tumult
the turn

gliding in the spin

alive with outstretched
wings
a chasm between
the worlds

of white
of black

not there
nor here

but in the ghost bridges
thundering
with wind
perplexed in rains
shivering
in the buffet
of passage
in a blink

like a mirror walk
to forgo
the future talk

I feel the changes
The coolness
Damp breezes
Flowing in waves
The future holds us
As does the now
As yesterday is let go

There in the distance
We feel the winters touch
Yet what's this I hear
Across the mountains
Whispered by the streams.
Even a sailing leaf
I see it touch your hand.

Spiritual What!
To my mind…
there is nothing spiritual in living life ….
all is mundane
and
each one has one’s own frame,,,
to dwell in happiness or pain …
some love to within a cocoon remain….
passed life's living vein

whilst others brave the storms…
of the those who wont to slain ….
but within senses and distance remain…
spiritualism thus beyond life …
in imagination should…
as it does and must remain…

There are gaps in heaven,
empty voids of godlessness
through which almost-angels fall
through arcs of feathers swirling
in slow spirals of building sin;
their ends are fissures rent in hell
filled with almost-demons rising up
on wafts of kindness and respite.

In the space between are mortals,
frail lives of narrow frenzies
caught by shifting moral webs
of goodness and depravity,
our prayers and curses fought over
by those above us and below
like starving jackals hungering.

Bent
existentialism
like a fender crushed
an impact
shook off

lift the volume
inhale a drone
a dearth of muse
bequeath the pallid
stickiness of a sickness
crawling
up the bones
like a lightning
strike far off
and distance
lit diffused
like a hot sucked
cigarette
caught on
the ledge of a sneer
dangerous and
loose
worn
and travelled
the colour
of gravel
in hair slept
on leather

Late at Night in the sky there are stars to be seen.
Constellations abound with a brilliance that’s keen.
But when gazing above bright suburbian glare
all I note is the darkness and stars that ain’t there.

About four in the morning bright Pollox is viewed.
Maybe Sirius, brightest of stars, white, blue hued
and Orion’s wide belt arcs from west to the east,
but there’s no Milky way. Where the Hell is my feast?

I sped at all haste as you called my name
There in the sunrise your form came to me
It called out in colours that spoke in the quiet
The early morning rose, it started to bloom.

Creating a light of its own a word of life to come
I stood in awe of the beauty of its talking colours
Stand for me tall, it soothed as the rose opened
It showered my soul with abundant healing rays

bunch of feats
dripping dither
petals soft as a winter feather

hushed like a hot flames lash
tender as black wax
and red silk solitude
fallen crumpled
silent as a stream
a crowd

the shadow crept
to curl
stirred
in its flight
a logic flash
like a wish
lost
and dreaming

and you bend
me
my flexible
ache
sutured
to the break
the blood
and bones
these sticks
these stones
slick now
with rains
before the blows

My professor told me that we’re a dangerous breed
Fooling people into the state of mind that we live and breathe
Throwing words around like some crazy son of a gun
Say what you want that man knows his logic and then some,

So have I been a criminal all along
A crook
A thinker
Some crazy man with ideas and on the run,

I've committed the crime of changing your mind
And above all I think I just wasted your time,
Telling you my sob stories and sharing some pathetic rhymes,

Who would promise a flourishing garden
that is barren and poor with no womb?
With no food or a plough it would harden
the attempt to attain what might bloom.

Who'd be raising the child; that's the voice
of the future, genteel, and true stone,
if his parents do not care with a choice
of upbringing his manhood with hone?

That's the verse with no rhythm or rhyme,
with no thoughts to evoke or to bliss
or emotion to shake-that's sublime
it won't awe or invoke, it's amiss.