him. He was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

The poet too, after these many years, now old and grey succumbed to deafness, no longer able to hear his own voice, so felt no longer able to speak in his rich lilting rhythms to create the wonderful soundscapes and journeys of the imagination his words had done. He too was distraught at his loss and resigned to die as his very reason for being was lost to him.

And it happened that the artist and the poet were in the same town, sitting side by side by the oldest tree, neither aware of who the other was.

A small boy saw them there and with the innocence of a child spoke to them. He spoke first to the artist: “Why do you look so sad?” The artist, hearing the child’s voice but not seeing him, reached out a hand and asked, “Who is that?” The boy replied, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The artist turned his head toward the sound of the boy’s voice and said, “I was a great artist but now my sight is gone and I can no longer paint the beauty of all that there is around me.” The boy then asked him, “What are you doing here?” to which the artist replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

This puzzled the boy. He turned to the poet and asked him, “I am but a boy but I know you are sad. Tell me why.” The poet did not respond because he could not hear the boy speak. The boy tapped the poet on the arm and he looked towards him and the boy repeated his question. The poet could see the boy’s lips move but for him, no sound came out. Yet he discovered he could understand the boy’s words. With huge effort, he spoke although the words were no more than a rasping whisper to the artist and the boy for the poet could not hear his own voice: “I was a great poet but now my hearing is gone and I can no longer hear my voice, I am unable to use the magic of my words to create wonderful worlds of the imagination.” The boy then asked, “What are you doing here?”, to which the poet replied, “I am waiting to die as I have no reason to continue living.”

The boy thought about this for a moment and then a wonderful idea came to him. To the artist he said, “The poet can still see and he has discovered his voice again although he can no longer hear the words he speaks, but you can. His words can describe the wonders of nature that is all around us. Let him use his words and you can paint the images he puts in your mind’s eye.”

And so it was that the artist and the poet worked together as one; the poet speaking aloud, describing the beauty that was all about, and the artist, painting by touch the wondrous scenes from his imagination.

The crowds stood in rapt delight at the poet's words as they were transformed into wondrous images on the artist’s canvas. And the boy stood amongst the throng and smiled.

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..”― John Milton, Paradise Lost
___________________­_______

Consider the mind
in whose deep caverns find
scatterings of memories
prismatically displaced.

Red recollections
that still incur wrath and venom,
arguments long forgotten.

Green recollections
emanate warmth that kindles
innocent times recalled.

Blue recollections
mauling at this bogus tranquillity,
scratching and tearing,
leaving oozing welts that fester
into melancholy.

Now hold this mirror shard
to these memories’ light:
watch the beams discordant
ricochet, obtuse, acute,
chaotically flaring into momentary awareness.

Consider the mind ...

Stand on the edge and look down ....

























It is so far down that reality blurs
into an abstract haze.

Is it solid ground,
soft verdant green
that will envelop you in its caress as you land?

Is it hard concrete that waits
to shatter-splatter you into a liquid pool?

Is it that empty eternal void
you tumble into night on night,
as you clutch at your throat,
as you gasp for that last, lingering breath?

Perhaps it is Death
that awaits you in his welcoming grasp?

Stand on the edge and look down …















The ground is giving way beneath your feet.
Your heartbeat rises to a crescendo in your chest.
You cannot breathe.
Frantically, you grab at the cloth by your neck.
Your legs are weak.
You feel the earth crumbling away.
Your eyes stare wild and wide.

A scream echoes ghastly, panicked,
reverberating around you
in a maelstrom of despair.

Is this your voice?

Stand on the edge and look down …

















only scant seconds remain.
What will you do?

Dare you step back?
Can you will your shrieking mind to comprehend, to obey?
And if you do,
are you safe?

Reach behind you,
go on, you can ....

Feel it?
The wall, rough and damp?
Touch it,
grasp at it,
your scrabbling fingers
shredded and bleeding from the sharp rock
it doesn't matter.

Find a purchase
and drag yourself towards it,
rest your clammy face against the rough-hewn stone,
caress the damp rock with your cheek,
ignore the ****** tears that course down your face,
breathe again;

Your chest heaves,
your mouth agape
drawing in draughts of cold air.
The pounding of your heart lessens.

Now close your eyes,
sleep, sleep ...

a moment ago:
I was born,
gasped my first
lungful of air.

a moment ago:
I took my first steps,
uttered my first words.

a moment ago:
I realised I could
disagree
with what I was told to know.

a moment ago:
I began to doubt
my own hypotheses.

a moment ago:
I loved you
with every sense
and every emotion.

a moment ago:
you rejected that love,
casting me to despair.

a moment ago:
I realised I could never trust
those who feigned to care.

a moment ago:
I left this life
to its bitter devices.

a moment ago:
you expressed regret.

now the moment has passed ...

I wrote a poem on a bus
but to hear it you must
climb to the top
of the bouncing metal stairs.
  
Slither snake-like
past the rail
and sit
on the rainbow nylon bench.
  
I'll be there
at the top of the bus,
reciting my rhyme,
written as we ride along,
past shops and houses
with musty nets
and peeling paint
on dingy doors.
  
There's the old woman who
lives in a house no bigger than a shoe box
who had so many children she didn't know what to do!
But they've all grown and flown now and she's all alone
with no-one to talk to but herself.
  
Look at that kid: grimy smile and mischievous eyes,
skateboard-scuffed knees,
darting out from the roadside.
Screech!
As we stop and angry words.
The kid glances back and tosses a vee
leaving just his smile behind.
  
The bus lurches on
at a snail's pace and stops at a stop
for a giggle-girl-gang
to chatter up the stairs
with a clatter of feet and voices:  
weekends and boyfriends,
music and laughter.

The bus trundles and sways
past shops all shuttered,
old folks gathered by doorways
talking about people
dead and forgotten ...
except by them.
  
Into the town now:
a river of road-rage
as our bus ambles onward
toward car-parks and markets
and rat-racing shoppers
  
And stops by a brown pigeon-stained temple
of public philanthropy,
a gift from a long-dead civic leader
and now proud home
to dogeared tomes of PC persuasion.
  
Our bus, like some Trojan horse,
disgorges its riders
who spatter and scatter
like rays of dawn light
to shop till they drop.
  
So, just me and you seated
atop the steel stairway
and you say to me sharply,
“So where's your poem then?”
I look at you strangely:
“It's happened around you,” I tell you quite curtly.

As a dark flash,
a mere flicker in my mind's eye
does she come to me.

Her breath,
light as a spirit's passing,
is cold as death
as her lips brush mine.

And I draw in that sweet breath
feeling its chill course through me
tantalising my senses.

Her hand lightly brushes my cheek;
a gentle caress that wakens my
deepest needs.

I reach up to enfold her in my arms
as though seeking to embrace the wind
and, wraith-like, does she melt into me
inside my mind and body all.

And our passion is all consuming,
her desire and mine,
as we journey beyond this world
to the ethereal plane.

Now nothing more tangible
than a wisp of cloud
that crosses the moon
and reaches out to the stars.

I hold her in that eternity
where time has ceased its onward path,
her hand in mine, fingers entwined,
the moonlight warming us.

And then in a heartbeat she is gone.

I look about
and glimpse a single black feather
dancing on the wind.

At day’s first dawning
I held you close and touched your heartbeat
as the new sun rose over
a green and verdant land.

We walked hands entwined
across grassy pastures and laughed
at the comic antics of brightly coloured birds
who played in the warm breeze
that tugged at your hair.
And I saw the sunbeams dancing in your eyes.

I plucked a bright fruit from a new-grown crop
and we shared the sweet flesh,
savouring its aroma
and I gently wiped your soft cheek
then kissed you, tasting its juices on your lips.

We watched from high above
as fantastical sights unfolded below;
great stone temples looking to the sky,
great cities rising up from the plains
but you turned away from these,
hiding your face against my chest
as death swept across the once green pastures.

Your tears fell for those lost and those left behind to mourn
so I took your face in my hands
and my lips soothed away those tears
and calmed your sad heart.

And now we walked a strange land,
your arm linked with mine,
along straight roads,
through streets hidden in shadows
cast by towering structures of concrete and glass
and the skies cut by craft that left billowing plumes in their wake.

We came across a barren place
where the stench of death hung in the late afternoon air
and you gripped me tight, looking into my eyes
that mirrored the sadness around us.
We saw small faces lost among the ruins,
deadened eyes, ghostly pale,
and I wished for that bright dawn again.

But now the sun was low and slipping beneath the far horizon;
day’s bright warmth gave way to the blackest of nights
save for a few glimmering stars high above
and icy chills clawed at the land below covering it with deepest frost
burying beneath its crushing weight the misery we had seen and felt.

I held you close to me and grasped starlight with my hands
and in its silvery warmth we held each other,
your soft breath on my face,
waiting for the new dawn.

Your ******* gently caress your face
precise in their touch
rhythmically moving upward
to come together;
herald of a new day …

Your dark hours
caress me, hide me, protect me,
I adore your silence
save the gentle pulse of you.

I need with a black passion
to hold these moments forever,
to stop your onward journey into the light of day
for this morning must never come.

But my efforts can never bear any result
for, even if I could stop your relentless march,
you serve a greater master than me
and to stop that celestial dance
is beyond any possibility.

So I know what I must do
and smile at the simplicity of it …

It is I who must withdraw
from this unending journey
of dark into light...

One grain, one taste,
stretches every minute, every second;
you slow your caresses,
the celestial dance ceases,
the black night settles over me…

I have bid farewell to morning ...

Blood-red
you are the
essence of all
that is ******,

a passion
unbound by morality,
sweetest smelling,
your satin skin
begs for my caress.

Such heady perfume
draws me closer
fills my lungs,

my eyes closed basking
in the Aphroditic aura of you,
swooning as you caress my senses;

to hold you,
possess you is all
I know ...

Reaching out
pleading,
begging,

my hand enfolds you ...

Your barbs
pierce my skin
blade-drawn, my blood
oozes gently out,
mixes with your satin touch,

its rich aroma
startles my perception
awakens me.

My hand jerks open
and you flutter earthward
to lie crumpled and torn
on the ground
consecrated by my blood,
my complete forgiveness given;
your beauty, your passion deserves no less...

If I could live forever I would:

provide more wisely for
my loves
my desires
my dreams
my children
and theirs
and theirs

If I could live forever I would:

become learned in
art
music
philosophy
dance
science
medicine
nature
belief

If I could live forever I would:

write the story of my life
in chapter and verse
to be sung
to be spoken
to become legend
to be the root of conflict
to be comfort to the lost

If I could live forever I would:

see Man's greatest works
see Man's darkest deeds
see great nations rise and fall
see the ebb and flow of Gaia's works;
see oceans rise, mountains fall

If I could live forever I would:

be omnipresent
for I would be a memory
for I would be a hint of recollection
in all those lives I touch.

If I could live forever I would:

seek out how many ways I could die
and try them all
again, and again, and again.

Autumn warmth
and rusted leaves hide
the shrouded chill lurking high
in Northern lands,
mustering its icy warriors
to creep down in the night.

Keening winds gather dark clouds
about them cloaking the moon and stars
and with furtive breath ****,
the warmth from all about.

Icy blasts ravage the tired trees
as gentle flakes
tumble down from heavy skies;
beautiful, dancing nymphs
misleading my sight
numbing the air,
reaching out to every
crack and cranny.

They gather higher and higher,
blown into dark corners
climbing to my window ledge
as frosty tendrils slink from roofs
twining down my window pane
obscuring the outside from my sight …

… then, as morning’s pale light
oozes in through tight closed shutters,
I open my door onto a strange
and barren world:

all that was ordinary and familiar to me,
through verdant Spring
and hot high Summer,
to Autumn’s parade of golden hues,
is lost to the white shroud of
Winter’s Creep.

© 2010/2012