Poem – You Can Smell Fire

You can smell fire, even from here
It even can be smelt on the other side of the bay.
While dreams and homes are burnt to smouldering rest
All hopes and well wishes, even the best, will be ashes too.

The fires that stain and burden the heavy air
Are results of an abhorrent sun and destitute care;
Only the people left will keep to the land, even as it abandons them.

Hills are always charcoaled when kept this way
The land itself knows the fierce winds and the suns ways
The stench of flames are always here
A reminder of what cannot be saved

Once we saw a koala, its skin barely held
Together by the crumbs of skin still left
its fur all lost to heat and natures theft.
We laid a bucket next to its head
Where it drank from its watery top
In the last moments of its life, it could drink what it could

Although koalas are not seen to drink
Nor notice a humans hand
It seemed to thank us, in its unnatural embarrassment
Then died when the smell came back.


Poem — Midnight and Worry

Midnight and worry go hand in hand
When you cannot sleep nor reason
All the hells of the world find a home
on your cold and shivering shoulders

Your lack of clothing permits a shiver
the mind is confused about your terror
Even if the world would fall into your lap
The anger of impotence would be your trap

Do not worry though, it is not your problem
We will teach you to simper into squabble
No problems come from a lack of knowledge
Than the blue “F” telling you what to acknowledge

Something tells me that we need to talk
We seemed to have forgotten the war of Iraq
Shocked as we pretend, or think we are
Of the atom bomb, we still shall thank the neutron star

Death, as a concept, will never be far
when that flash of lighting or shooting star
Lights the darkness and holds it hostage
It may help, perhaps, clear your mental bondage.

Writers of old, when writing in shorthand
Or musicians performing Vivaldi and his seasons
Would take the night, let the minds roam
Darkness, after all, can be bliss for a minds shelter.



Poem — Rain Drops Dripping


I Can Still Hear the Rain Drops Dripping
As morning dew drops on scented leaves
caught in lives still stuck in memories webs
and the mind I still hold, still splitting through.
And your eyes as clouds, beheld and true
pouring the drips across my cheeks
As it ripens, wet and warm, as it weaves softly in foggy visions
And I lie naked, with the cold ice forging
The water pasts over my head
and I want you here again sleeping
sleeping again, here with me
in the dark corners away from god and all
With earthly beauty, still with me forever more
and I lost my way, as we stopped sleeping
sleeping together as we did before
The grass is softly touched by frozen water
The field’s green stretches out into white mist
My breath frozen into air colder than ever
Blistered cold sifting through
and the drops of your bare skin
your lips heated away in Fontainebleau
and your heart beats with drops on the tin
Saying that all is okay, I am staying with you
I Can Still Hear the Rain Drops Dripping
Across the tainted windows slipping
And tapping softly on the roofs of tin
Feeling the cold water upon my skin Down my cheek, with cold and hot
Of my tears blue and sky shot
With drops along my neck
With salt and sunset glistening along the bottleneck
And I think of you, now away stripping
And singing away, as i stand still with the rain drops dripping
If away you sing, calling for none but me
With a siren call and a stinging kiss
And the heat slowly simmering away
And with my beating heart, slowly listening
waiting for that stillborn heart
flown away from here, by fears both yours and mine
freezing the ground still only slightly heated
by you, and my feelings floating
So only as you are far away
still running from the rain drop’s dew
and you hear me calling, only softly Recall to you of the times we lost
Of the bare bodies we used to own
before they dripped and shed
like the rain drops above my head
If you can hear the rain drops
as clearly as though a fresh storm
and still hear them dripping down
and hear my call for you
Then here I will lie and sit and stare and sigh
only here, where I can hear those rain drops die



Poem — Lonely House


When the rage of time
Lies nowhere, but in your skin
Then rage, old man,
For time is a blight
A cross for all to bare,
A sin for its own sake
If dust should fill your lungs
And fog your eyes
And your lusts forgiven
By time’s fading light
Then call for the nearest storm
And find it’s way
Its winds are killing your house

Do not be afraid, old and gentle man
This is what was always meant to happen
If old age did not come, nor your love soften
Then what would Time ever want from you
When the houses lights fade forever into sand?

Even when life dims across the plain
Of your minds webs and instances,
It’s tethers of memories and dimming mane.
Should passions of the past remind you
Of lives you should of protected;
that’s why old photo’s are built for brief glances

This life you may have lead, with small poetic visions
tainted with the faint whisperings of “I love you”
Says to you, forcing you to make weak decisions,
that what may have washed away in your lonely house
The clanked clogs of your brain will still utter: “this will never do”

I know you thought
You could make life perfect, old man
Thinking the world more safe
Than what you would like to think
My heart sometimes,
only sometimes though,
wishes to hear you out

It will always remain difficult however
May it never be the same
As it was before
Nor leave it in a place where
Anyone could find it
Or see it, see it fade
Like a whisper in a windy valley



Poem — Misfortunate Country

To be afraid of the ghosts of a countries past
Is to see a people lost in the labyrinth of history
A frightened loss of innocence Is worse
for the life of any political fanatic, whose words
Would tear flesh from thought, actions from account

It is worse that what lies above a countries skies
When its ground is stinking of the fire of lost genocide
Or worse again, if the burnt ground of political sanctity
Could turn the flames of the peoples anger, the workers
of the land, its people and the machines that control it.

The turning and rumbling of the wheels of progress
Digging up this lands lost treasures, of cretaceous ground
Keep the losing flame of anger quenched and fed
led to the wreckage of house and home, its benign horrors
content to be dragged into the desert, awaiting heaven in hell

When it will be so, the people freed from industry
Or when the country itself, learns not to hide its mistakes
and see’s its people, who lived before and after today
Would see the whirling dust devils fly away from this country
Which, even if its misfortune is home; it may learn from it yet.


Poem — Bloomsbury

Surely these are the chambers of narcissism

What better way to procure a confession of love?

Than the beauty of the pink lights

And the sorrowful darkness

Of London’s night.

Surely over a French martini

Sharing memories of love

From beyond and from afar

We can learn of the strange age of love we live?

We, as the former scorn

of the land we walk now

Had never learned to accept us

Nor learn the value of sexual freedom

It is always sweeter, however, knowing

That our loves and our beloveds

Have learned to accept ourselves first

To then learn to love our families;

Both the ones we make and the ones

That we wish we had made

When we had the chance.

Poem — Death Is Neither For Him Nor For Her

Death Is Neither For Him Nor Her
It is for the old and starving
they know its foul breath
for lines of earth and clouds stirring:
It is the anger of their god within,
they are stirs of twisted fires swirling
And for the poor bastards screaming,
Or for tainted whisperers
Who’s souls, so befallen
haunted by the world’s fake healers

Death marches on in screaming banter
tricking mortals with false hope
That God, without a glimmer
Would think one or the other
Be worth saving, perhaps, even slimmer
Tell you that another might be leading you
Into salvation, even when another is killed
Only for it’s namesake?
Then tell this God, whoever he may lay
That you will not drift into that dark lake.

Death is for no one, it preaches nothing
At least, it’s honest, and true to it’s name
Unlike the Preacher, condemning his lesser
Death is neither angel nor demon
It is not worth forgetting, nor saving
When it reaches for the hand of your love
Ask yourself its why’s and wherefore’s
and keep its mysteries within your heart
Youth does not forsake death, yet it still
Relinquishes its place among time.

Death is neither for him nor her
Nor a solemn guild for horror
It is of us, as humans, we are
What death makes of us
Even if we mistake it as God
Or the will of the heavens.
It is not what we see of it
Nor what we think of it
But what may enlighten it
and that we know, what it is not.