In the darkness he felt threatened
the tables turn as he veers away,
ages usher had  nothing on time -
just the haunted side of jade,
the fossils turn of anger
a packed mass of double take
impenetrability stakes the  hills.

The corridors order chaos,
dank and dismal
he alone is free
only the sound of a shrill clap
reminds him the walls are duly served.
Some murmur to feel safe
in the soft tissues of paradox,
where the wise listen to lost sages
whose advice can exonerate
any fevered hatch.

I tried for the rope of ignorance
to jettison seemly hope
but the four winds conspired
to drain  any thought,
whose intention complexes
the placebos already prescribed.
My ex howlers on the phone
she's asking me to give it a rest.
Already I sense she's swallowed,
the part that cannot make amends.
The siphon of good sense
wears thin like a DJ's copy,
should I  kneel down
whilst  finding lost sense?

Verdant comforts,
cleomes and dalhias,
walks by  cobbled paths
Artists and their pedestals
incapsulating these vistas,
therein lays the beauty
we all knew inherent
in each and every of our  dawn risings

The thickets of time
come rain or shine,
scratch the best of years,
old man looking on
do you still count the cricket scores
in your sleep ?
with jumpers  for wickets,
and  blackberries  down country lanes.
Navel looking down
the vastness of your now waist line,
a mark of  your captaincy
receipts of your labour
dangling like a butchers overall.
In your limelight  your broadened smile
releases a relinquished accent
that you could never quite forgive.


.

like a darted journey
the spokes of despair,
sharpend by hazel spears
betray an inordinance of time.
Lost amongst the amber stones
light shafTing twilights furl
we succumb beseaching

The  longing  to  compete  up a  one way street,
foolhardy if the  confidence is lost
But  inherent  is  this wish
to  be  better than  thou.
My  sageful  advice may  fall on  cloth  ears
having  run its course,
being an ensemble  of  sorts.
The  mighty  brevity  will surely  decline
with  the  passing  of  time
perhaps  long  after­ these ideals

Potpourri on the concrete carpet
how can this be held as beguiling?.
Even the willows sigh by the
increasing turbulence of the wind.
Legends so few of them,
stagnating without a hand to lift
their encapsulation.
Dreamscapes  bygone
as sure as  grief rotted down,
the nightingale  stranded,
erstwhile finally.

i sing only for a purpose
but cannot even carry a tune
there's been this dense misunderstanding.
Rawlings never gvies  the credit,
so its the same old  waning
with familiar  yelping dog
sounding off in the pavallion,
where hesitation seems subservient
and the planning out of kilter .

Four o clock where angels and demons
meet head on,
and strangely agree on  the subject.
Callous hands and sunken cheekbones
a man of  nebulous means,
and whilst you sear in your troubled sleep
your sins have been recorded.,
By dawn the jury turns their wings,
to allow nocturnal recoil
to hasten the despatch.

The  spotlight  is  on the  broken  coastline
porous - like  archers  spilling arrows
into  the vanquished hinterland.
In the ancient West  Mercia
wooden bridges collapse
uproar, as the King's regiments
long disbanded , ghosts
into fading memory.
Our  defenders, our  loyal subjects
enmeshed into the  wider  fear
our  citadels breached,
and where  is  the  valour
the self reliance of  our  septic isle?

She was an exceptional light commedienne,
her lungs bursting with joy
indeed with finnese
she additionally dive acrobatically
into enraptured  hands.
But her better stage half urged
period dramas
her thick southern drawl deemed unsuitable
and if it be said
over reaching,
she find no true instrument,
other than to burn in her Autumn days
filed under regret.

All is not the same as I learn,
the hunger to disengage.
To give a  wide  berth
these battling  contrasts.
Only took a  photograph in medium  format
a glimpse a shutter's worth,
to  share in this  ovidian  downturn
and then walk away.

twined like bristle on ordinance days
but not quite as mystical.
Where are we going
and what have we cast,
responsibilty  came yodelling
by torrents
and plainly unsettled withdtew
to her plot.

I tried  to feed the  pigeons  with seed
at  the  end of  the  driveway,
not even a modicum was eat
unlike  my  friends  5  cultivated visitors.
Only  tonight  he is  watering his  Dahlias
and Sunflowers.
I casually forgot to  water my tub of  potatoes .
Energy and  priority
burns  with  this  capricious  summer.
and as  good as we think we are
its Brendan who
manages to surpass the conundrums
forever  your  plantsman and allotment stake- holder

The honeysuckle
regimented like  battalions of soldiers
its scent carried  by the  wind's discretion,
white flicks of impervious  cinder,
a burning season
whose sulphuric  palace
left  no doubt
the  high church of summer
was descending,
envisaged russett on one hand
muddy grey like a chagrin,
come to soon
the expiration.

She rode the wave of exclamation,
a borrowed  stirrup  buckled the wind -
of promises  broken,
turning pledges to  gorse
yellow stranding into  infinity.
She  pardoned with  forgiveness,
self serving without a kiss
and  finished  the  morsels
the  crumbs
of  her  hard fought victory.

Did you touch the memory of the country show,
showing  gratitude
for that faintly blowing wind that forgave
all those unwashable  sins
of omission.
After  all it was Janus and the aftermath,
that keep you on your toes
and something more will unravel
by the days end.

From the coldness of the skies
this bleak yearning
straddles me further.
Slippers at dawn, no patent path.
I remember no  extracting lie
no brave act, trodden not.
Such echo chambers I refuse
Steadfast now gathers
the finis, answered questions.

I am so weak, who should be blamed?
unless my cry was deserving.
The fairest  wind languishes
and still pick her spoils far deeper,
more injurious than moribund life.
This jaded ideal, sprang from the tyrants pass
this  earnest clanging,  this inarticulation.

The  Love  children gather in  saffron meadows  
needling their aura  for
a  portal  beyond  innocence.
Prophecies  anew
points towards  the  stone  canyons  
where  form undefined, almost contorted
settles  on the former  Moon children,
whose antecedences  coexistence  with their seven moons,
orbited  the limitless  vacuum.
A perchance  to dream
to dare.

Withelds  and thiefdoms
link towards sequestration
unedifying the same way,
but  I hoist my  pride
carrying  the lessons from this  travail  
from someone else's  making.
I  relish  planning  some  deceit
by means  of
never  hurting a  fly.

She travelled from London to Weedon
if only for a day she promised to be
someone of importance,
by burning bridges.
Espying the gentry by learning subterfuge
the romance of the veil,
observing the roses by feel.

The dawning oasis
with vin d'une nuit  drenching the sand
sees the good driven out
The long haired suitors
are voided by decree.
Storks bask  in the sun,
as Saint  Nicola's Paris jolt
ends before the carnival begins,
the fools largely spent.

False pride  tracks you like a  hologram
across  smudges  of  imperfection
you have  neither  friend  or  foe,
loneliness turns  your timetable.
Deadlier if  you  found another
with your  semblance,
negative  contact charged
will outlast the eons
further still.

Fire storm gave  you a cleansing  hand
cajoling not unlike a rabbit breaking through fences.
I feel more for foxes
but don't let that guise serve as something else.
Sheild my dignity by the pylons
deeply electric
azure as a dream
the bugles will surely entertain.
can closure be provided?

Too many gestulate but Im already down.
One day hard hitting without thought
but now I willingly break bread
with my eyes pointing down.
To imposter anybody else is a sin.
No sympathy weeping branches
a twisting wind as lore is
more likely to see the light.

I often think of stray unloved cats 
facing  God knows what
or heartless  people with something against pigeons.
I'm fearful for the floaters in my right eye
and  how  in time talking about  Seventies  rock music
will seem affected,
with sensitivity I try  not  to gander
but  convince  others of  my  right,
the  fluidity of eventually  becoming  what one is.

The blades of grass untidy over some sub saharian variety.
The cumulus  clouds are more down town
with illegal builds shimmering  in the corners.
We look back at our hopes
and belatedly realise baristas have
subverted  our national brew.
Sub let flats with strangers passing through
leaving catering oil drums outside.
Our national prerequisite  minding ones own
allows everything unknowing to go on,
including a morning benefits agency raid.
Rules and queues consigned to ailing  England

Let true conventionalism light the pathways.
Upright, always  thinking  of others,
never running a rapier  through  the artery
of true feelings.
Sometimes impervious  ideals,  unmasks the man  
by being unopen to the  gusts of  change
one  must  never  question preparedness.

The offer of  exploration
is as clear as a dusted chalk board,
fading into oblivion.
This developmental poetry  course is
turning lop sided,
who wants to record a hushed whisper,
chasm five ways into  the inner self
or recount a  colour,
with an emotional resonance.
The ghosts of the past fail to impress.
They cannot compel.
Surely the now is more pressing
not some cultivated  co-dependency

Do they value  quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly  choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants  are loathed  to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.

The home of impressionnists
skirts the perinent point.
Jagged sarecrows dance amongst silhouettes
fields scoff in ribboned light
moves  banks from their justled perch.
I sense something wrong
bravados movement always sways,
yet wider strokes almost monumental
allow the grey to merge into the  still night..

The wind sighs for itself
a germane seed of an idea
is often forgotten- asleep in a garret.
Cyclical breathless words
cries bleeding magenta.
How many  chances  are  swept
only to be whittled
ever weeping to the point
where the Kingdoms that once
craved absolution are emptying.

I am anchored to thoughts of Brugge.
My gastronomical panache is set.
Walking in a medieval town is like
voyaging  to the summits,
the stillness of the morning air
comes with a sense of belief.
Rossie our  tour guide
quilts you with the  knowledge
and a  knowing boon.
Nowhere else provides such testimony.

The moonlight  fills  its scope,
grounded as we are,
we could  never  intentionally die
although  hives abide by us
their sting is not inevitable,
Are they the ghosts of honeycombe?
only having been
offered a brief nectar sauce
These fears are all inflammable,
yet speak of  the wisdom untouched
by  jealousy.

The candor of colour plays havoc
on the jaded wallpaper,
ravenous cracks in the ceiling  cry mauve pain,
tantamount to walks into woods  with unseen prying eyes.
Yellow I recall was the fixer, the foil  of the tableau.
We have all been burnt, having offered our souls into the nexus of assumed sincerity
and still become twice removed.

Gratis I'll be the  judge  and  jury.
Faye Dunaway does  it  for  me.
Her  modus  operandi is elemental,
an acting force to be reckoned with.
Meanwhile travelling  light  with  my freshly sealed  
Olympus  OM1 MD.
At  the  drop  of  a  hat, loading slow  film
captures  the prevailing waves  of ozone
Mercury in the high  seas and I  heartily
concur  with the portent of
"Call Me a  Liar"
by the Edgar Broughton Band too.
Somethings are  bound  to  offend Aphrodite these days.

He smashed  his toy gun in seventy four.
Desperation - his face soured.
The shopkeeper knew he was more than kaput
and as for missing the xmas disco ~
he world never walk under the moon of love
from that day beyond.
The bullies had ran their cause
carefully formulating the groundswell.
Who were they his enduring question?

.

She became brazen
or so he thought,
having come home with Monday's rain,
so he forgave her.
She thought out aloud
Stoke and pottery classes
once the greatest of eases
but with the wherewithal -
in parenthesis to "gently nurture".

There is no shelter in this emerald  isle.
We are authors of our own hastening,
shunning simplicity and  the covert.
Fear is now permeable
its utterance  loitering like a well worn thread
turmoill  thickens livid  eyes
translating  further woe.

It's late in the day
standing by, Awareness drifts by
like stones carried in shoes.
Comments too few, to carry conviction
walks in sand  like a neon thought,
relics of crystallised leaves parade
an eerie silence that dealt time.
Only fortuitous believers became others
that sleep ordinary in this path.

The d'oeuvres are no longer being served,
and the spaghetti' with clam sauce
not so fetching,
over my white tuxedo.
The service is  inexplicably hurrying  
at the Cafe Rouge;
this gushing turnaround,
but with a  Gewurztraminer in the waiting,
has somehow has moved  me,
more than the curt  waitress Jeanne,
thankfully her imaginary grudges receding.

Shadows over  the moon -
sickles jangle towards  my feet.
Even too  much  glue cannot  be  washed away.
Profuse,  there’s  no coolness,
when the  wicker  Woman has  shorn  you
of  your  inner  sense.
Even her  poetry  was  mercurial
and  the worst is
the fallout  is  inevitable.

Had anyone heard of her accidentally?
elsewhere there's no trace.
I saw this paradigm of time drift by.  
Leastways Nikon F / Nikkor lens
ER Ektachrome caught her beauty;
never  flighty  Lavinia  Stone:
1/125  F5.6  stood her evergreen.  
Grained figurine, patient as light.
Portraiture from heavens sense,
cloudy drizzle
times eminent on blue rays.

The cold dash in October
could break your ankle,
on some twig strewn iced river,
gusted by this uneasy Bravado.
And through this
we form a common bond
the strewn and promiser will led their merry dance.

It is better to shut your eyes and see again
and undream.
So rollick in the  dew,
the  resplendent  Samphires will regrow.
For were we not pre destined
to edge towards the tidal  marshes
and with dugout boats
voyage through the satisfied.
Tempus fugit awaits
to enrapture  our intricacies.

Roses of consternation cry
as the lambs  are driven.
Is steadfast an exit or a cry for help?
Sometimes being crashed, bottoms out
and strife as a personal  armament;
merely becomes another structure.

The ground bubbled  neath, February's  awakening
stoic crocuses stood water  deep,
so that capriciousness was revealed
The  fill *****  over flowed.
So  certain the path walked
she  wove aconites into  her  hair  
to unghost the prevailing snowdrops.
The  dogwood a resplendent beacon
vies to complete the cycle .

At the time as leaves nestled
a hushed acquaintance
brushed by as Autumn.
Healing beneath his tongue
He tasted Maraschino again.
His bloodstream reinvigorated
by these changes
eagerly suspending disbelief.

At the time the wind stood still
he found discarded keys
to an Autumnal hut
and  bounded opened its door
he felt the joy of those  sprouted aliums
Which he hurriedly planted in a drill

August is never  lost to Summer,
she shares in her sphere of circularity
Calendula's a by-word  for prolonging,
dead-heading vies with the flush.
Lunaria's prized seed pods' legacy's boon.
In redolent contemplation.
Autumn bulbs eagerly  secured.
Amongst them Colichicums a wondrous  shrub
for late September's  appearance.

Like a Stallion,  August's canter masquerades
the truest of challenges ,
for the final  hurdle.
By means of subtle suggestiveness
Russet subsumes the Red.
Blue musters a tired
muddying  Purple.
Yellow bleaches
as though touched
by the exertion of congruity