Category: Poetry

Stealing Dreams of You

Stealing dreams of you in the sunshine
Stealing dreams of you in the light
Stealing dreams of you in the evening
Stealing dreams of you in the night

A thief in your dreams I take them with me
To every lonely corner of the land
For though love is over I can’t get over
How my dreams have turned to sand?

Stealing dreams of you as you’re sleeping
As many as I can while you’re in bed
You’ve got more dreams than I’d imagined
While all my own dreams are dead

I love you in your dreams I take them with me
To every single corner of the land
If the dreams I have are yours
I know it makes you mad of course
But since you’re gone all my dreams have turned to sand

March 29

I Was, I Had, I Dreamt

I was born from an Ostrich egg in the desert
I was as a hairy Grand Canyon in the scales of justice
I flew like a rivulet of milk in outer space

I had the face of an Indian carved in granite
I had the body of a pregnant woman in contraction
I had the feet of the Colossus of Rhodes

I dreamt of darkness as a rubber glove turned inside out
I dreamt of light as a mechanical toy in a honeycomb
I dreamt of time as the air shrinking in a pyramid

27 march

Vulnerability

Like a lake scratched
By an overhanging tree
Vulnerability
That’s me.
All my life,
I’ve been
Suffering, this way.
Vulnerability;
Like a mirror,
broke,
Upon the street,
Beneath trampling feet.
I’m prone
to vulnerability
No, I’m not an immigrant,
Or an O.A.P.
No, I’m not a child,
But childlike maybe.
For all my life
I’ve felt this way,
With this wound
Slashed into my psyche.
All my life,
I’ve suffered dread
Like a blind man,
Or the near dead,
Who lie upon the bare earth,
To see,
To measure,
How close to death
They might be,
That’s me, surely,
I suffer from
vulnerability.

On a sea of blood

On a sea of blood, there is a black throne where Satan sits
Worshipped by his state religions,
Carving up countries with his political wars

His character is etched in all of his society
In lives and deaths, in crimes and laws

And no one blames him for our troubles
And no one blames him for our sores

They would always have cream

They would always have cream with their after’s
A little white dog would run in and out.
Cabbage Whites would flutter over the untrimmed lawn
Their TV could be heard in the street as the sunlight faded from the sky.

They would take their place in the meeting hall
They would listen with the ears of a crowd
They were panned like gold from a stream
And sewed like sequins onto Gods shroud