Posts Tagged ‘fragments’


Faint eternal breezes between stars

Where the gods have walked.


The door-hinge between worlds screams

And time is changed. Your names are of no value here,

Nor your skills.


Your future has been stolen

Because the past was not understood.


All roads dissolve at the misty edges.

This forest is your accuser.

This forest is your river.


The dance between two and three,

The vanishing one eclipsed.

Umbra, penumbra, chorus, echo.


The table of utter silence.

The taste of grey iron chain,

Grey as morning, neither this nor that.


Four stories long the seamstress works,

Head bowed in patterns, the needles

Darting in and out.


Blake and Burne-Jones naked on the shore,

Collecting the teeth of dragons,

Barefoot in embers and sea wrack.


The sky boat reflected in the moving waters,

The stallions hobbled, too wild, even, for war.


It is the gentle who are moulded

For vengeance and bleak reply.


And still the future is mute but growing.

It will be bright with accident,

Possessed with skills of no use whatsoever –

The arts of distraction and decay,

The sowing of grief and duty.


Do not look for any meaning in the words ( they say)

The key is not the door.

There is no lie in winter.

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Now then
This memory
Bright and ruthless
Still here.

One moment sparkles
One moment shatters
And the one who goes before it
And the one leaving after it
Are one but not the same.

A language of licked lips and discrepency
A bartering of meanings.
They bring here with pride
The skill of conjurors and pickpockets.

The language of rivers:
The song of things
Worn smooth by sound.

The heart of starlight
Is loneliness and beauty.
The silence of the deep.

Out of the eternal past
A poet’s voice
Leads the dead,
Revivifies the earth.

Words fall golden,
Free of meaning
Time rusts,
Becoming earth.

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below this turbulence:
slow, vast, are the currents.
Knotted threads soften, unwind
(As morning mists
In curling, upward sun).

The ghosts we hold most dear,
Those haunted voices we always hear,
That diffuse the endless night-
They come and go
As if they owned the place,
As if they mattered more.

They are so tiring,
These endless stumblings
Proudly towards truth,
Where simple goodness would suffice.

The broken-nailed, mad eyed dreamers,
The demon-fed preachers.

For we tumble towards a close,
And that is always and only certain.

Here, is the benign patience of Spring
Come again to remind us
That warmth will split the hawthorn blossom
(And the hills already drunk and hazy on it).

Just one sunny day,
and all we dream of
is summer.

A slow dance of swallows,
lambs and birdsong,
One blue warm billowy morning in May,
enough to banish all the long months
Of winter, to open and relax,
To build a nest
As if it were forever.

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Looking over the hills,
Low cloud,
Dusk after rain.
I would wish you
All wings,
My friends.


This voice born from caves
This voice shaping 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..


There is no time
In the worlds of spirit,
Nor in the worlds of matter.
Only in the mind of Man
Does the click and tick
Of moments
Signify a neurotic cauldron
To oblivion or eternity.


This mind, timeless, anchored
Rocks, sways, on word tides.
Gull-wind senses roam and wheel
Searching food.
The patterns of love
And belonging
In rippled reflections.
Harboured, havened, home.


Sweet violet
White and nodding,
Rising in damp westerlies.
Prophets with blazing heads roar by
Not hearing, not caring.


Nice, nice, nice!
(Triple nice denotes favour of the gods),
a vapour aromatic, bitter,
Rising from certain, approved of,
One who knows his place
And knows it might
Be nowhere particular,
Except the particularity
Of cloud chambers
And the silent
Expansion of a supernova
(Inexplicably given
Of someone’ wife).
The only object
Is its name.
Three moving lines.
Hence the wise man
Remains silent
Watching the return
Of swallows.
No blame.


Love the depths!
What computers really dream,
what they say to each other,
not just oh and one,
but a cosmology of dark spaces,
exploding stars….


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CONVERSATIONS with invisible friends (9)


“Sound exists only
when it is going out of existence.”
And breath as it commingles
With time and blood.
Light, invisible
As it travels,
Until it strikes
And rebounds.
Sway and jigger.
We dance
Though these frozen
Words that so
Seem all to hold
Sane and steady.


The air, so cool and still
Between the raindrops.

A tunnel of whispering song,
A roar of percussion.

Roofs and gutters
Turn relentless descent
Into catalogues of dance.


fills with points of light.


a nest of snakes,
an Ouroborous,
a hiss of tasting,
an absence of beginnings and tail-ends,
a scintillation, perhaps a union of wisdoms,
a sine sign, sinuous, insiduous, sidelong.
An egg, druid’s,
serpents egg:
an unknown wonder, mind meetings,
strings, cat’s cradle, constellations,
caput draconis, circumpolar,
always circumpolar…..
we all,
we all rise and fall together,
weak nuclear, strong nuclear,
circumstantial, scribed, circumscribed,
elegantly drunk on small matters,
dark matters,
harmoniously various,
sustaining togethered.



Every mirror
Never lies
But tells
The familiar tale
In reverse.
The truth
If any,
Neither one
Nor tother,
But floats invisible,
In between.



The dove
Of grace
Sometimes called,
Sometimes shot.


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A continuation of fragments inspired by others in this virtuality. Thanks be to all their moments of light.


Drained dregs,
Take possession,
a wonder!
(shadow of a monkey,
top hat, spinning wheel,
a descent into most
beautiful desolation!)



The smudges,
fingerprints of,
intentions of.
Something emerges.
Something peels away,
flakes of time.
A brush with fate,
a moment



Place is a story
someone has inhabited,
long ago, leaving signs,
debris, memory.
A place where no one has been
exists nowhere,
inhabited by jealous dragons,
guarding their own history.
Blank space
waiting for words, instructions.
Place: a time that piles up upon itself,
memory on memory,
making ghosts that sing
sweet, terrible songs.



Maybe more that it is a thing,
a presence, but not recognisable.

Like an archetype it resonates
with many types of object,
but its form, colour, meaning,
purpose are not appearent.

It serves its own existence,
intrudes upon ours.



Pouring words from the jug of your head.
More you pour, more is there.
How many sights, how many sounds
are buried in memory and dream?
There will be no end of it,
squeezing out the now and the then.
It is nothing and then it is everything.
From afar, we watch your erratic climb,
cheering, oohing and aaahing.



Food for the spirits,
food from the ancestors:
our breath, our voice.



All this
could be as pointless,
as self-enwrapped,
as walking solo to the South Pole.

It could be as noble
as a wounded messenger
warning of danger over the next hill.

It could be science.
It could be experimentation.
It could be a zoo.
It could be shared visioned stories
around a small fire on a wild night.

It could be howling ‘why?’ at the stars.
It could be showing off.
It could be a fatal avoidance.
It could be searching,
searching for what has been lost,
what has been forgotten.

It could be a waste of time.
It could be the whole damn purpose of time.
Following threads that are clues,
or are the unravelling of sense.



The mind orbits fascinated,
bemothed heart fluttering
near then far.
These harsh,
gentle words.



Scintillating sparkles.
Mind silenced
by a million small
dancing suns.
the shipwreck slides
silent beneath the waves.



“express yourself”
Vapid instruction.
Read this book
Teaching how to read.
Ride this bike,
Hands here,
Feet here.
Stuttered, stumbled,
(Walking, running,
After all, just falling
“express yourself”
Reveal attractive scars,
Elegant vulnerabilities,
Do not shock nor upset,
Refine the blood, the stains.
Tidy up the mess,
Sauté the raw.
Season, disguise,
Pressed out, inside out,
Regurgitated, ejected,
Void, voided.
Express yourself


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It is not infrequently that I find reading someone’s blog I become word-filled, or at least taste the winds of wordage. A spontaneous thing, a few lines cast down in appreciation or conversation. I have begun collecting those that pleased or surprised me under the above title. Some are complete in themselves, some just torn pages, sketches, notions. But amusing, I hope. A bouquet for my muses ( you lot of screen-lit waifs and strangers, mind-readers, mind-sharers, an osmosis of muses).


Caught in this hammock,
Dew-wet spider web:
February day
Dreaming of spring.

Night now.
The world calling low
Down my chimney:
“come out, the clouds
Are fast and glowing pale.”


And what’s a man without his shoes?
A cold toed dancing monkey,
off balance
and drunk on gravity!


It must all end thusly,
stopping suddenly,
like thoughts do, like life does,
as boredom or something more inviting
takes the stage.
A nice touch,
like hearing a wash of bar-room gossip,
or a sudden rush of fragmented,
incomprehensible telepathy….


Stepping over cracks,
papered, glued.
Names for emptiness,
even clever emptiness that a mind can leap.
One by one
we shall all disappear,
finding everyone else,
who have also disappeared,
wondering how that,
how that could possibly happen,
how that could possibly happen again,
and again.


The poet fights to get out,
is slapped down with a gritty hand,
that then too,
turns into a mudra of revealing.
A nonchalent hide and seek,
footsteps echoing in silence.
The maniac down the corridor titters loudly….


Speed and convolution,
locomotive breath.
Delicate pace
with careful tongue.

my comments,
syllabic apprehension,
jealous machines…


Underestimated, the value of brackets!
They packet up thought and expression,
more similarly to thought and voice,
than more highly regarded punctuations.
I am all for brackets
( I shall make a placard,
and stand on cold corners
(with a small dog and rattling can).
(and I neither object to brackets within brackets
(though a sniffy grammarian might grumble)).
They are raised eyebrows and slight smiles.
They are knowing ness and by the way ness.
They are signposts in the significance
and waywardness of a train of thought
(we are now off the rails and improvising,
(mouth moving, brain aghast)).

And by the way,
the jewel of your words has a certain ring,
wed to the world
(punning though,
is the sign of devils
playing with idle hands).

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