Posts Tagged ‘commentaries’



Wonderful wonderful
how easy a cat will purr
how easy a flower will open
and scatter
how easy a smile
how easy a hand
how easy a good word
leads the way
becoming a vast flock
of joyous song and seeing.

Word to word
invisible tugged ties,
chains golden from tongue to ear,
a ripple of bells, a chime, tinkled river,
mind stream quenching thirst,
a million million reflections
showing nothing much of anything,
just how it is.

In the deepest oceans
Are the bones of all
That have ever lived.
A sediment free of sentiment,
World shaping pressure
Of was-ness turning into is-ness.

Dressed ghosts, borrowed rags.
Why so hungry always? Why so?
As if bereft. As if supported.
As if punishment. As if reward.
As if a test.
Interpret this.
Pain and beauty.
Edges, boundaries, limits.
A dance to slow music.
If we can be but elegant, somehow,
so the universe turns toward us
(as we turn toward its ever open eyes),
weave a new way, gentle, strong,
accepting, melting, acquiescing.
Grace, it would be.
Perhaps reason enough.

Heat haze.
A shimmering road.
All the colours shifting towards evening.
A sharp sound rumbles into deep distance.
An elucidation of edges.
A smudge of vast moments.
Thought storm, tranquil dreaming.
Your voice (somehow) in my head (somehow).
Via the heart of things,
we ricochet amazed
through crystalline spheres.

A tissue of lives.
Connective, connected surfaces.
A fine tracing of whorls and ridges,
Whispering alphabets
Attempting an understanding,
Perhaps a cataloging,
An exposition of position.
A thin, sky thin, elucidation
A slender, tender hinting thing.
Not quite dream, not quite wish,
Nor remembering, nor forgetting.
This placental sustaining,
Held suspended,
Amniotic day,
Bridged away from pain.

Else we slip unseen,
Or so we conceive it,
Mouthing wept whys
Into blank cold nights.

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Used to be to make immortals of us.
Green mask, green breastplate.
Now verb, adverb.
We lack lustre, grow weak.
Taste dust.
The cloth has worn thin
on our fine designs.
Look carefully through:
something else moves beyond.


We become rubbed thin and fragile,
or tougher than we look –
Worn leather, finely cracked,
no longer mirroring any pride,
any care.
Its own nature
(to hold old bones together, to have some guts).
Slipping into a role,
where we become comfortably bedded in,
but invisible and fading.
A worn path.


I shall trace through ways and roads of time,
The pathway between white and that of rainbow’s lustre,
Enfolding moments, met and so woven,
Cupped as hands that spill never any drop.
In the weeks of early autumn,
In golden, honey, humming days,
As trees loose the leaf’s weight,
(The burden of slow breathing days)
Throw their branches skywards,
Open out empty, like slaves set free,
And cry cool:
“We are clothed in blue
That is the kiss,
And it shall never cease.”


Though I cannot twist the fire around
Where it leaps and slides.
Though sleep is elephants in chains.
Though lamps fuse the night.
Though time and shadows stutter.
Though voices still and all breath whispers.
Though your skin lies here velvet as hillsides.


This voice born from caves
This voice shaped emptiness
This voice the flavour of silences

This vessel of poetry,
Always lucid,
Empty ’til held
And warmed by palms,
Tipped towards lips –
An exchange of breath.


Rocked, enfolded, supported.
Nurtured, swaddled, assured.
Smoothed into sweet sleep.
The birds of sunset,
The birds of dawn.
The stars of evening,
The stars of morning.
A dappled, tree shade,
A strong trunk,
A canopy of gentleness.
A rain of comfort
An opening.
A belonging, a belonging,
A belonging.
Succour, solace, ease.
Breathe, remain.


Probably better roofless,
These thick-walled
Shrugging thugs of the landscape,
And green-walled, green-tombed,
A habit for thrush and snail.
The fading echoes of invader words,
Muscled in, muscled out,
Left to a bed of leaves
And nostalgic wanderings of day visitors
trailing after twittering children….


The river’s song:
the rocks in it’s smooth mouth,
the fear lumping in its warbled throat,
the distractions from waterness, from seawards rush,
from oblivion.
What it is not, that is its name.
It’s song is what it tries to evade, to avoid.
We are our frictions,
our aches ( what angels long for, what demons envy).
We, the worn face of mountains,
frosted, bitten stand regardless of pasts,
burnt in sunrise and sunset,
pierced by starlight.
The pain of breath,
the loss of in and out,
limited is the beauty of the limitless,
how it discovers,
entangled sweetness.


It is the nature of the deep mind,
oceanic, vast, lying dreaming
beneath the pedantic foppery
of fashionable habits of thought.
It is the engine,
the body of sinew,
the geometry of neurons,
the long, glimmering night,
the dragon’s steady, piercing eye,
the palace with silver service laid out,
waiting for Last Supper.


Teasing apart into this and that,
glowing piles of good and bad.
The labels are not the thing,
but short circuit our emotion,
(so smart we are. )
The truth is made of lies,
and bears our name.
Is, is not. Is not, is.
Neither is nor is not, is and is not.
Truth within lies. Truth lies within.
Within, the biggest lie.
Equations in a flow.
Freeze frame missing the real.
Paradox paradiddle.
Shiva’s drum.
This way, that way.

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Conversations with invisible friends(4). Herewith, before they get overlain with other things, another collection of bits and bobs inspired by the blog posts of others. For which I am very grateful….


Warm sun
And the dance of laughter,
Sinking deep.

(The weight of stone
Is its memory
Of moving things).



moving specks:
what is in my eye,
I see.
It may be clarity,
or clouded vision.
A message
or misinterpretation.



Fold mind
Fold sound
Find word
Sharp lines
Open, closed
Tip of tongue
Held between lips
This way
Then that way
Frozen form flows
Into paper.



Great folds of rock!
A lovely beach of curled words
and washed reaches.
What is not “supplement”?
(such a French word
made clunky 3:4 ,
almost an engine jive
with a touch of 4:4
(that gear change between ‘n’ and ‘t’,
a secret hidden pause as the mouth adjusts).
Mouth music.


Black and white
frozen light.

the inconsequent

LKeeping the fleeting
flicker of instants.

Remembering how easy
it is to forget.

Stealing souls or
letting them live



When the real
Pushes hard
We slip shattered
Holding still.

Transparent, even,
Beyond help
(though never really).

Between events
Distanced, grey,
Ghosted hollow by
Too many endings.

Sloughing skins.
Abandoning identities
That fail
(as if they were ever
Sure or sound).

Uncertain of echoes..

Tracing grey worlds
Mapping consequences
Of beginning and ending.

Sloughing identity,
Ghosted hollow…

When the real
Pushes hard
We slip shattered
Holding still.

Transparent, even,
Beyond help
(though never really)
Sloughing identity,
Ghosted hollow.



It is cellular,
how the body grieves,
despite tutting mind,
bright-rouged beliefs.
It is the bones,
the guts,
mycelial nerves.
The hymn of cells,
eternal charnel and chantry,
never expecting anything
other than to pass on,
to pass on,
to cancel,
to forget,
to never forget.


How still
The lashes of your eyes
Searching words
How still

How long
The slow rise of your breath
Searching peace
How long

How fine
The enamelled morning
Blue, shadowed
How fine

How light
The dive of swallows
above buttercup shine
How light

How still, how long
How fine, how light,
This filigree life
Floating skywards



Crackled clear
not yet broken.
Hold on or let go.
You will not be forgotten.


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