Posts Tagged ‘world’


The Blossoming Magnitude

I step out.
Thick darkness
And above night fog.
A few stars come and go.
This world
We cannot ever leave.
Every inch of us
Reeled out from its heart.
Made to stretch
And grow and fade
Between each breath
And each stillness,
Between each moment
Of presence and absence.
The world pushes through.
Wherever we might go
This world, too, shall come.
We are seamless
And utterly loved.
A fragment only
In strange fragmented minds
That do not realise the utter silence
Contains the voices of all.
The utter silence that answers us
Is the blossoming magnitude
Of the simple ground.
A round flicker of star,
Tasted, acknowledged, named.
Never are we severed,
Never lost, nor alone,
Though the angry, hungry tide
Of voices may say it.
Our science is love
And our gravity, delight.
Obedient to our breath,
We come and go,
Remembering how it all goes.
A bowl of sky.
A bowl of earth.
Enough food there is
For all things.

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And is it not true,
Waiting a while in darkness
There blooms a sky
Once blank
Now full more and
More of stars?

And so, too,
in silence waiting
We see thoughts roar and multiply,
Emotions self-arise, endlessly,
and, fecund, roll
To oblivion.

It happens without effort,
This stretching, purring cat close by,
These hillsides echoing
With wild cries of foxes.
This air, motionless, cool,
A taste wrapped in grass and woodsmoke.

Without edge,
Without distinction,
Mind fills up all space.

The world, a cup
Half empty of sorrow,
Is half full of joy.
Yet we thirst
And must drink

Gulping life,
A taste to keep us,
A withstanding
of emptiness.


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One more time
Words congeal,
Nest in dawn light.

Enough is the
Expanding breath,
Round, sent out blue,
Seeking peace.

Enough the slow fall,
Enough the dream.
One more time
Gathered, harboured.

Precise is the prayer:
Extinguish the
Hungry fire.

Only this:
That ceaseless hunger:
Cascading decay,
Mistaken for upwards.

A race diminished
Striving for worth,
Consumed and driven.
No art but blunder.
Graceless the fall.

In the pale of its cool,
In the wash of the mist,
In slowing breath and moment
Can we learn to rest easy?
Wanting nothing but enough,

As if we were the last
To ever be here.
Seeded in peace,
Dwelt and released.

A song sighed,
Never forgot.
A world haunted
With beauty
All remaining.


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A Specious Species ( fragment from ‘Book of Voices’)

Nothing sacred now but our innane, profane cataloging of elements.
Delighting amongst minute, defined aberrations of despair.
Tearing wings off angels, pinning demons, peeled, perused and wriggling.
A reduction to the economic, to the social pressure, to the self-deceived confection
Of low-fat, sugared reason.
Too smart to see the mirror’s edge,
Too self-congratulatory with resonant parsimony, (our rounded, generic, philistine voice),
To notice the hysteric, farting ghosts gesturing in the shadows,
(Who hold all the prompts, pimp and pump the lines).
All the angry poets implode with bluster, become politicians of meagre degree,
Smutty with oiled conviviality, lugubrious with reasonable desecrations.
This world, too sharp, too uncoloured, subtle and muddied,
Requiring battened-down, serial numbered, thirteen-digit barcoded, sixteenth- level encryption, a designed decorum, ready-mealed, chill-packeted
For whenever the sudden, certain hungers disturb the entertainments
Of the bland and chained perceptions.
Blake and his roaring spirits plummet burning from a pest-controlled heaven,
Nicely neurotoxined, polypropylened, thin smiled and NVQ’d.
History scrubbed and redactable, requisitioned, gilded, sold off.
Each empire and squalid colony vacuum-packed,
Date-stamped, forgotten in elusive, intellectual deep freeze…..

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Golden moon rests
Upon a throne of low cloud.

All night long-
As bright as day.

Dawn shall not diminish her:
Sinking radiant
Into new lands.

A long music,
A choir of days.
Tallis exultant.

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Cradled in sound.
Cradled amongst the ins
And outs of breath, of heart.
Cradled, covered, rocked.

This certain skin touched, warm.
Cradled with word,
Cradled with song.
Cradled in longing,
Cradled in dream.

This long voice,
This sunlit unfolding,
This silken morning air,
These slow, precise moments.

Voice is not
The only voice
(Says the world).
Heart has not
The only song
(Says the slow dusk).

Peace is not
(Says the river,
Says the floating trees,
Says the flight of wings above,
Says the silence of their passing).

The living sleep, the sleeping dream,
The breathing pauses, the song resumes,
We melt and merge, swathed and cradled.
Delicate is the rainbow,
Impossible to catch.
Delicate the dance:
The balance of remaining.

Cherish and sustain
Uphold and move on.
So little, so few,
A heart to hold all,
A mind of whispers.
Gently, gently,
No lamp flickers.
Scent of evening.



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My heart is tied to the swell of time.
This tide of days, this wash of seasons.
This breath, this slow explosion,
This unfolding, this revealing and concealing.

Unfurled, I am stretched elastic
From dawn to dusk,
From horizon to horizon’s edge,
Surprised by cloud and bluster,
Swept up in flock and murmur.

Chimed, cascaded,
Catapulted into distance,
Collapsed to dancing, molecular dust.
Sun-caught, moon-cooled, star-pierced,
Tumbled through grasses and shadows,
Shorn by cold, wakened by ice,
Shaped and turned, lathed, formed,
Reduced, concentred, made real,
Made utterly real, made whole.

Gauged and runnelled,
Flooded in memory,
Eroded in seconds and hours,
Made into the new,
Then back to familiar, dust.
A rise and fall,
A breath, a heartbeat,
A word


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