Power line cutting a thick
Scar across the
Hillside of
Trees.
Signatures of Civilisation; straight
Lines and angles,
Perfect circles. All within
What has none.
Needs none.
Wants none.

Maimed and modified
By the cynical scalpel
Of laziness named Progress,
By incompetent
Surgeons.

Waterfalls tamed and forced
Through turbines.
This naked mountaintop
Was a mile stone
For pedestrian generations.
Now it holds that giant antenna
Like a spiteful eyesore
To those who love
The land.

Power and signals, to sit
In air conditioned comfort
And watch
Nature shows on TV.

If love can be withdrawn
It never was

My love for you is not a gift
    To you
      It is a gift
        To me

The sun broke through the clouds,
Playling with the gold
Embroyderies on the
Priest's cloak.

The Man of the Hour's favourite
Song playing as we all sat
Watching white flowers on
White oak, reading names on
Ribbons wishing peaceful
Rest and cherishing memories.

Mid-ceremony change in
Weather from skies gray to
Bright blue, as if clouds all
Creating passage for a soul
The size of horizons.

Few silences equal that
Of mourners
Holding hands and roses,
Hankerchiefs and pamphlets.
Whispered regrets and female  
Sniffles barely audible
Over the undeniable
Absence of a
Life.

The sun warm through
Suits and dresses, and the golden
Reflection of a textile cross on the
Chapel wall, dancing with
Each movement the
Holy man made.

Silence is the language
Of Death and its matters.
It will not ever
Be silenced.

Water runs however it
Wants.
Fire can never
Be burned.

The adding of poems to collections?
They often come in nearly
Endless clusters.

Excessive repetition is
Flattering to nothing.

Its not fair to the reader.
It's not fair to the poem.

My father.
Old sailor.
Old farmer.
Old carpenter.
Old interpreter.
Old archive of facts
And history. He knows
Our ancestory by heart down
To the 1600s. Born 1946, 68 years
Old today. Bought me my first pen,
My first book, taught me English
From the age of five. Told me I
Had the gift of language and
Expression. And that I was
A stronger boy than any
Anyone had ever seen
By the time I began  
To learn English.
I owe him credit
For every word
I have written.
Weak now
With age and
Bad lungs, I still
See him as a giant
Handling a chainsaw,
Smelling of forestry and
Gasoline and winter, smiling
At me with eyes deep blue from
Seeing more ocean and sky than I
Ever will know with my own.
His name to me is pappa.
After a few pints of his homemade
Wine, I sometimes let him beat me at Armwrestling. Then we laugh like
Old friends, remembering how
The roles were different back
Then. I am glad I stopped by
For a cuppa on this day. He
Would never ask me to.
Happy Birthday, pappa.

I'd cut a decade from my lifetime
To add a single year
To yours.

As the story goes, my newlywed
Ancestors, in accord with
Tradition, drank mead
-Honey wine- for the first full
Month of their marriage.

Honeymoon.

This moment in time, about twelve
Years ago; a memory that keeps
Resurfacing these days.
I tell it over beers -not at all to brag-
To new friends and old
Aquaintances.
Self-employed, young and working
My hands to shreds to get by.
I had not eaten for days.

I'd drink litres of water
And bite my proud tongue every
Time I thought to ask my parents.
Again.
Already losing friends over debt,
I had exhausted all channels.
I'd keep my eyes on the street
Dreaming of coins.
Monday, nauseous with nothing
But myself to throw up.
In the barracks. Not a soul.
Fridge. I open it.
Boxes with lunches for thirty
Honest men. Wifemade leftovers.
Smell of homes.
I shut the fridge door.
On a shelf to my right,
A bag of buns long forgotten.
The mould only superficial.
Heaven underneath.

My eyes welled up as I ate.
I take no pride in managing to
Become that hungry
In a rich country during rich times.
But I will always remember
That I never touched
The boys' lunchboxes.

Rows of rogue gladiators
Recaptured and crucified.
Muscles, grit and warriorship

Beyond that of any centurion,
Humbled, humiliated, spat upon
By the wine-greased gears of a

Machine the size of seized continents
And cultures crushed to crumbs
Within weeks -not centuries.

The stuff of contemporary tales and
Future feature films. Justice -not
Unlike poetry- is a purely man-made

Concept. But so very unlike the
Other; as frail in its mortality as
Man's own justless Self.

Polite
Freeloaders
Load more
Freely.

Man's love of money...
I love it too. It results in
Food, drink and shelter
For my loved ones. But...
On days when my back
Won't straighten properly,
When my carpenter's elbow, rugby
Knee and boxer's hands
Impair me
I ask myself
How many hours I've worked
To pay just
Interest.
How many banker's cigars
And Department of Finances-
*****-ups I've
Funded with
What's left of these knots of
Muscle and bone that
Are moving towards giving
Up the guitar.
Haven't owned a new one
Since '94 anyway.

So if what I've heard is correct,  
Five percent
Of the world's population
Earn ninety percent of all
Money made.

Somebody very high up
Should be fired.
When I'm dead
I'll ask to see
The books.