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.