Yes, yet again
this is the night:
one of those nights
when the moon howls
but no vampire prowls
and werewolves are asleep
dreaming of sheepdogs
chasing sheep.

Half-live half-dead
I dance the sleepless dance
embracing my demons
in a drug-addled trance
of a crazy puppet

Sometimes
there's something
seductive
about the sky
that so attracts me
makes me want to fly
through the open window
the demon of freedom
invites me
to die.

Hello
this is a short message
written this Sunday morning
on March the first

the rain keeps coming from the west
non-stop for two days
risk of flooding
government says.

I miss you - had another dream
driving in sunshine.
It's the sun I miss
mostly - and then of course
there is your friendship
to treasure and to hold.

I hope you're having fun
on your quad.
They say four wheels
are better than two
I'm not so sure
how could you
have Zen and the art of
quad biking -
impossible?

I see you have given in
to peer pressure or whatever
and made your modest entry
in the ******* book
I had a quick look.
It looks
OK.

Now I suppose Twitter
and MySpace
where you can compose
even wittier
sayings.

You're a true master
of Wisdom
with a capital W
But it is not that
you struggle to say something
wise
it comes spontaneously
best when blurted out
immediate response
like:
"they throw babies in dumpsters
in your country too, Janet?"

She'd never forgotten it
as it
was such a strange and powerful thing to say

by the way
I googled your name
and you have loads of coverage
mostly under AHEC and Best.

This is just a few short lines
to say you are on my mind
and in my heart
as always
yours
me.

The day was bright
I was driving, the road curved right
then
a sharp and sudden twist of tarmac
****** me into the piercing light
blinded by shards of brilliance
drowned
then overwhelmed by peace and stillness
I stopped.
trees were embracing the sky,
time appeared to fade
there was silence,
and peace was made.

Then for a second I could follow my heart
as it ran on
just like a silent movie
but in colour.

the clocks went forward
and left me behind
of all the year's changes
this one's most unkind.

less time in bed:
more time to be bad
less chance to develop
new symptoms of S.A.D.

the birds are a-twittering
the cats are a-killing
the buds are exploding
the evenings are chilling

there's no time to linger
gotta pull out my finger
it's time to stop dreaming:
wake up and start screaming!

it's a short  dance
between the night and, say  
the morning
dreamy hope  
moon trance  
missing heartbeats
scary haunting prowls
distant shards of darkness
and a soft release
with a hint of silence.

My drugged fantasy
follows the rhyme masters:  
trans-Atlantic dwellers  
icy treasure keepers
sights of sacred mountains    
and powerful embracing
(never self-effacing)
of half-life, half-death.

My pen poised and struggles:  
such a crazy evening  
such seductive welcome  
sights perfectly imagined  
and accomplished howls  
of the gospel sayings.  

I'm a northern demon
painting ashen skies
as I watch vampires of dark past returning.
  
Such a hard unlearning:
memories
are future souls burning
that whisper to us  
through the ancient dust
of painless forgetting
freedom fragments chasing  
precious bonds of wisdom,
perfect dreamy angels.

At first there were four
no hint of the future
just a dreamy evening
church bells in the distance
poetry at dusk.
How soon it would pass
who could have imagined
sorrows yet to come.

And then there was one
who sailed the Atlantic
bearing memories
like the sacred ashes
hope turned into dust
as will all our past.

Three then reunited:
like the gospel kings
journeyed to the far lands
of the northern mountains
and the icy lakes
to release the spirits
so they can roam free.

There, across the lake
spirit of the fourth
joined his precious kin
leaving all behind.

Mission thus accomplished
returning in silence
and their duty done
the three split again
into two
and one.

night.
alone now
I start  to sleep
and dream of you: a perfect angel.
Darkness is stilled
Moon oddly red
the night so dark
until the morning - perfectly bright.
once we were friends, a special bond
then we were lovers
souls were exchanged
or so it seemed
now
you're a whisper in haunting dreams
ripping away
shards of my heart

the night is time
to follow dreams
until the morning

Too reassuring to give!
Brighter and lighter
we all
instinctively turn.

The cold softens and melts
there is no point though yet.
Headlong
into
balmy sun-drenched days
the supporting bounty
is truly with us.
Nature, cautiously purple.
And first
will be the lambs.

Mozart was white or grey
depending on the season
and soil:
the dryness dulled his shine
the wetness washed him clean.
If he could speak he would say
perhaps
that he lived under the stairs –
this was his happy place.
Oh, and that he did not like being touched –
far too sophisti-cat for
this crude human handling.

Jake was grey or black
depending on the angle
at which sun stroke his fur.
He went on long mystery trips
catching snakes by the brook.
He would say – if able to speak –
and here I’m guessing again –
that the garden was his,
and maybe even both houses.
He was a peasant by nature
but owned us all
and wore his heart on his coat
for all to see.

Mozart wasted away
We buried him in the garden.
Jake went mad –
I would like to think that he went mad with grief –
perhaps he could not face the world
without his missing twin.

Sleep well Mozart, farewell Jake
unwilling messengers
of more bad fortunes to come.
You took a small part of me
never to return.