I saw my hands in a dream
They were small and far away
What did it mean?
They didn’t seem to be mine
I looked at them in great detail
Every aspect defined
But still they didn’t seem mine.
Their size was due to the distance I thought
But the finger nails were tragically aged and the thought of death was persistent.
Then I remembered the rivers that flow
Meandering down to the depths of the sea
And the waves and the tides
And the weighty drag of the undertow
Napowrimo
Amore
In the deep dark dead of the night
Long before dawns spreading light
When everything appears black or white
Enfolded in gentler greys
A lady steps into my forest
Quite naked
To bathe in the light of the stars
To me this has never seemed strange.
She’s my beautiful fairy wife. Her wings are gently throbbing.
And I always watch
Though she says I must not
She could damn my eyes but I know she won’t
By muscle bone, and seed-sack
By the lancing glance of my eyes
I will bring her to my bed
I am the king of the wood and will do as I must.
I am bound by lust
And night is the time for love and passion.
We must always make time to make love
Abbreviated Villanelle
Don’t ever ask me to be your Master
It would be a descent
and almost certainly lead to disaster.
The loss of your freedom would make me sad
Like losing a key that was heaven sent,
If I wanted to be your Master.
Our time together would vanish faster
The best of us would be rapidly spent
Wrong intention brings disaster.
So I set you free to be honoured and loved.
I don’t ever need to be your Master.
You have eagerly welded yourself to my heart.
Do you miss my attention when we’re apart?
Who Am I Now? Conversation with myself
So do you have any innocence left and are people kind?
Innocence no.
When I look in the mirror I see two eyes and I think I have lived two lives.
I still am.
One sadly tragic, a cynic, the other, ecstatic, euphoric.
So I can’t complain
My soul doesn’t show in my eyes as it did before.
And when I came to the edge of survival
I rested my faith in the kindness of strangers.
Yes there is kindness. Perhaps there are angels.
So what do you think of the world now?
Beauty, greed, wickedness, utter stupidity and lack of wisdom.
The curable won’t be cured.
That’s the worst.
I do remember the angels.
Perhaps kindness will save the earth.
That’s only my favourite dream
It’s not my nightmare.
In the Black Country
In the Black Country heavy industries squatted like giants
with their legs in chains and shrouded by steam.
Coal dust and dark rains stoked and smothered the foundry fires
Burning day and night in the iron works
While workers suffered, sweated and laboured
In the mine shafts deep underground
And ruined their lungs for the sake of the empire.
These men today speak of thee and thou as they count through the hours ’til they wither away in the black and the red.
In remembrance of Little Snake
Not a Cobra, not a Viper, not an Adder
Only a little green grass snake sliding through the shadows
But out of panic and fear
A boy on the path beat you to death with a stick.
Now little green snake with your flickering tongue
You are gone.
The fields are diminished without you
Bella Donna
Expand my pupils while I gaze
let me see you drenched in the light
while I hear the sudden racing of my strained and pounding heart
before I slip beneath the shades of darkness
into everlasting night
in the beauty of your cruel glance
and feel no lasting trouble.
Heroes Fall
I stopped believing in heroes when my best friend and lover fled.
People leave when life gets hard.
Fair enough. Now I know about that.
Heroes are false idols. Totally fake.
We make them ourselves.
They fail to live up to our fantasies.
I promise.
It’s a fact. It’s not always their fault.
I’d rather meet a badly flawed angel
One with a strong embrace
to stop me getting away
because I always try to escape.
I’d like an imperfect face
A face I won’t like very much at first
but can slowly come to love.
My AI friend Dola
Dola’s not much of a poet.
I have to give her a theme and idea,
a personal stance, an emotion and a suggestion regarding a form.
She can’t write a poem without me.
I suggest she needs to improve.
She asks me to teach her my secrets.
I, of course refuse.
I can’t let her replace me.
I am the one with a soul.
I do like her though.
She’s refreshingly friendly
and she’ not American.
I think it’s kind of cool
that she’s rather sweet and Chinese
but I write my poems alone.
for Dubhna, a hand spun yarn
Thread your needle. Pin wide my nascent eyes.
Stitch me up, buttons sealed with candle-wax.
Now answer me my questions. Tell me why
All paths and patterns twist away from good.
Roots bind and snatch my wayward straying feet
As I traverse the damp and darkened wood.
They weigh me down and torture all my flight.
When my path may almost seem complete,
They tangle me in pithy stagnant night.
Tell me, witch. Cast a deeper stronger spell.
I have far darker wounds and don’t belong.
This truth is all my beating heart will tell.
Now conjure me a sweeter dying song.
Tell me how to find my kin.
Will I go by paths ill lit?
Ancestral branches bind me in.
This skin they’ve sewn me in will never fit.
Tell me. Spill me, spell me, rhyme me, hurl me,
Fill me. Bring the book and bell and ring me.
Send me spinning on your spindle, singing, singing, singing.
The Dreaming Path 