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 — At The Grave Of Wilde

At Wildes grave

If every man could take a page out of this mans book;
Learning of love, and learning to hold it
Despite others and learning
Of life’s unearned heart aches
No longer containing it, leaving it buried
In dusted caches.
We look at stars
Regardless of which gutter
we come from.

But we learn to be
At home in such gutters
Afraid of the stars themselves.
You taught others
That a single star
Could be worth a damn
And that the flowers we leave behind
Are worth preserving
Even when no one may be listening.

We still have love even in
The coldest of places.
An Irish peacock who learned
To downplay his plumage:
You were taught that love
In whatever stages of its complexity
Was never noble, nor worth pursuing

Nor worth claiming even when
It is caught in your minds darkest webs
I lay down, and lay two gifts
A bright collection of a rainbow bouquet
And a small, bright red lipstick
You need to look your best
No matter where you are