A vacuum between here now to the shores of a new Kingdom.
A sweet perfume of expectancy over a desert of quicksand.
Through the visual melee of mirages,
So intense they fill the air; so eternal the heart cries
To be taken further from the dark door.
Is it just a dream?
A river divides the seen and the unseen
On the bank I am a child of many colours.
In the light I look across and see darkness
In the darkness I see nothing.
I go to discover the other side and I drown
I disappear into a grave of water
A new existence takes over – the river.
The river of life? sea of death?
I drift down to the ocean into a cradle of the earth
I float upon the mirrored surface.
A fragmentation of knowledge evaporating into the firmament
As if the universe were a room where mirrors slip from the walls
Of an original parent giving birth to a new man.
When will it happen?
I cannot come to terms with reality until I know it will happen
I push love out of reach myself to seek a new clear key or life.
It’s there I know it is; it is more than what it seems.
But why can I not see it? Why can’t I know that I know it’s created?
From: A Squatters Poetry Journal in pages section.
13th December 2018
I travel in the backseat of a dream. Shadows loom in space and time. This sleeping night, this world without man.
The peaceful darkness where I wander meeting personalities who could be real. Who talk and unravel in a developing film, who show me pictures cut out of other peoples dreams. Who show me the roads I came from and the roads I’m on. This is better, they say. Has it a basis in reality, we will see, you and me, in a dream.
I travel in the backseat of a dream, so clear, so close, so near that I can feel. I want to know, and I wonder, as the dream rolls out its quiz of conundrums.
The man in a battle, with war all around can dream of angels, while the wealthy man in a great tower can dream of walking down a dark and dangerous corridor.
A dream can last for years. A problem that you cannot get into focus. A barricade of broken things that stops you dreaming of great worlds.
Is the visitor in your dream a real visitor with another life outside of your own, are they all real people, those that people your dreams, who unravel the schemes of the nuaghty world.
I travel in the backseat of a dream. A limousine, or a bus. Teach me the wheel of life, teach me the gears; that a ticket has a price. Is this my dream now, has the insurance paid off and what of this cough . . . . .
or that man with a gun, or that blazing sun.
God created a sun to make light
around the sun he created a zone where liquid water can exist
the distance of the zone is 93 million miles from the sun
and this is the habitable zone
where the water does not totally evaporate
and where the water does not totally turn to ice
in that orbit where water exists the earth is fixed
and the earth is a planet where life can exist because of water.
and around the planet was the watery deep
and God divided the watery deep by an expanse
and the water below the expanse He called sea
and the water above the expanse He called heaven.
The book of Genesis is story telling at its most compelling. Perhaps in the gates of a town or camp people gathered to listen to the beginings of life passed on by word of mouth from one generation to the next.
It seems to say that the earth was coverd by the watery deep before any land emerged. And then this watery deep was divided by an expanse perhaps the air and so the sea and the heaven was formed. Heaven in those days must have been what could be seen with the eyes from the land.
It strikes me how well this fits well with scientific fact. With the habitable zone and the amazing facts of the earths place in orbit around the sun. I wanted to put these two things together in a kind of poem. I tried to put it into my own words but some of the style, the idiom of the book of Genesis has crept in. And of course truth to materials has to be maintained for integrity.
My old friend from far afield flew in today
She had been lost in the recent storm
That broke the branches and ripped the roofs
Of her own quiet green country village.
She flew in an a bluster of air
She glided and flapped and struggled
To stay alive in the gusting gale
That battered the country.
As the wind abated she landed
Her tiny feet grabbed hold of a weather vane
She ruffled her feathers and took a look around
In front of her stood a busy bagle shop.
She was hungry, she leapt down to the ground
Looking for crumbs and eyeing with her brown eye
The cream cheese bagles being consumed by the peckish people
Shoo they went, shoo said the proprieter.
She fluttered away but not far away
She circled and landed on a pram parked outside a brewery.
She saw the bustle of resturanteurs calling to passersby
And the appetising sundries in the windows of the delicatessants.
Coo-coo I went when I saw her
Cooly taking the crumbs from beneath the feet of tourists
She fluttered away without hearing me
Onto a roof above a craftsmans workshop.
I followed trying to get her attension
Below a car honking at the crowd came to a stop in Brick Lane
The Colours of Life
There is a thick fat yellow that glows more warmly than gold
There is an unconscious dark blue so dense that it supports your weight as you walk
There is a deep dark blue-green that oozes like a swamp of essential life
If I could drown the world with these colours, all governments would cease and eyes would see
They hated him for suddenly growing up like a target spriging up on the firing range.
With the drowning mother falling into the whirling sea of rejection; with the bad tempered father having to face a self truth reflected in a sons eyes.
Mother had not foreseen this day of his growing up, but she became reconciled to loosing him and that one day he would run away and leave home. Her life seemed to hold no promise, no happiness. She’d found comfort in a loveless marriage in her only son even though they were never close. She was a doll in an unearthly joke shop. But her belief in the marriage vows and the way she honoured them was her glory.
Father hated him for his passive love; for his shiny reflective surface where his abuse came to nothing. At every opportunity he tested him out, searching for the violence that he felt in himself and that he fostered in him and he ended up punching at clouds. The son had built a defense of childlike love, not a wall of anger towards him.
But the son was angry none the less; he began to hate the world for what it had done to people like them – for how the echoes of war deafen with loud ringing bells down the generations of the poorest families. The branding that passes on down through the generations like an unlit fuse.
The honey melts down and reveals the wire grill.
An old love is a faceless icon of the Virgin Mary;
I hear a tremolo as the voice demands obedience.
Who am I to be cared about? I am nothing but a grain of sand in your life;
A bit of grit on your tongue, but you are the full orchestration in the lung playing.
As the honey melts the cold steel mesh is seen, gone is the dream.
The skeleton walks onto a film, birds drop cluster bombs,
And then run and tell their moms.
How hard it is to answer questions in your sleep:
To be confined from the help of family and friends,
To stand there in the thundering darkness as meaningless as a shadow,
To have your memory challenged by a caster of spells.