Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

A visible shroud, all over me it says JOY.
In the crypt of a vampire, immense, hoisted bat entrails.
It's a kite, he is making, the wind wants to feel it.
The wind likes to move about, implore.
Prevailing winds, guide the rope's direction.

I strove for freedom more than before, forgot limits,
Now the kite can fly beyond the night, it will be jealous,
High above, in the sky, untouched by evil pride.
I am not soft hearted, prone to emphatic shivers,
But in a thousand pieces I hear every sound.

I love this earth and am reminded by the sights below,
All the birds of various descriptions, fly too,
those feather fingered sisters, they are often in pain,
Like farmers milling the sky underwing.

A cloud is a wall, then a room of purest white,
On fly the birds and on flies the kite,
On many lands falls our shade, life is below,
Now is the time to be soft hearted, swirl in torrents.

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

And I solemnly swear
on the chill of secrecy
that I know you not, this room never,
the swollen dress I wear,
nor the anonymous spoons that free me,
nor this calendar nor the pulse we pare and cover.

For all these present,
before that wandering ghost,
that yellow moth of my summer bed,
I say: this small event
is not. So I prepare, am dosed
in ether and will not cry what stays unsaid.

I was brown with August,
the clapping waves at my thighs
and a storm riding into the cove. We swam
while the others beached and burst
for their boarded huts, their hale cries
shouting back to us and the hollow slam
of the dory against the float.
Black arms of thunder strapped
upon us, squalled out, we breathed in rain
and stroked past the boat.
We thrashed for shore as if we were trapped
in green and that suddenly inadequate stain

of lightning belling around
our skin. Bodies in air
we raced for the empty lobsterman-shack.
It was yellow inside, the sound
of the underwing of the sun. I swear,
I most solemnly swear, on all the bric-a-brac

of summer loves, I know
you not.

.
Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

Red Admiral
You land on my hand
In the warmth
Of this Cornish summer evening

Your arrival takes me by surprise
And I hold still
To witness the special moment

One full minute
You sit in silence
Motionless
Sunning your wings
Of red, black and white

Back arched
Proud chest pushing forward
As if to say
‘Look at me!
Look how beautiful  I am!
You too
Can live a life as beautiful
If you can survive transformation’

The wings close
And I am shown the rippled bark-like brown
Of the underwing

I wait
Barely breathing
As still as the butterfly
And then
She is gone
Forever

But my poem
Will secure her visit
In my memory

Greatest eagle, black and white,
Tell me how to reach the skies—
Wander with wind into the night,
Are you lost like me when you fly?
I see you marking the flaming sun
And want to follow your windy path,
Rising after moon, majestic one—
What trials of life in your aftermath?

My place, my secret haven is the forest.
I love it because it’s an escape from the torture of reality that plagues me each and everyday.  
It’s where I can go when I’m close to breaking down and losing my mind.
Where heaven meets Earth, if just for a little while.
Where the wind blows gently through the tree’s shimmering green leaves.
Where the moonlit air warms everything and the nightingale sings the songs of blessed night.
The grass is thick, a carpet of living emerald that’s softer than feathers against travel weary feet.
Flowers the colors of precious jewels cluster in pools of the moon’s love; delighting the eye with their sprightly smiles.
Gaia’s forest children fly through her many wooden arms on light paws and hooves.
Deep within this holy sanctuary lies a waterfall that cascades into a pool and runs off in a waist deep stream. The water is of the clearest blue with fish of brilliant colors and gleaming scales.
The air smells forever fresh, like after a storm, and the heady aroma of pine drifts on soft breezes.
Moonlight plays on the dappled spots of wide-eyed fawns as they romp in the grass under the watchful eyes of their mothers. A lone wolf laps up cool water from the pool after a long run through the trees, and then lies in a bed of grass near a cluster of does in amiable silence.
The chirp of crickets hidden in the brush accompanies the trickling of the waterfall, and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
The faint hooting of a dwarf owl barely disturbs the orchestra of midnight sounds.
The earth sighs in contentment caressing her children in the featherlike grass, as she and they prepare for sleep.
A family of thrushes snuggle in their nest, lulled by the nightingale’s lullaby.
A little ways away silken chrysalis split and Tearful Underwing take their first flight on newborn wings.

Like oceans in the sky the clouds gently kiss,
Bending and swaying, guided by the moon.
They dance carelessly, twisting and blending
within an everlasting blue.

The noises of the street seem encased within my own conch shell.
My breath is tossed by tides of white foam as birds swim overhead,
ducking and diving, taken by a current underwing.

As I ponder, I see the lights, specs from above,
reminding us of possibilities of existing life.
These ***** of light twinkle and fade by morning
as they are greeted with light blue hues,
hiding
until their awakening sun invites them to shine once more.

And I am below the surface, as waves of sweet oxygen rush in to greet my starving lungs.
I stare upwards at our very own ocean skin, and think about the beauty held at the depths within.

In the amber of a late October,
altered by illness
and a mauling from friends, we have
come again to London, and come
one to the other,
in truth, it seems
for the first time
in twenty-something years.

These are our days.

Above us, white lines from Heathrow
streak across the sky and a silver
airplane flashes in the tawny sun,
its underwing turned gold.

Ahead is Christmas. Outside
the bang-blast of fireworks, and
the tread of traffic dancing
to the drum of what must be done.

Not us, not now.

In here, our clothes removed, our skin
cells open, one to the other,
once a day, we practice: love.
And the stillness
of the season holds us, bathed
in something more than kindness.

It was you who led, as male
desire is wont to do, *****, unyielding,
it cut to our truth. And I who thought of practice:
that Buddhist word, that way
to be, to being
in the place that one is in.

So now we meet each evening to meld
the passing and the coming life
suspended
clothes off, upon a cushioned floor,
each time (it seems) anew,
each stroke the first, again,
in hours that know just what they hold

in this, our stilly autumn
in these, our golden days.

Turning that new leaf
        over and over
    like wrinkled paper – so soft

Are those eggs in its underwing?
  Minuscule, little dreaming larvae
sunlight spears you
What do you do when it hits the bottom?
        face   up
  A platter for ***** beaks

They wake up and eat
   hiding and eating, growing

  until you miss that leaf so much
        your organs melt
   writhing goops of self
     you make your own

Later, you’ll turn
  briefly
     but so spectacularly
Your little dreams will find their deaths
    unnoticed little sleeps
while the leaves turn still

(A collection, from across time;
for both the pearls and the swine)
-----------

(A letter)

To the walking scar of the eagle star,
You really haven't made it far.
You keep on finding ways to believe
There's reasons you should keep breathing.
From the trees you **** the air,
Stand on life without a care,
**** your waste into the water,
**** away your hopes and bothers.
Grime- and barb-encrusted bone
Without a hole, without a home,
Wandering post-happiness
Looking for a frog to kiss since
Fantasy is all that's left
In that body, soul-bereft.
You will die, alone, afraid
Time and again, day by day.
Ripped apart by your sentiments
Out-dated, almost archaic,
You fall from grace, all good outshone
By hate you let flourish and grow
Deep down, rising up to scratch
The surface, and just like a match
You are consumed by your own design,
Blotting out all the lines.

You are alone, and you are afraid.
You know, all of this, you made.
You see what your efforts wrought,
What your neglect brought, what your lies bought.
You will die, alone, knowing
The winds of change will keep on blowing,
Over you

And away

Dear star, don't be afraid.
The wings of strange creatures such as you are,
Mangled though they may be,
Will take you somewhere comforting

Eventually.

-------
Push away, on the boat
Lift it up, the sail
Cutting through the gray coat
On the river Fear

Looking for the islands I
Know must be there
Places that I love

Places that I care for, and
Reach above
The water I must be careful
to stay out of

-------
(That blues horse)

I've been shown to the water
The waters don't flow for me
I've been down to the water
Followed it to the sea
Knew I couldn't stay any longer
When the tides got mean
Maybe we should call a doctor
I'm drowning
I tell them not to bother
*** I know I must go sometime
and these
Waters

Do flow
-------

I tote a swag, but I don't slay - em.
I got the cards, but I don't play - em.
You'll never catch me out there ballin'
Never receivin any calls and
I buy them bags, n I don't weigh - em.
I get the bills, n I don't pay - em.
I am not on top of ****, but my
Mind my body soul n spliff are lit, I'm
Losing my mind, hear what I'm say-in?
Don't wanna die, but this ain't liv-in.

-------

Almost everybody seems afraid or angry
Raised not to do as done but what they say
Everything's backwards with eyes open, crazy
Violence and abuse, TV-MA

Stay faithful to the system, they'll change eventually
Tomorrow can wait then, it's just another day see?
It's all in the now, you are the center of the happening.
Turn around, smile with your missing teeth, be happy.

Nothing is perfect, so it all meshes perfectly.
Everything is magic, so nothing's magic technically.
The world branches out based on your understanding.
Love. No locks can withstand the key.



-------

Slop on those

little

nuggets of

silent gold.



Lay them out

so maybe

they'll give back

them shoes.


Then I could

run

so fast, you'd think

I took a bite of

young bent's

Mars bar

and didn't get away with it.


This is kind of

like Christmas for me,

When all the gifts

are socks and clothes.

But no shoes.


Or like

when the food you microwave

is burnt along the surface

and frigid in the center

so you get tired of waiting

and just mix it up

vigorously

only to find

that doesn't really work

too well., but,

you knew that.


You'll do it again.

-------
(arbor)

Burning diesel so sour,
Coughing up strawberries
For about an hour, now.
The train done wrecked
And the dream went blue,

Look at what these trees are doing to me

-------
(oml)

Old man Luck never had the roots.
He missed out on many a thing.
He was caught underwing in his first spring,
And so grew used to them walkin boots.

Old man Luck was weighed down
The day that he laid down his
Hopes, and his
Fears, and his
Needs.
Dragging around him
Those dreams that have bound him
To their cold
And lifeless
Remains.

-------
(Gtttttt)

I know you've been wondering
why I do... certain things.
You've only seen a little, and
that's apparently all you need.

Shallow being.

I won't let you make it
water under the bridge.
No, I won't let it be
what you try to make it.
Can't you see? You're fake,
and those aces up your sleeve
are showing. How ugly;
your tricks, foul comments.

Hold

You're blowing it.
Bad signs are homing in.
The seeds you've planted
are splitting with cannibals
that know how to flow with it.
Take control of it.
Take responsibility for your deeds,
see the patterns
and quit ******* ignoring it.

Hold

-------
()

Wake me up now, don't leave me hanging
I don't know how it is I'm found
I haven't seen a trace down here
That's why I'm off the ground

Fill my cup, my soul needs arranging
New Feng Shui, maybe silver-plated clouds
Left to climb. Now I'm left hanging
Maybe I should just jump down


-------


Vintage
maybe one day I'll be
Vintage
With the special plates

The catchy name
The allure
The grace

Vintage

It is a race
Against time

A pace
A sign:

"I will cheat death.
Life's just a ride."

Vintage

Never left behind

-------
(ye)

I'm losing it.
I'm about to give up.
No I won't.
I can't, anyway.

I'll keep on going,
Blood and guts and
Bones and all,
All over the floor.
I've littered the **** out of
**** near every situation
I've ever
found myself in;
Throwing up quietly
at the sight of all this
possibility.

Don't you see?
I'd love to be there.
But for all relative purposes,
I'm not breathing

-------

Body-broken, mind-choked, heart-less monotony

Soul-******, fresh-bled, flesh-less anomoly

Spoiled leftover. Improperly stored meat.
Wolf it down daily. Was it ever sweet?

Tainted courier of a love-less soul,
Bow to oblivion
~~~~~~~
Fgai


I'll keep looking but I won't see
Forget about it
I'll pretend I'm something I don't wanna be
Forget about it

I'm everyone in their cars, in their homes, on the streets
I'm everywhere you are, yea I'm everyone you meet

I'll keep listening but I won't hear a thing
Forget about it

Hot Day
It was a hot day in the Nevada desert.
Slowly in the distance, a dot trailing smoke came closer.
Minutes passed.
Above a faint jet engine sounded, no more than a whisper.
The sun was at its highest, burning mercilessly down.

An omen of coming events?

The dot was now a vehicle, an old yellow school bus.
Bars covered the windows.
Hands poked out of the gaps, as if asking for solace.
Rumbling along at twenty miles per hour, the bus eventually stopped.
Level ground arced out miles around it, leaving the vehicle naked.
Rusty hinges creaked and the front and rear doors slowly opened.
Nothing happened for a few seconds.
Then three dozen hardened criminals sensed freedom and left in a riot of arms and legs.
Some ran almost falling, others staggered unable to grasp that they were ‘free.’

Up above the jet engine was louder now, diving down upon its target.
With sudden ferocity the F-20 Tigershark opened fire with twin 20MM cannons.

TAT - ATAT - TATA - TAT! roared the guns.

Shells kicked up sand, bounced off rocks and exploded across the bus.
In a hiss one tyre burst, the bus leaned drunkenly over.
A small fire started inside.
Several men were sprawled on the ground, red blood soaking in.
Other prisoners now knew what was happening:

liquidation.

They ran for their lives as the jet curved round to re-attack.
It dropped a cluster bomb at a group of fifteen prisoners.

POP - POP - POP - POP! went the small bomblets when the case opened.

Most were killed outright, sliced and diced by anti personnel bombs.
One or two had arms and legs blown off, they moaned for their mothers.

A small hill gave cover for four men.
Rolling down range, the fighter came in.
The pilot selected rockets.

WHOOSH - WHOOSH - WHOOSH  WHOOSH! screamed the 80MM explosive rockets.

Like the cluster bomb, they were area weapons and the complete hill was blanketed.
Nothing survived the wicked explosions except drifting smoke.

Another gun run hit three men running over the open desert, cutting them down.
Two more men stood their ground and told the F-20 pilot to *******.
The pilot saw their raised fingers.
His remaining cluster bomb soon sorted them out.
Now it was time for his ‘dumb’ bombs.
Three tumbled free, aimed by computer, and hit the yellow bus.

BOOM - BOOM - BOOM! spoke the 750lb bombs.

A cacophony of sound and violence tore the smouldering machine apart.
Six men who had doubled back and hid inside or under it were blown to Hell.
With only a few cannon shells left of air to ground ordnance, the pilot spotted a lone figure.
A dive, a burst, a **** and it was over. Too easy!

Climbing back to altitude, the Tighershark went in search of his only airborne target -
a Boeing 747 full of 500 murderers.
Like the old school bus, it was remotely controlled with no crew.
Two Sidewinder missiles would take care of this beast and his underwing drop tanks were still half full.
Happily the merc pilot grinned. This line of work was fun and paid well.

And it got rid of ****.

The woven way a story is told
A calm before the storm
Or a bright light on a Warm walk, little is known to rush forlorn
Evening breaks the width of a stick

But a flow of a shirt or hem or line
Brings forth the underwing of a blossoms site, more than what the iris can hold

But little to what the eye can see
Nuisance in delight and for longing in the pattern of the way it falls or rests in the same instance as the other
Never too floral or too faint

But in the right substance more than you know
Ever bending just in time to show what you care for and what you don’t fully see

Whatever is most felt by the hand or the cheek and less than what a mind can read
For the feeling of it is what matters