Feeding Dreams

Let the past no longer hurt,
Find the future you deserve;
Time will slow, Time will curve,
Excavate your universe.

Feeding dreams where water fills
Cactii on soul windowsills;
Their fame to take, then to kill,
Turning chervil into dill.

Propel a ferry, heads are down,
Underwater rusted crown;
Now the orb’s entrusted too,
Solo shoot into the new.

Pelotons

This breath is the breath for an ending;
This breath is the breath for defending;
This breath is a breath for befriending.

Under this gourd are skeletons;
On unseen frames ride pelotons;
Steered through hands of Telamons.

This beat is the beat descending;
This beat is the beat for a mending;
This beat is the beat never-ending.

Valedictions

Valedictions for you,
We do not accede;
Valedictions for you,
Nor do we recede;

None superseded,
None to subscribe,
No more spun your wool
For pulling our eyes;

No souls contorting
For far-faulted causes,
No more conforming
Under horse-trammeled forces.

Valedictions for you,
No longer we thrive,
Only lessons unlearned
For liars survived.

So Long The Ceasefire

My head is a bread bin
Without any bread,
Where loaves were stored
Mould’s sprawling instead.

My body a trawler
With no herring for kippers;
Caught by a storm,
Overboard skippers,
Returning to port
With no smoke for a dinner.

My soul a cathedral
Burned for a cause,
So long the ceasefire,
Bombs did not pause.

Finally, my mind has vacated,
My body, and my will;
Standing at a bus stop crying,
Placated by the thrill.

Window Soul

Why was I designed for isolation?
I must be my own contagion
And these environs
My ICU.

I miss you so much.
Burn my eyes
From wombs of my existence,
It will be a lesser pain.

Outside, beyond this ward
With its outdated equipment
And exhausted professionals,
Trees, yellow and frail,
Decaying before me,
And then my favourite
Type of rain, as I explained
Previously, mizzling,
Fine drizzling, and for a moment
I convince myself
That my soul could be ignited
Once again.

Annealed



Out from ice I hauled my heart,
Cauterized rings on my fingers,
Crimson crevasse, I restart,
The smell of smoke still lingers.

End of words, which subjugate,
My soul took shape before me,
I stood before an hour late
To know the snow and sea.

I peered back over the open lip,
Chaotic astral origins, be true,
Looking over my shoulder did slip
My ghost all ripped and blue.

And my soul took his place in my chest,
A precipice there was sealed;
That healing forest, I take my rest,
Within a blizzard annealed.



Pumpkin Brain



Rain displaces
Later autumn leaves.
Nature creates
And preconceives
In these people
An evident worry
And their hurry
With umbrellas,
Heads facing down
Eternally, merely,
Indiscernible, nearly,
Similarities converge
As they submerge
In delayed memories.

People consider rain
As twin for a misery,
Yet I only find comfort,
Only delight to see.

Film studio rain, exotic
Drops sized like swollen conkers –
Hope from her atmospheric
Constraints unfrozen
And released.

Rain berates
My war chest.
When he beats me,
I do not want
For the beating to stop.

I would have tried
Once to help, but my
Pumpkin brain
Had stringy roots
Scooped out
For a partisan mob,
Orange pulpy mulch
For soup or squash,
Jagged teeth,
Unholy nose,
Remnants
Saved to decompose
In a row, in rainfall,
Before a garden grows.

Ode To A Writer

Carve within your soul a space
For all you want to do,
All other lives, no better place,
To navigate for you.

Ego’s lease, no lesser rate,
If others would deprive,
Nothing more may captivate
Than knowing you will thrive.

No more boors to prop a door
Enforcing your denial,
Renounce a vestige of their chores
And write your script awhile.

Create a space within your day
And see your lines alit,
As incremental time gives way
To charm, and grace, and wit.