Slowly The Silenced Soil Awakes

Slowly the silenced soil awakes
In great uncoilings of morning;
With heated blades their gas escapes,
Funneled from a foreign space,
A foamy, loamy environ
Beneath this heathy earth
Where truths are boiling in cauldrons
And with sediment recoiling.
Up here, for now at least,
Cold air, hoar frost,
Joggers puffing underneath
Skies as thin and grey
As dreams in a mute swan’s fleece;
Dog-walkers convene
With latent conversation,
Still wearing knitted hats,
Last year’s scarves
And woollen gloves,
Their feet patting paths
Like rain-charming starlings –
Only, the worms that emerge
Are solemn words reverberating
From our lost and lonely interred,
Their vapour trails rising
As blinding reminders;
The weeds and moss
As speechless as froths
Of periwinkle –
Embosser of Murderous Time –
And snowdrops huddled
Within a darkening corner,
Nervous, fragile ambassadors
Held fast to those Masts of Time;
Spring’s contract is unfettered
And these vernal lows are bettered;
The Goddess of Dawn stretches
Indolently, and is yawning
Before her audience
Begin their eternal dance.

Just Passing Through

A charm of ardent finches
Passing through my garden,
To destinations far-flung
I will never fathom.

On fat and seeds they feasted,
A peanut holder emptied;
Toured a moss-floored hut
I built, but had me pardoned.

They gave a fleeting glimpse
Of nature green and golden,
Before at swifter speeds depart,
Quick as dreams unfolding.

I wish a Goddess orchestrating
These finches on the wing,
Would rest on this poetic fence
Before the storm begins.

God Of Kindness

Sometimes the sky seems as wide
And big as my sadness.

Sometimes I wonder how it was Permissible for you to step out,

While I was stored within a moment.
Sometimes I wish I was something else,

Less than my cobbled wheezy-sided,
Indulgent, obsessive false-comparison self,

And that’s just the better half
Of my kernel. On the other side,

A spider’s on my eyelids;
A paperweight, a floating shelf.

If I was a god of kindness,
By degrees I doubt it would help,

I’d be a god of putting things off
Instead, and drinking tea,

A god of missing you,
The goddess of missing me.

How can I follow my love’s path,
When there is no path to see.

Haiku #302 – #306


Death’s not living’s end,
Rain’s not water’s final act;
But moments, fleeting.


I read your words and
A new sunflower grew. Rooks
And magpies argue.


Exasperating goddess;
Have my ink, while I would sleep.
Meteorites flung.


Have me cremated,
Ashes sprung where no one owns;
Meditate instead.


My soul extracted,
Mined, shaped into a bullet;
Aimed at love’s steel heart.

Untitled Poem #4

The Goddess sat at my dining table,
Hungry post-bleeding my radiators, resetting my cable;
We ate pheasant feathers, with wild lupin garnish,
I was mindful of slight degradations in varnish.
A sigh, again, and then she explained,
With language renewed and glottis unstained:
“All adverts are lies,
You’ll buy cancer at markets;
Music thought-suicides,
Politicians disasters.
Judiciary one day,
The PR hounds next;
Dogs in a manger,
You are made to forget.
Your brain’s Moses basket,
Nick, think everything twice,
To filter false masters;
In capitalist places
There’s always a price”.

I sat back and sighed,
And at some length replied:
“For fear of losing I cannot engage,
For fear of winning I sin every day;
Put in my place by lesser beliefs,
I sleep through the day,
Midnight’s a relief.
I grew thankful for downpours
Whilst others complained;
No relationship’s selfless,
Ego cannot abstain;
I amass these mistruths,
And call them the rage.
I know wolves do not whistle,
I know the Sun is a Star,
All made by mankind,
Words favour kings, sent from afar”.

We said nothing more, seated in silence,
I saw so much that shone in Her eyelids;
We threw back the shots.
And then she was gone.