There lies one in Rome
With whom all England was blest,
Whose bright star came home;

And if thou wouldst roam
To seek for all that is best,
There lies one in Rome

Beneath stately dome --
A spirit too young to rest,
Whose bright star came home

And whose living tome
Gifted the heavens their crest --
There lies one in Rome

O'er seas laced with foam,
Whose words still quicken our breast,
Whose bright star came home --

His name gleams as chrome,
Where water writ his bequest --
There lies one in Rome
Whose bright star came home.

Love is like a rose —
It hastens hearts a-tingling,
Tickles all your toes!

Friendships fade to throes
As hearts begin a-mingling —
Love is like a rose,

And each day it grows
It sets your nerves a-jingling,
Tickles all your toes!

Your skin brightly shows,
With blushing blood a-sizzling,
Love is like a rose!

It tweaks on your nose!
And sets the stars a-twinkling,
Tickles all your toes!

Do not fear for woes
Of love that ends a-dwindling —
Love is like a rose,
Tickles all your toes!

A crowd to me is a watery grave
Where chatter consumes the air;
Where sharks that circle with canapés
Are eyeing up the faire —
And I, the morsel they all crave
To drag unto their lair

Give me the deck of an ocean queen
When the daily feasting is done;
When the midnight sea flows by unseen
And the guests are all but gone —
Give me the peace of a night serene
And a place to be alone

We sat atop the remnants of a spire
That counted once the heavens its domain —
The storm that laid it low no more held claim
Unto that heart, that served still to inspire,
And we — we sat beneath a sky of sapphire
Inlaid with gold, a ring of Helios flame —
And ghosts passed by, and curious spirits came
And flickered over our hill like lilies afire

And leaving hence, I felt a bitter chill,
The numbing frost-touched fingers of the dead
That rent my soul and tore my heart asunder —
Such wounds infect the heart, the soul, the head,
And evermore resound inside as thunder —
Their chattering grating voices haunt me still.

If “content” is the narrative,
Wee daubed lines on a page —
A book without superlative
Would fill the content gauge

And if “content” is bits and bobs
Left in your grandpa’s trunk —
A pair of broken door knobs
Would serve as content junk

But if “content” is happiness,
The peace of being whole —
One errant daub, or bob the less
Denies a content soul.

Though autumn runs swift, I recall summer bygones
When thin hours were thrift; when the golden horizons
Of sunrise and sunset rose quick to their meeting,
And the night wore regret of a day ever fleeting.

O! To drink one last draught of the schemes youth had made!
The toil of our graft now lays hidden in shade;
The sunrise comes calling, and the sunset declines,
But the autumn is waning, and the winter confines

The march of a heartbeat, the pace of its drummer,
As boot-weary feet bear the blisters of summer;
The aching-back bends ‘neath the weight of horizons
That bookmark the ends of our gold summer bygones.

Meet me by moonlight
Where the low shadow falls —
We will dance in the twilight,
Our duet as loves’ thralls

We will dance tight together
For one heartbeat, one kiss,
And one breath of forever
Will preserve our sweet tryst.

The crash of crystal breaking at a party
Draws jeers of laughter from the self-same few
Who claim, when morning comes, they never knew
Of idle boasts that grew to plans more hearty,
And pressed, would say from him we stood apart.  We
Were bold and brash but unlike those who slew
The *******, and the dark skinned, and the jew,
We upheld values of society.
The coward hides in plain sight in a crowd
And adds voice to the clamour, not as one
Who acts alone, subverting evil schemes,
But like as one so small, so ill endowed,
That when the hardy revellers are gone,
His empty life holds nothing but their dreams.

Five and forty hands
Crucified democracy
In these harrowed lands

Ambition breeds strife --
The arm draped round your shoulders
Often wields the knife.

Betwixt rock and sea,
Three Hundred haunting poems
And one melody.

How poor votes are sold —
Dreams of rainbow unicorns
And a *** of gold

In life’s Fairytale,
Happily Ever After
Always hides Dragons

The light my eyes receive
Reflecting of your face
That aids me to perceive
Each imperfected grace

Has had to wend and weave,
Though at tremendous pace,
Through airs that interleave
Our intervening space

And so I sometimes grieve
That I can but retrace
The beauty I believe
No time would dare efface.

They sit atop a low wall kicking heels,
Pyjamas draped in bathrobes pulled-to tight
To ward Antarctic winds — Nearby the squeals
Of blues and twos betray the mortal plight
Of some ill-fated soul — A fog bank peels
Up from their glowing embers, for in spite
Of coughing blood and dragging drips on wheels,
Collective will has long since lost the fight —

And did they think as children at the flicks,
As war was sold with glory, did they think
As Bogart raised a lucifer to his lips
How Tinseltown might guide them to this brink,
And just like Fleming’s catcher tempt them in
With candy coloured cartons and a grin?

To own a house has always been the dream,
Or so the kids are told — And so they yearn,
And enter servitude to pay to learn,
Amassing debts that pile up till they seem

As tall as any townhouse — Graduation
Goes by, and now they need a car to ply
For work to save to buy some old pig sty,
And banks will lend (subject to valuation) —

And so, kids born with nothing now have less,
And toil their life to pay the debts they owe,
And teach kids of their own how they should go
To lend to spend to learn to have success,

And buy a house to live the American dream,
Or wake from debt-fuelled nightmare with a scream.

The Avon Bard served to inspire
Young Keats unto his Bright Star sonnet

The sea took Shelley to his pyre,
Bestowed with words of Keats upon it

Yet Keats wet not the widow's eye,
Nor counted clocks that tell the time

Yet Shelley drew no Bright Star nigh,
Nor flowered a tale more sweet than rhyme

So why I ask would any poet
Claim unto them another's craft?

If thou has not the wit to show it,
Pray, keep thine own words saved as Draft.

The living Land of Gold lays desiccated,
Wept dry to dust for thee — Along its West-most
Rim, thy last sunset waned like a ghost —

Who carved thy sacred stone? Who decorated
Thy mortal tomb?  Who but for thee was lost?
Who worshipped thee above all Heaven’s host?

I eyed dismayed thy cold bones desecrated —
Mayhap the Sun reborn shall raise thy spirit,
As we raised up thy tomb to look upon it.

And like a bride when all the guests had flown –
Unto her Quarter Master, veil upraised
And corsage strewn atop her lily gown,
The ****** MOON stood humble and unphased

A boon of SUN's light nestled in her tresses,
And HEAVEN's gift, bright star-born chandeliers –
COUTURIER, The Wind, bestowed caresses –
CENTAURUS brought an honour guard of spears

The MOON, her dimples pale, her mood unblemished,
Fell silent as a petal on a flower –
Her slender frame looked ever the more diminished
And wanton as she lay upon her bower

She watched the constellations rearranging
To mark this passing day across the skies,
And full aware that things were ever changing
The MOON laid down her guard and closed her eyes.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

For I mingled grateful as the fountains
Borne through cracks from ocean waves,
And sought for Heaven amidst high mountains,
And spent my grief at familial graves,
And shared of myself, not a silent stone,
And kept thy faith in spite of all,
And for this and more, thou bade me alone,
Unanswering thy call?

Now, the fountains dried and the Earth may mourn
And the ocean flooded from salt-cracked skin,
And the flowers have choked to the strangling thorn,
And the ossuary opened, and beckoned me in,
And the sun has waned, and the clasp of night
Had me bound in a beam of the moon's device,
And these lips felt the kiss of the barrow wight
As thou denied me thrice.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

If cold I awake from the depths of Dark Hollow,
Where Faeries dance gaily around pole-lanterns blazing,
To bathe in the gloom of a Bright-Star lain shadow
That flits through the room like an eye steadfast gazing,
I’d suffer no comfort, till the fanfare of morning,
And my shivering spine, and my blue-blazoned skin
Would abide uncomplaining, till the Dawn light swept in.

And the Morrow would find me still gripped in Night’s pale,
And the Sun fail to warm me, and the Air would not move me,
And the feast laid for breakfast would wither and stale,
And my eyes transfixed open would gaze around blindly —
And the Sunset would follow, and Twilight would find me
Awash in the gloom of a Bright-Star lain shadow,
And thence to Lone Splendour of the depths of Dark Hollow.

Our lives are as the raindrop to the river —
We falter, and we tumble; We are lost
And in the tumult cling to one another —

Enslaved by riverbanks, the river roiling
Is rain-lashed in a torrent — We are tossed
And buffeted amidst the turmoiled boiling —

Atop the foaming surface, battles rage
As brother battles brother for the sun —
Relenting, flowing, falling to a cage

In murky depths, with blissful recollection
Of cloudless skies afore the rivers run,
We cling to hope to someday rejoin Heaven.

Poor Spider!  Engineered her nets
To cast among the eaves –
And now her silk supports the nests
Of enterprising thieves!

A Roguish Bird with yellow smock
And beak like crooked spear
Crept up upon the wing and took
His pick of all her gear –

Poor Spider! Crawling home to scour
Her bastion torn to shreds –
She sets to task , and in the hour,
Hangs dew-kissed curtained webs!

LOVE is intangible, it has no taste,
You cannot touch it, hold it, let it go —
It does not spoil, nor ever go to waste —
It does not float, nor sink, nor ebb and flow —

Love cannot be sleight conjured from the air —
It is not sold in bottles, nor in jars —
Love has no weight the bearer has to bear
And cannot be constrained in any vase —

Yet all who loved have bent beneath Love's weight —
Know well its touch and taste, and bear its scar —
And know Love cannot die, but dissipate
As light escapes the clutches of a star —

LOVE is intangible, a force unseen —
As wild as wind, as lucid as a dream.

LOVE swings upon a pendulum
And reaps hearts to and fro —
The ‘Bold’ fear her momentum
And the ‘Sturdy’ feel her blow

And back and forth her scything blade
Will cut and shape and trim —
Till all true lovers’ souls are flayed
In deference to her whim

If love was meant to be,
What fool would carry flowers?
Or moonlit stroll beside the sea,
To pine away their hours?

If love was in the stars,
A birthright freely given,
What Venus would be wooed by Mars
To forge a path to Heaven?

I knelt in the sepulcher of a man;
His broken coffer wrought of rough-hewed stone
Stood sentinel betwixt a polished span
Of granite, laid bereft and all alone,
And of his name no dint nor breach began,
No epitaph, no garments and no bone,
So that I gazed upon that ancient plan
In askance if he ever called it home?
Above, the twilight stars he might have seen
Look down upon the miracle he made,
And of the earth and sky and all between
No rival kingly stone has yet been laid
To match the beauty of his desert queen,
Wherein still still may rest his mortal shade.

The ocean beckons with its calling,
A siren song from distant shores -
Beguiling me to greet the dawning
Far beyond our uncharted course,
Until old mountains fail below
The lost horizon drowned to view,
And onwards then anon to flow
Up over the waves to ventures new.

The mountain's spine does shiver
At the first kiss of the quake,
And the wayward roving river
Sends a shudder through the lake;
The birth of Spring plays fanfare
To rouse the fledgling flowers;
And thee, embraced, released despair
That trembled from thy towers.

What shook thy strong foundations,
Like a quake unto the mountain?
Were thy wayward contemplations
Like the lake unto a fountain?
As Winter spreads her wedding gown
And the weary flowers wither,
Let thee embrace thy walls of stone
And what peace they may deliver.

She smiled awkwardly, too young to drink,
And I wondered was this her first time,
As her muddled words tumbled out,

    “It’s not bad news.”

She looked at me, half-expectantly,
Like a child on Christmas morning,
And I wondered was she silently
Counting to 8, or 10, or the exact seconds
Some think-tank had determined was
Right, under the circumstances.

    “Do you want to see the body?”

I shook my head, as the image
Of my father, ever a thin man in life,
Sat up on a gurney, bare-chested,
Wired up to bleeping machines,
Flooded my inner eye.  That was
The last time I saw him, and the
Last time I ever would, and that
Is how I always remember him.

I chanced upon old standing stones
Bedecked in lichen green
Arrayed in banks of marble rows
With walk-ways in-between
Each bore the scars of craftsman’s graft
Recording time and toll
One fading remnant epitaph
For each immortal soul

And earthward bound the sun polite
With mountain cap in hand
Fell silent as the hearse of night
Rode forth across the land
The distant city lights awoke
Like lanterns on a lake
A bubbled haze of smog and smoke
Above the city scape
 
Large crowds of late-night shoppers milled
Around the late-night stores
And roars of drunken laughter spilled
From dingy nightclub doors
The squealing cries of lorries lade
With goods to stock and stack
Were echoed by the cramped stockade
Of dwellings back-to-back

As one by one the lights went out
In windows dark and dim
Arrayed in banks of brick and grout
Old dwellings grey and grim
Stood sentinel to souls entombed
In plots devoid of green
The living mass of those inhumed
With walk-ways in-between

If truth divine be all I sing,
My love for thee would surely ring
Tall bells aloft cathedral spires,
Inspiring poets with their lyres,
Melting snow to drip and bleed
The lifeblood of all earth and seed
To call the spring to rise to rouse
New fruitlings on the greener boughs!
O! All the truth my heart desires
Would kindle sun to blaze her fires!

In passing fancy,
I netted a man
Long departed

Such honours bestowed
On this artist,
Born here
Died there

His greatness
Told in few words

Quick to anger?
Passionate?
Unkempt?

I know of him
And know him not,
And never shall

And what stranger
Could know me
From my epitaph?

A sobering thought
The death of an alcoholic

Not some bridge-squatting ***
Unkempt and unclean

A family man
With a good job
And a mortgage

But no liver

A long weekend
Waiting for news
    "Not looking good"
            "Deteriorating"
        "Just a matter of time"
  "It is done"

We cannot speak 'it'
Too soon for that
So we talk about 'it'
Without saying the words

You couldn't live without the *****
You couldn't live without a liver

So we have to live without you

TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.

Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.

Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.

For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.

And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.

Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.

In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.

But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.

I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.

There is a symmetry to war, state
against state, brother against brother,
like Siamese twins joined
headlong, thrashing and flailing
with one impassioned heart
for the right to be.

And still the world turns, and still
the hearts of defeated men beat strong
with savage hopes for a lost generation,
and the hearts of victors, once blinded
by angst and ire, observe the failings
of their triumph, see through old lies
that urged them unto death or death,
and old traditions, caked in blood,
are refashioned and reborn like bell-
bottomed denim, and still the world turns.

How was it, in that desperate hour,
for a man born to cotton fields,
born unto the yoke, born beneath the whip,
born unto the mercy of his masters,
how was it to be borne up to see the white
cotton flag raised in supplication, to see
old masters wavering in ploughed furrows,
like cotton billowed by a Northern squall?

Was there, in that desperate hour, a scream
from the past, "Beware, the Templars!"
as old chains were cast off, and melted
to forge chains anew, and the masters
of old were replaced by new masters
of state, and old fashions like slavery
replaced with chains worn by gangs over
bell-bottomed denim?

As long as men are masters of men,
Man will abuse his fellow man;
Profiteers will sup the fruits
of free labor, honest business
will decline, and prisons burgeon
as the poor become poorer, and
the poorest are inducted into
the perfect symmetry of an
imperfect finite state machine,
until the next uprising.

Ban the burka or the bomb?
Ban the turban or the gun?
Ban the Bible or the gore?
Ban the Torah or the war?

Ban religion, ban belief
Ban San Frontièrs, ban relief
Ban the poets, ban free speech
Ban the people born to teach

Ban the children, ban the old
Ban the meek and ban the bold
Ban the weakest, ban the strong
Ban the music, ban the song

Ban the freedom of the sea
Ban ideals of liberty
Ban your birthright, ban free will
Ban excitement, ban the thrill

Ban all things with no misgiving
Ban the joyous gift of living.

O'er shingle tossed on raggèd shore,
In awe I gaped that vast array
Of gleaming waves, a teeming store
Of natures bounty in the bay,
Reflecting with each crest and trough
Mosaic fragments of the sky
That echoed on the high-flung bluff
'Neath where stood I.

If God e'er laid a dint or breach
For beauty's sake, this land divine
Is refuge when the storm winds preach,
When rains flow like communion wine;
Each pebble strewn, yet seemly placed
In knitted weave, as tho' on high
A seamstress sewed her pattern, traced
To pleaseth I.

Oh any heart but mine rejoice
To taste this salted spray;
The longing of mine own device
Lays far beyond the bay.

To stand beneath the mizzen-mast,
Upon an isle of polished teak,
Surrendered to the winded flax
Wild-dancing round with every creak;
From port to starboard, fore and aft,
No land, nor ship, nor blot on high,
Wouldst dare encroach the mindful craft
That carries I.

What yearning heart has heard her call,
That siren? Oh the sailor's sea,
In beauty does she rise and fall,
Enchanting is her melody;
Too deep her eyes of coral blue
Wherein she takes, as is her wont,
Unwary souls to charters new,
The Lordships and the débutante.

*And unto her, when wearied age
Makes breathless every sigh
And bones become a prison cage,
Will answer I.

I walked the streets of Dundalk, Maryland
In Baltimore, when winters shiver shook
Bright festive baubles clung in every nook
And flickering lights from windows gaily spanned
And by Papapsco Church I paused to stand
And gazed upon a host of the good book
And open-mouthed I felt compelled to look
Upon a scene obscene to understand
As ragged folk on benches tried to sleep
And county folk with badges moved them on
And pinned a blunt citation to church door
That shamed the reverend that tried to keep
Poor homeless folk from freezing evermore
At Christmas in a land most Christian

And thou did ask, and lo I brung
A bullish thing, nonsensical,
And thou discarded e'er too long
My gift, inconsequential;

Why ask me for to fetch for thee
A thing thou found detestable?
Thou know'st I pander aught for thee,
Yet treat me as divestable.

I can hear the music all around me,
The thrum of long-boat hulls against the shore,
And drummer boys with stockinged feet resound me,
And heavy hammered horse shoes pound the floor,

And gunners with their twenty-ones astound me,
And diggers crash their picks into the floor,
And cannoneers launch volley fire to pound me,
And bayonets clash like cymbals on the moor,

And fighter pilots boom above to ground me,
And tank commanders rumble to the fore,
Submariners slosh water up to drowned me,
And infantry sing heartily of the corp,

And all around I hear their music roar,
The ghosts of all our heralds gone to war.

If hempen cloth to paupers garb is made,
Grey daubed as hearth'd ash, rough as firewood kindling,
And for each king, gold silken raiments laid,
Bright as the jesters smock for courtly mingling,
What garment fit for thee Clotho would make?
Unto her spindle all threads are first woven,
And of thy lot? Why, Lachesis would take!
And gift to Atropos to see thee cloven!
Who then should fret to say my garb is drab?
Tis not thine outer skin three fates have wrought,
So of thine self, judge not thy bone, thy flab,
For in thee, fates have spun all thou has sought!
    Thy measured lot was cast afore thy waking,
    And strength in thee to set the heavens shaking!

Selene's bright torch cast light through blackest night,
Unmasking gaped ravines in jagged rocks
That plunged down seeping cracks to Hades lair.
Mist-drenched ice-laden claws of winters bite
Tugged, scratched, gnawed bare cut fingers to the bone,
As limp, up mountain *****, the straggler climbed.

His face, a mask contorted by ordeal,
A coney cloak adorned his weathered back
Bent low by weight of many a mortal sin,
And hoof-like feet hid snug in blackened boots.
Half-shuttered eyes attested to the cold,
Whipped without mercy by the frigid wind.

Vile taunting voices mocked him from on high,
Each screeching laugh, an arrow to his spine,
Pointed reminders to his dismal plight,
Urging him up with heart-filled hatred pain
That surged like Zeus's lightning through his veins
And pushed him on to scale fresh heights above.

They spied, with venomed eyes, his trialled ascent,
Shifting from foot to foot to ease the cold,
Waiting till blood-drenched fingers stretched in vain,
Then leaping up on wings of patterned bronze
They took to flight, squawking in wild delight,
To see him slip, then stumble to his knees.

His failing arms flailed madly at the birds,
Hopeless to reach, lest Zeus should grant him wings,
And there upon the jagged mountain peaks
His tested will was hacked, cleaved, scattered wide,
As she who passed before and took his mind
Now lay, in darkened places of the world.

From deep within his cloak he pulled a flute
And shook the reeds, and rattled with a din
To shake the Gods within their hallowed halls
And of his fury, none has ever matched,
And fright took taunting voices from the birds
Who fearing for their feathers, swiftly fled.

Alone atop the world, the flute he raised
To tight pursed lips began a mournful air
That trembled over freshly fallen snow,
Recounting days forbidden love was chaste
And chased in answer to his endless lust,
Unsated by his many mortal sins.

Each fluted note sang long unto the night,
A serenade to all Selene had bade
Into her light, and then upon the wind
A voice as clear, as bright as Cygnus, came
In answer with a song like as his song,
So mournful that it crushed his broken heart.

If it were I, a hunkered mass
Of unkempt hair and tangled rags,
Lain prone beneath the underpass,
Enclaved in chattel bulked-out bags,

If it were I, alone, afraid,
Tight-bitten lips in silent prayer,
And listless eyes, all hope decayed,
And slumped, oppressed, done by despair,

And if you cast my shadowed shape,
Would you come seek my name?
Or look as I for quick escape,
And thence to bear my shame.

I stalked along an endless maze
Of hallways, grim and green,
Where sterile wards of curtained bays
Masked sickness with a screen.
The coloured lines upon the floor
Served as my silent guide,
And led me to a torture room
Where nightmares preyed inside.

Upon a crisply cornered bed
With sheets up to your chest,
A knot of vein-pumped fluids fed
To keep your heart from rest;
Your eyes were closed and peaceful,
And all pain gone from your brow.
You've never looked more beautiful
Than how you do right now.

I fiddled with the little card
You gifted when we met,
Not knowing then 't would too hard,
Wishing I could forget
A promise made in youthful bliss
When plans were bold and grand,
And giving you one farewell kiss
I let go of your hand.

I never asked to know her name
But if we ever met
I'm sure I'd know her all the same
And still would not regret
The day that life was cruel to us
And tore our world apart,
Yet granted life to her because
You gifted her your heart.