Love Story

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The foolish youth believed the girl
To be in love with him
So did the old man

Old man time and young man time
Sat upon a bench
Silent

The young girl, always young!
Whilst man grws old and dies
The young girl remainsupon the earth
She is dancing and playing magic tricks

Enticing their age with magic
Flirting with time
Playing with hearts both old and new

The foolish youth sat with old man time
He remembered life
He collected memories in his heart

The foolish youth believed
The young girl to be in love with
Him
Yet here he was
Why she flirted with him
Is mystery
To his foolish heart
Yet how can he answer
When the young girl
Flirts now only with his heart
But wiht the very heart of life
That old man time guards
So jealously

circa 1971

Fear, terrible fear.

Fear, terrible fear is released. The ship of Liberty is sinking.
There is a bitter iron in the heart.
The heart like a baby in the grip of pliers beating, beating to get free of
its crib.
The rope of sleep is reeled in,
Called in, dying there in the primordial temper of the stressed heart.

The threat draws closer. Is society becoming crazy,
loosing its footing, struggling to stand stridently
on shifting gravel.

Good intentions become the walk between two guards to the prison cell.
The Good intentions of the middle class are independent of King or Queen.

They have taken the university; they have moved in.
The children who grew up in luxury
With their eyes set on the great heights.

Will It Happen Tomorrow?

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.

The Water of Life

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.

 

 

Brick Lane

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

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

The honey melts down

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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.