Sunday, 30 December 2012

The End Of The Year

As the year draws to its close we look back and ponder it.
The resolutions and dreams and the turning points that defined it.
And a strange year filled with twists and turns now nearly passed and fading.
Eyes now drift to the promise of next year and a shift in the tide we've been sailing.
The year has passed and brought it's changes, some striking and forever.
The new year dawns with fresh new chances and hope blooms more than ever.


I found love once before but I lost it.
Maybe it's down the back of the sofa, it's always the last place you look.

I found truth once before, mislaid it.
At the bottom of the glass the stories got taller, and it drifted away in the twilight hours.

I found beauty once before in a forest,
The sun glistening, leaves rustling, mind tranquil.
I lost it somewhere on the A406, might be hidden around the North Circular these days.

I found courage before, we lost touch.
He added me on Facebook but my profile got lost.

And love, truth, beauty, courage we all shall find.
And in the meantime, it's all some thing of that kind.


Hold on to your hats, it's gonna be a rough ride.
The edge of emotion hits the landslide,
As touchdown approaches, the feelings subside,
Soothed by the warmth consuming inside.

And sleeping within your dreamy soul,
And reviving that almighty glow,
And presuming, consuming, the transcript of your mind,
And knowing in truth I could only be kind
To you, for you, with you and without.
Your words, my thoughts, and etchings of doubt.
First a star, then a gleam, now merely a trail.
Wondering in any case, if dreams can prevail.

Saturday, 22 December 2012

Keep Shining

Keep being you, keep smiling.
Be true to yourself, keep shining.
Let go of the past and the what could've beens.
Don't worry about the future and what it might bring.
Keep being you, keep smiling
Be true to yourself, keep shining.
Don't worry about others or coat tails of success.
Or clinging on making friends with past regrets.
Keep being you, keep smiling.
Be true to yourself, keep shining.
Every soul in this world can teach you something.
Open mind, open heart is the only thing
You could need, or want, or hope to possess.
So keep being you, keep shining.

Christmas Wishes

The festive time rolls round,
Christmas is almost here.
A time of celebration
With the people we hold dear.
May Christmas wishes be with you,
And stay the whole year through
May peace and kindness abide with you,
And love that remains true.
This special time comes once a year,
But let the magic remain here.
May love, peace, kindness stay with you.
And be ever present and always true.


Oh did you, did you flick over the book to read?
Oh did you, did you toil the land to plant the seed?
Oh could you, could you start to see things differently?
Oh would you, would you retreat to familiarity?
Would the sparks fill your heart in boundless glory?
Or escape to a surreal mythical story?
But oh did you, did you flick over the book to read?
Oh did you, did you toil the land to plant the seed?
Of freedom, new horizons, fresh vision.
Or was it idling, wandering, daydreaming escapism?

The Blossoming Buds

Peeking its head through the soil,
After months of roots' strengthening toil.
Blooming and blossoming, 
The bud opens softly in spring.
Vivid colours, apparent fragility,
Strengthened by roots beyond visibility.

Losing its petals through the cold, Withering and dying away.
Leaving nothing but a stalk,
Mere remnants of beauty now gone astray.
Battered and receding with rains and frost,
And ebbing away with winter days.

But as the sun strikes again the bud breaks anew. 
Beauty, apparent fragility,
Strengthened by the root.
Each flower appears unique, vivid and fragile,
But has strength hidden in roots underground.
Much like you and me, 
When we feel fragile,
Our hidden strength will often arouse and abound.

The House Was A Mess

The house was a mess,
And so was the heart,
Or was it the mind,
Or both-
The house was a mess,
And things lay unrest,
And burdens drifted slowly.
The cyclical thoughts,
Breeding confusion,
The reiteration,
Causing conflict.
The house was a mess,
But the heart came to rest,
When the cycle was broken,
And thoughts became softer.
The house was a mess,
But the mind felt it's best,
And the house could be cleaned tomorrow.

Sunday, 16 December 2012

The Drift Of December's Mist

The drift of December's mist,
The footprints in the snow.
Buying and wrapping gifts,
Dreamers dreaming with souls
For a hand in a hand,
And a heart yearn for them,
And a love that's pure and gold.
For a sweet Winter slumber,
A truthful eye,
And a kinship that's theirs to hold.
The drift of December's mist,
Christmas will be here soon.
And as dreamers dream their sweet song of love,
Winter's beauty is born anew.

To Pursue

The dictionary definition of 'pursue':
1. To follow in order to overtake, capture, kill, etc. ; chase
2. To follow close upon; go with; attend
3. To strive to gain; seek to attain or accomplish
4. To proceed in accordance with (a method, plan, etc.)
5. To carry on or continue (a course of action, a train of thought, an inquiry, studies, etc.)

And so, when we speak of pursuit, do we connect with the sentiment of our expression?
Avidly we pursue aims, success, possessions, even people.
And so, is pursuit an act
To overtake,
To capture,
To follow close upon,
To gain or attain
Something, someone?

We are transient beings in a world constantly subject to change.
Ownership in itself is rendered an obscure notion in this context.
And so, in our ceaseless pursuit,
Perhaps we forget the gifts we have, which too are transient and subject to change and therefore impermanent.
All that exists shall alter.
Perhaps acceptance could replace pursuit,
And appreciation replace ownership.

The Connected Soul

There are it seems, a number of philosophical and literary accounts on the idea of unity, of collective consciousness, of a state of being beyond the physical realm and yet within it.
Western philosophies of Plato and the Allegory of the Cave, epistemic knowledge, Aristotle and eudamonia.
The eastern belief of Hindu Advaita Vedanta, of Buddhist Nirvana.
Blake, Huxley, the Beats, the Merry Pranksters, Ken Kesey with consciousness expansion, mind at large.
Yes we are all connected.
Yes its limits are beyond rationale.
Yes the connection of humanity to the whole can never be underestimated, especially if creativity ad wisdom are enabled to flourish.
But the exact approximation, the science of this source is possibly beyond evidence.
Perhaps we could simply call it the connected soul.

The Wall

There was a wall, it was solid and strong,
And on the wall layers of paint.
And in the wall, small crevices.
If the wall could speak it would only have whispered,
And how its truths would have glistened.
If the wall could speak the message would be of
Love, despair, faith, dislike, hope, frustration, excitement, anguish, joy, apathy, dreams, confusion, nervousness, relief.
Soft whispers of love in ears,
Hard edges of temper in frowns.
Cracks softened by tears
Plaster strengthened by joy.
There was a wall, it was old and strong.
It could have been anyone's home.

Drinking Swinging

I've been drinking, I've been swinging
Right to the heart of the whole.
I've been hushing, I've been brushing
Shoulders with the kindest souls.
I've been swigging, I've been drinking,
The wells of eternity.
I've been smoking, I've been toking,
Wondering when souls will be free
To live, to dream, to soar, to dwell?
Oh let my feelings hide and dwell.


You would have been coming home now,
And this time it was here to stay.
Eight swift years since you left,
Our friend like you'd not been away.
And every Christmas we saw you,
And it always felt just the same,
The stories, the laughter, the teasing,
And this time you'd be back to stay.
But you came back to us early,
Though not as anyone foresaw.
And so our friend rest sweetly,
And your memory will remain pure.
I made you a silent promise,
I'm still keeping and live to this day.
So beautiful friend rest calmly now,
Let burdens slip away.
You'll always be clear in our thoughts
And that can't be taken away.


'Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today.'
Though sometimes it's not so easy.
Sometimes our greatest hesitations are our deepest cares.
Our clearest procrastinations, our insecurities.
The process of delay merely one of hope.
The stagnation of avoidance, our own fears.
And sometimes, it's simply better knowing.
There are those moments where courage is called upon and we can delay no more.
For in the worst case, the reality of situations are never as negative as we fear.
And as for the best case, why place potential joy in the future and not live it now?

Sunday, 9 December 2012

A Whole Lot Of Nothing

A whole lot of nothing worth a promise full of something.
A whole lot of nothing,
A head full of dreams,
A heart full of love,
A soul full of gleams.
A whole lot of nothing worth a promise full of something.
A whole lot of nothing
Is all I have to give.
A whole lot of nothing,
And a wish for love to live.

Gross National Happiness

We have long measured our success on Gross Domestic Product.
Tangible measures of tangible factors, a formula to deduct.
But a fresh breeze is sifting, breathing, waving through.
Gross National Happiness now figures in the process too.
And several countries now, forty or more in fact,
Have designed indicators and matrixes
To measure the impact.
The change is upon us as sands of time pass,
Where contentment is deemed as significant
And long may the thought last.

For what is progress and what is success
If it can't be measured by our happiness?

This may seem too hopeful,
Something I merely wish to see,
But scales of success are weighing now
On GNH not GDP.

Talking About The Old Times

Talking about the old times,
And drinking cups of tea.
Examining the sentiment of years of memory.
The trouble we got into, the strife that seemed so big.
The lovers and ex-lovers who have all since disappeared.
Talking about the old times,
And smoking cigarettes.
The times we got involved with things we've gone on to regret.
And the laughter and the joy that comes with growing up,
And how quickly it all moves on leaving you with not too much
Of memory with clarity but a feeling that dwells and slips.
Nostalgia and our past and how it informs present.
Talking about the old times,
Drinking tea and smoking.
Shadows of the past come drifting, warming, sloping.
Leaving etches of dreams and silhouettes now faded.


110 years ago today you were born.
The Father to my Mother in West County Mayo.

'If you have a pound in your pocket and a tongue in your head,
You'll never be alone' are the words I've heard you said.

110 years ago today you were born.
The Father to my Mother and a family and all.
For you raised a girl who is worth being proud.
The signs of pure love we were always endowed.
And from the people before us we will always learn.
And the stories of their lives bring hearts to a burn.
Keep memories alive not in obscurity,
For you be at peace now in tranquillity.

The Symphony Of Her Home Town

She'd pinned her hair up and smoothed it back.
Stood in the hallway, cramped at an awkward angle.
Attempting to see her reflection in the small mirror.
Leaving the house, her profile drifting through hazed reflection in window.
Walking up the road.
The remaining slush of snow, browning and melting.
Thought back to how beautiful it had appeared only days earlier.
A blank canvas to start all over again.
To the bus-stop standing, wondering
At the life-stories of the other people waiting.
The rhythm of the street captivated her.
The melody of the traffic.
The harmony of bustling shops.
The lyrics of the life stories,
The symphony of her home town.

Beautiful Soul

When he laughs it's the giggle of a School boy.
And when he speaks it's an innocent tone.
And when he converses it's a gentle approach,
And when he rebels it's with mischief.
It could so easily be assumed,
From his joyful disposition,
That he has never known any kind of pain,
The truth is so far removed.

It's his pain that gives him perspective,
His pain that gives him endurance,
And how he has received it
Is to bestow back on the world,
Countless deeds of innocence, gentleness and mischievousness.

All the world should know him,
For surely all would be his friend,
He lives in a homeless shelter now
As his days draw to their end.

The Heart

Growing more conscious of it,
And mindful of its place,
She began to feel it more physically than ever.

The leaps, the flutters, the warmth, the rest, the stillness,
The swells, the heaviness, the aches, the pangs,
The love, the heart.

Growing more conscious of it,
And mindful of its place,
She began to feel all a little bit more.
And all things were filled with life,
And all events profound.

Truth And Beauty

The great writers, artists, philosophers have all contemplated it.
Yet in intellectualising, we complicate its essence.
And in expressing, we simplify its impact -
The nature of truth and beauty.


Lately I've been thinking,
Even thinking about thinking.
Thinking avoiding sinking,
Thinking too much it seems.

Lately I've been weaker,
Is it weaker or is it softer?
Experience knocks the edges off
The former you it seems.

And with that softening comes an openness of spirit,
Though that openness necessitates its own exclusive limits -
Where you have to face your frailties, faults, responsibilities.

Yes lately I've been thinking,
Might need more time on it please.


No more masterpieces,
Let the old books rest.
Rather than recreate let's generate
Some new interest.

No more masterpieces,
It's had its place, its time.
Let's make effigies and transcend dreams
Terrified and sublime.

And no more masterpieces,
For your shock therapy
Cannot degenerate my understanding of cruelty.

And no more masterpieces,
Break with surrealist mind.
Aligned to politics of a party -
Not art I seek to find.

And no more masterpieces,
Let the performer arouse
The deepest connection to existence
Cosmic Rigour, mortality bound.

And no more masterpieces,
Let us find new ground,
For somewhere in our deepest nightmares,
Necessity is found.


And on that sacred clock when the blessed hour chimes,
I'll meet you at the station, I'll even try to be on time.
And as the birds cry out and the flowers wake with dew,
We'll still be going strong and there'll be more stories too.
And when our eyes get sleepy and the dawn begins to lift,
We'll hold our glasses high and drink to more times just like this.


It takes great strength to be gentle
And resilience to be wise
Selflessness to love
And courage to be true.

And with these attributes in all things and of all things, contentment abides.
And the search for these attributes in all things and of all things is a gift in itself.

Sunday, 18 November 2012


At 7, I pondered where God could be?
A Heavenly throne, the afterlife, immortality?

At 17, in the classroom transfixed -
'God is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, why does evil exist?'
The answer 'free-will' didn't have me convinced.

At 27, I wonder what is God?
Non-material, connected, awakened glimpses radiating love?
I lay no claim to wisdom
But now look around, not imagine above.

Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day
And on the screen,
Poppies are worn as nobility.
Pomp and ceremony,
The laying of wreaths,
The Concert Hall,
Two minutes peace.

Remembrance Day
And thinking about,
Those young boys who were sent out,
With arms in hand and heart in mouth
Youthful minds likely clouded with doubt.

Remembrance Day
But the wars rage on,
We're doing it now,
Only further in doubt.
Broken hearts return, remain unsoothed,
The boys fighting wars, Leaders in safety, approved.

The Swinging Sixties

Give me old time blues, give me rock 'n' roll,
But whatever you give, do it with soul.
Riding the waves, on the crest of the tide,
 Of the jewels, of the wisdom, don't let it subside.
And the freedom, creativity, rock 'n' roll,
Inspire generations, live freely as a goal.
Wear your hair long and get about,
Lyrics written in haze, leaving us in no doubt,
That a mark has been left on the world for good,
Revolution of the sixties can't be misunderstood.

Saturday, 10 November 2012

Evening Skies

The skies appeared as a great canvas that evening.
Purples, blues and yellows tinged and seeping.
The great calm clouds hanging low, enveloping.
And soon enough, the drift of the great moon sweeping.
And the trees and rooftops and fences.
And the world a work of art to be idolized.
And nature the greatest artist.
The rumble of traffic - the sound-scape,
The dusk - the dramatic lighting,
The streets - the gallery.
The leaves, the clouds, the colours, the skies were art.
All of nature's palette, visceral, beautiful and present.

Winter Beckoning Us Home

As the nights are drawing in, Winter beckoning us home, lit fires, cosy clothes, a drop of something soothing, big dinners, old movies.

As the nights are drawing in, Winter beckoning us home, heading down dark lanes, icy air whipping ears and nose, eyes shedding a tear, fingers numbing, the warm welcoming light at the door, viewed from a distance and the race to get there.

As the nights are drawing in, Winter beckoning us home, the bare trees casting shadows, the buds and petals gone only root remaining, the creatures hibernating in secret worlds, the warmth of homeliness, the contentment of kindred spirits, the evening chat by soft light, comfort, laughter, home, as Winter beckons.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

Hey There Commuter

Hey there commuter, spilling off the train, compressing through and swiping card, exploding on to the pavement, walking in single file, idling along, loosening tie. From the 8.20 train to the 9 am start, been clock watching since 3.30, and out bang on 5, an additional moment there you really couldn't abide.

Hey there commuter, when you were a child, was this what you envisaged life would be or were you going to show the world, throw yourself out there, a beacon of originality?

Hey there commuter, this construct is man-made, if you're dissatisfied you can always change, the path, the road, the route you're headed on.

Hey there commuter, your soul is still free, so I'll just ask you one thing – Where would you like to be?

Down The Boozer

Now I'm no expert and I'm not a connoisseur, nor am I well-travelled, well-informed, or well-clued up.
 But there are certain things I require when it comes to a drinking hole, and that's the characters within -
The old guy in the corner, supping a pint and nursing it for all its worth,
The fellas who sloped in at 2 while the wife thought they were hard at work,
The glamorous lady perched on the stool, dolled up to the nines, whose been drinking here for 25 years, all hairspray and perfume.
The geezers at the bar, always with a story,
The clamour, the chatter, the banter, the grime.
Down a little backstreet where closing's not restricted to time.
Now I'm no expert and I'm not a connoisseur
But you'll find me by the jukebox or smoking out the back door
This world needs putting to rights and this is the place to do it.

Measuring Our Value

If we take any one aspect of our lives and allow it to become the focus, placing it under the microscope, and deeming it the measure of our value, we inevitably deem ourselves failures.
Whether it be work, relationships, physical appearance, knowledge, emotional resilience.
When considering ourselves, perhaps we could adopt the kindness we continually lend to others.
Above all else awareness, and it's counterpart, acceptance.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

The Feet Of Our Masters

We stand at the feet of our Masters.
Some present, some past, some long gone and deep in our psyche,
And fantasise, philosophise, and prophesize on their insight.
We kneel at the feet of great Masters.
And place pretty flowers around their feet.

Aye, but a rose, so beautiful in bloom,
Surrounded by thorns of insecurity and doubt.
Aye, but a rose, so intricate in bloom,
We don't look long enough to notice.

We lie at the feet of our chosen Masters.
And attempt to contextualise, analyse and emphasise their ideals.
Aye, but a rose, so tender in bloom,
Laid at their feet,
Beautiful and fragile and fading.


And floating, coasting, skiving, bailing, failing.
And soaring, slurring, smoking, daring, swearing. 
And hoping, dreaming, foretelling, imagining, drifting.
And regretting, lamenting, revisiting, assessing, reflecting.

Through one soul, it's core unhindered, 
The Transcendent Self, that part of you that will forever remain pure
Through beauty and adversity.

And thinking, absorbing, gaining, waking, engaging.
And being.

The Beauty Of Age

I remember that old classroom, the sound of chalk scraping the board, the huge windows coated in paint, the creaking bookshelves, the display work exhibiting our efforts from the term before on dinosaurs or was it the planets? The chronology escapes me now. I remember we studied the Tudors and Stuarts, and how fascinating it appeared - The glamour, the elegance, the bruality. I remember how very strange it seemed that even the Monarch would poison her skin with lead to make it look paler, and always questioned whether that could ever feasibly be knowingly.

And one day our present day will too line the history books, and children will sit in classrooms, the sound of computers clicking on, the windows double-glazed at the very least, the interactive display boards, and wonder at why we inject and lift and shift our faces to remove the marks of all-powerful, all-beautiful time.

And maybe one day the lines of a story on a face will be revered and a face of compassion and wisdom will be perceived as the beauty it is – A narrative, a life-story, a face.

Sunday, 4 November 2012

Just The Rain

Lying here listening to the rain, thoughts dreamy and elusive.
Spiritual serenity, emotional contentment.
All is nothing, all is profound, all is trivial, all is turbulent, all is still.
All is you, all is me, all transcending.
And darkness, stillness, peace.

Just the rain on the roof tapping gently.
Just the rain at the window etching patterns.
Just the rain flowing freely, softly, swiftly.
Just the rain washing all doubts away.


We are but transient vessels in the midst of an ocean seeming endless.
But every current grows tranquil and each tide finds it's shore.

Wednesday, 10 October 2012

A Fleeting Moment Fading Fast

A fleeting moment fading fast,
Was present, mind's eye cast to future, but soon enough was in the past.

A fleeting moment ebbing, soaring freely, fading fast,
Where hopes and dreams dwell and merge and time moves all too fast.

A fleeting moment ebbing, soaring freely, peaking joyously, fading fast,
In the remnants, always shifting, and never destined to last.

A fleeting moment, glimpses, a vast spectacle of scenes,
Yes a fleeting moment emerged, flaming furnace to a gleam.

I'd Be Righteous

I'd be righteous in my ways if they lasted more than days
But something hinders progress or it's cyclical atleast.
I'd be righteous in my ways if they weren't a skimmimg gaze
Before another phase seeps and dwells
Within and without, inside and out.

'To thine own self be true' and 'Know Thyself'
Shakespeare and Joyce knew the drill.
For what else can we be? Whatever we may be.
Yes I'd be righteous in my ways if they weren't in such a daze
And if I knew exactly what they were.

*Disclaimer 'Know Thyself' is inscribed on The Temple of Apollo at Delphi and it's origins are thought to be Ancient Greek, but what can I say, this is what came out in a 3 minute spiel – James Joyce referenced it well enough to be the first thought that cropped up.


The 30s saw the Dustbowl, the catastrophe that ensued, over 2 million rendered homeless – crops failed, faceless banks took over, mass migration, camps set up, credit stores creating further traps.

The 80s saw the Rustbowl, across the waters, mines and factories closed down, workers laid off, mass migration, for jobs, for homes, for security, for necessity.

And we're back there again, except this time it's global, mass immigration. In London at this very moment, men in camps set up under bridges in Harrow, 3 years or more homeless. In Ilford, temporary shelters in camps. In pockets everywhere. Where are we now, the Bustbowl?
It has happened and happened before and before and no-doubt will arise again.

Logged On

The phone is on the counter, the laptop on the table, logged on, logged in, switched on, but really? 1000 unread emails sit idle, peering out at the bottom of the desktop – 1000 things to do, to read, to absorb. We're downloading, streaming, updating. Never have we communicated so much and said so little. Personal catastrophes hitting, beautiful things too, but we figure we have insight from a post of a YouTube clip, a funny anecdote, an inspiring story. Never have we communicated so much and said so little. We post, we message, we text, we chat, we tweet, we share. Never have we communicated so much and said so very little.

Sunday, 30 September 2012


The newspapers scattered on the kitchen table, the ring slipped on her finger agitating knuckle, the slippery surface, the freshly rolled cigarette perched on the edge of the ashtray. And as she looked up, the sun shone through the window on a bright new crisp day.

Inside, her reality. Outside, a brand new world aching for her revival. Inside, comfort familiarity and mess. Outside, energy and purpose, function and response.

And she lingered, ventured a look to the great skies but sun's glaze concealed beyond tall willow tree was distorted through sash window.

Inside, the smell of ash and stale booze, clothes strewn, books and papers, used glasses and wrappers awaiting cleaning or disposal or both.

There she waited, there she dwelt, there she awaited her renewed spirit, there she picked at books listlessly, there she found no form, no function that satisfied, there she stayed and idly wondered....

There she picked up her coat, retrieved her keys, opened the door and emerged.
There the world welcomed her.


      The days are getting longer,
      Summer is approaching,
      But the old wind of regret is surely encroaching.
      The sun hits the trees that cast shadows in the midst,
      As the sands of time begin their churning,
      And in my heart that old familiar yearning.
      In the current of the rivers the wisdom dwells,
      This time of year, season passes, never tells.
      And year on year I ponder it and find no great response.
      And year on year it dwells,sinks, passes all at once
      Leaving only a dream and remnants of dreams now drifted. 

The Energies in Ancient Sanskrits

The Ancient Sanskrits tell us of energies intrinsic within us, that form our connection to time, space, to the absolute.
Our implicit connection to the physical realm and that of the metaphysical, whatever that may be,
The absolute.
The Sattva of illumniation and nourishment, of innovation and inspiration.
The Rajas of action, of activity, creative force.
The Tamas of regulation, inertia, discipline, form and rest.
My soul complicit with yours, our souls complicit with the universe
And all of the self-same source.
The Absolute.

Lovers Row

'Well what do you want? I love you'
'Love, ha! What does that even mean to you?'
'Acceptance? So you accept me? You barely know me! You mean tolerance and I don't need you tolerating me'
'Attraction then, I dunno'
'Yeah, ya know, I'm attracted to you, like magnetism, that's it, there's a magnetism – you know what I mean?'
'I'm familiar with the repellent side'
'What do you want? The fucking sky to fall in, rainbows and stars, cos a regular bloke loves a regular girl'
'Oh, so now I'm regular!'
'No, you're not regular, you know what I mean'
'I'm sick of it, the lot of it, sitting in that pokey little flat, paying for it in that pokey little office, I want adventure, freedom'
'But that's not reality is it?'
'Why should we be realistic?'
'For God's sake love'
'There you go with that word again, what does it even mean?'
It was about this time celebacy was well-worth deliberating.

Sunday Morning Street

On a Sunday morning street, bleary eyes under shades, and the church bells ring and the world is calm, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, stagger and swagger, heads ache, muscles ache, eyes ache, keep on moving, maybe hair of the dog, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, mothers tending to babies in pushchairs, parents getting the shopping in, friends heading for breakfast, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, visions from the night before forming, guilt nagging.
Memory fogging, brain foggy, body fogged, on a Sunday morning street.

On a Sunday morning street, the sun hanging high, the birds singing, and all the world is at peace, on a Sunday morning street.

The Dreamers Compassion

The dreamers dreamt while the sleepers forgot to wake
And the wind scratched the rooftops and circled and swirled.

And in the mist, at the heart of confusion's fog, lay their connection to the whole.

The doors of love, compassion, joy and equanimity burst wide open.

And the red rose of the nightingale's heart bloomed and blossomed and rose with it their spirits.

And while dreamers dreamt and sleepers forgot waking

Compassion dwelt in their souls.

Art Review

'Did you like it?'
'I didn't really get it to tell you the truth'
'Didn't get it?....Have you got a lighter?... Thanks... Well what's there to get?'
'Well, it just didn't make any sense'
'Darling, it doesn't need to, did it appeal to your senses?'
'Erm, I don't know, it didn't really appeal to my rationale, I can tell you that much. I mean, what was it all about?'
'Ofcourse feminisim, the deconstruction of self, it really politicised the personal'
'I'm pretty sure that's what you said about the last piece we saw'
'Well a review doesn't need to be bespoke darling.'
'I dunno, do you want a drink?'
'Yes, red wine... Its art, there really is nothing to “get” '
'Blinding! I've been looking for my vocation, from now on call me an Artist'

Satire and Politics Collide

When satire and politics collide
What should we call it – Solitics? Patire?

Headline news for days on end -
The Prime Minister eating a pastie.
The Deputy Prime Minister's apology now available for download.
Andrew Mitchell on his bike
The 'plebs' standing by
Not using the words attributed to him
Yes, let's keep it that vague.

When patire and solitics collide -
When we appear to be well and truly 'in the thick of it'
Well, on second thoughts, perhaps we shouldn't name it.