poetry

Himalayas split
And tread over
Such e-echoes: “Come out
From the manifestos of dividing-
Walls framed by bipeds,
Fallen and poisoning animals.
Amass wisdom
From the altruistic hills,
From the daughters
Of thunder and rain and clay.
From the sweet
Soul linking Life
And inking Seas.
Travel beyond the light-year of stars,
Through the caves of cosmic art,
And digest the seasons
Of golden existence.
Ha, everywhere masseurs
Of mind and illusion.
Heavy breathless-books!

Not even the dream hand
Un-knots you. I stretched it out
Never to placate you but
Take the wanton aback.
In your blind state… Blind
Of a differing kind
I fingered nose, eyes, mouth,
And the ear’s sounding tribunal.
Your heart I felt. I wanted
Its telling above others.
The roar it gave forth – worse
Than any air-raid. The manning of guns.
I surmised the pulse of your being
Should be aligned with hollyhocks.
I surmised
A free flighted bird.
I surmised
Storm clouds parted –

A change in Quantity also entails a change in Quality.
― Friedrich Engels
No one can define or measure justice, democracy, security, freedom, truth, or love. No one can define or measure any value. But if no one speaks up for them, if systems aren’t designed to produce them, if we don’t speak about them and point toward their presence or absence, they will cease to exist.

How hard to think.
How much harder
when you suddenly discover
that you are the rear end
of the severed worm.
Or the severed thumb
of a starfish—
and how did you know
which of the five points
was the thumb?
And even if you think
you’re sure about the issue
what have the distractive
possibilities of the question done
to your treasured sense of discrete identity?
How hard to think
when you suddenly discover
that you are the front end
of the severed worm,

from swimming clouds
from sailing seas
waves wander
through the trees
taking thoughts
between the ears
waking
walking
slow and clear
so in the eyes
that look within
darkness
by light
is overcome
kindness for all
not just for some
her fur is wet
and yet she sits
upon that wall
now well lit
finding colors
silent glances
before she springs
before she sings
with a soft meow
her thought out loud.

… they’re trying to get at her ‘Secrets’.
Shoulder-peering downwards and inwards.
But, she’s not having any of it…
yo-yo brushing them off,
when ignoring becomes too much of a chore.
Those ‘Secrets’ are buried deep,
beneath a lifetime of soul-scars and bruises.
There is no map to charter,
nor X marks the spot…
and she’s long ago learnt to re-bury them
away from solitary palm trees
and Queen Elizabeth shaped rock outcrops.
Yet, ‘Hidden’ means ‘Invitation’ to some…
I see her sat upon the cold January ground

My wake-up call was a request
for my password to enter the day,
following which
my rights were read concerning
the choices available for breakfast.
I forgot the PIN
for opening the door,
but remembered the number to call
for assistance, which led
to a long conversation with a recording
that knew my every question in advance.
The postman delivered a sack
containing requests for money
from candidates and volunteers
and institutions, every one
of whom insisted that the world would end

I bring the dirt of the world to your doorstep
Amid the detritus, the bird sings
Emblematic of you
You, however, visit proudly my childhood home
You are welcome, but please remember
It is not nice to bring the dirt of the world
to anyone’s doorstep
The cat crosses the Yorkshire road at morning
This makes me think of a generation recovering
From war, and their sons
This European generation does not know
Here it comes, the dirt of the world to your doorstep
Remember the angel of Ypres, now I

Something silent this way comes –
What ancient angles call out the angels?
What sacred shapes complete the cycle?
This gray world is seeking its shine
crying out for color
Stain these windows
Paint these walls
Sing these hymns
and pray for the light at the end
of the tunnel
to pierce through a breaking fog
We’ve been left in the dark too long
Stoic statues waiting on a miracle –
Seeking some corporate master to save the day
when the answers lie not in concrete pavement

faded garage sale signs litter the sidewalks
shaded by overgrowth grass turned to weeds
sprouting between cracks ten thousand spires
plush and green drained the dryness a shadow
gaunt thin and yellow spreading as old tattoos
fill a navy veteran’s arm a chill wind sweeps quick
moving sight to gray boards dangling by a rusty nails
waving at passerby’s as saying move along
pause not here to see chips of copper paint
piled in dunes under windows crooked and shattered
reflecting white lines crisscrossing the pale blue