Trying To …

Trying to persuade ourselves

– Because I am surely not the only one –

After hot but temporary firework climax

That all is really well and bright;

That what isn’t necessarily right

Isn’t always bound to be wrong.

When deep-heart down, even in

Those few moments when,

As the cowboy sang,

Falling seems like flying,

We know that the most

Glamorous of sins will

Not wholly satisfy hunger that is

Soul-deep and purple-weighted.

But again, as before,

We shuffle our plastic alibis

In the guilty night air and

Scarlet tone dawn, whisper

The tomorrow-commitment lies.


Those Japanese Days.

Tried to stay in touch,

But you split, changed,

Were too far away –

Never making it easy,

Never pretending to care –

Tried to let you know,

But you were too

Far away too cool,

Trying to be fashionable;

Or modishly not.

Tried to catch you

When you came back

But couldn’t get close,

Couldn’t cross the ether divide.

But I never stopped caring

… and I confess, my heart is

Hammering like a just-trapped

Bird in  a cage.

You will be here ?


Right !

Here !

And I’m as nervous

As I ever was back

In those Japanese days.


Ancient …

Ancient are the

Roots that run long

And unseen

In the lines and

Coloured sky patches.


Essential are they,

For they calm my

Fed-by-sunrise spirit.


Eternal are the

Rivers that roar silently

And  star-voice deep

Below mountain crests,

Between midnight crusts.


Essential are they,

 For they feed my

Calmed-by-sunset soul.



Bottled Thunder.


In iron-rivet and

Heron feathered cloak,

Down rampage cloud edges

The hammer god is coming;

With drums of dreams,

Savage lights,

Bottled thunder and

The heavy Revenge Basket.

This night we burn the past,

Settle the retribution bones,

Rattle the rune stones, and

Fall headlong and laughing

Into lightning barrel futures.



We sat at the Bar.

“Rivers are the ribs of the land,” the

Sounding-wise stranger said, eyes twinkling,

“When you buy a field

You’re buying the water:

That it has to offer –

For beasts, for crops –

Or such as it will need.”

Three whole hours

We sat at the bar

While the four-week storm cold

Threw itself at our windows, walls and lives.

Weaving home – the worst for cider –

I marvelled at the fact

That he hadn’t paid for a round.


Each day, your harsh, carefully chosen words

Build a fence –

Or build it higher …

And, make no innocent mistake:

Invitations do not inclusion build.


Encourage worship of false deities;

Make the carving of token totems

Easier, if not inevitable.


Choose to find your piece in

Bottom-line profits,

If you must.

I will find my peace in

The mountains.




We Are …

We are the sleepers,

Found in winter-constant corners:

Three moons round

Deep in never-knowing dreams,

Those and dusty-corpse webs.


We are the always-buried hearts,

Recognising no Heaven:

Pulled towards our

Gravity-defined future.


We are the

Long-world travellers,

Settled in a motion home,

Feeding to move,

Moving to feed.


It’s spring where you are ?

Feel it, believe it!

Hold fast,

Hold faith:

We are






The Very Ceiling of Hell


Energy-skeleton frames,

Clad in glorious

Ember and faith armour,

Red white and orange

Roar and fire spitters,

Leaning down on the very

Ceiling of Hell,

Seeking the top step

Paradise Stairway

While Heaven’s sky-weight

Pulls at the soul,

Presses against slim shoulders and ankles.

The track is a flag:

The flag is  a race.

Launched from the start,

Up the lone-star hill

On lean-sprint, young,

Growling dragon dreams.



Lime Lightning


Why wouldn’t it work?

To just keep, simply walking?

Walking away, perhaps,

from the Paradox Candles.

Walking towards, perhaps,

The Echo Doorway.

But always walking, with purpose

Just a little pace-and-a-half faster

Than mirror-crack Nemesis.

Wouldn’t it make us,

Keep us,

Less fatigued,

More alive,

If we tried?

Why wouldn’t it work?



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