My brain can’t handle strict instruction.
What is it you’re still wanting from me?
Meanings have many fluctuations.
I need pure words to liberate me,
inspire me and set me free.
The key to all this is a love of the sounds,
and when I use all the tricks of the trade
with substance poetic, and lyrical verse
and something to wrap my tongue around,
even if I only write nonsense
the meaning at last is often profound.
There’s a deep dark hue
to the worst of dreams.
I’ve been hanging out with the dead.
Those old ghosts are controlling my head
My heart is an open wound
Sweet grapes stuck in old glue.
Baby, I’m crushed, battered and blue
from banging myself on these boarded-up walls
with the juice pouring out on you.
When you were a lop eared rabbit
and I was a battered old bear
we rattled around the countryside
In an unbalanced three wheel cart.
On a whim you broke my heart.
But when my arm dropped off
and all my straw stuffing fell out
you pushed it all back in.
Only a very good friend would care enough to do that.
Ob-la-di Ob-la-da was a happy song
Sung in a happy time
But we were tangled in blue.
La la la la life goes on.
I found a new love
but I’m still wrapped up in you.
Poems used to come easy;
I could refine them or not as I wished.
Now I have to struggle and strain using only six lines
To squeeze out some half-born attempt
That ends as a whimpering flop.
I should really know when to stop.
The sound of the sea pulls me deeper and deeper into the deepest sleep,
drawing me down into deeper dreams.
Slowly.
Drowning.
Back and forth all night, the sea sighs and mists my windows
and turns with the drag of the tide.
I rise with the surf and the light.
There’s poetry on the horizon
on a far away beautiful island
surrounded by golden light.
Peninsulas, oceans and islands
blending in shades of soft clouds
fading away out of sight.
Ocean meets air and turns with the tides
and reality hides behind dreams.
Septiums Francis Whimsy, Professor of Celtic Mythology,
Esteemed as an Arthurian authority of some renown,
Made a profoundly important discovery whilst poking around
In an unpronounceable small town in Wales.
He had wandered about in a wood calculating the path of a comet.
While collecting Nitrous Bonnet
(mistaking it for its more fanciful fairy cousin)
He unearthed the Holy Grail.
THE GRAIL!!!
He sat down and wrote a sonnet
In praise of the ancient cup.
But an angel came down from on high
And wafted the old Prof (and the precious cup) up and very far off.
I am cheating a little today but I don’t feel too guilty about it because this song made me remember what I felt like when I finished writing my unpublished novel and missed the characters I left behind in Arcadia.
The Dreaming Path 