Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Look Up

Know all that dwells for a moment
Is too ever-changing.
Lessen judgement, and open heart.
Though you be on different paths, 
They cross and pass -
And both are wonderful.
All is wonderful.
Allow their drops of wonder to drift.
And look up, the skies have much magnificence!

Tuesday, 26 November 2013


Blow the dust off these tattered dreams,
Oh sweet time, beseech me.
Are we to carry from the womb to the tomb
The dreams, broken fragments, that dominated?
Shall they besmirch all future illusion 

From new pathways' sweet delusion?

I'll wipe the dust off the surface with a cloth,
And retreat from the flame and fear no wrath.
I'll move the fragments and dispose of them,
For surely we'll be free then.

And there disposed they hide and dwell,
And collide and collude to again combine.
Those settled fragments that once were mine,
Inner protons attract external neutrons.
Positivity attracting negativity,
This we know to be true,
Though I know nothing of what is true.
Not anymore,

Not since that door,
Not since the oak, 

Where I leaned took a smoke,
And wondered -

So I'll wipe it away, 

I'll put it away, 
I'll throw it away, 
I'll hide it away.
And dust settle here no more,
Though you are the very core
 Of the earth
And all that surrounds.
Of every planet in this realm.

Perhaps the dust on the breeze
A glimmer of our connection,
Though for now I seek only distraction.
Their shimmer seems less mystical
Than comets, meteorites, and stars.
And yet its their precise composition -
The protons and neutrons

The stars of dust,
The wonderment of dust,
The domesticity of dust,
And what of dust?
Am I of the same stuff of you, and indeed of myself, 

Of the very core itself?

Blow the dust off these tattered dreams,
I'll wipe them away, 
Put them away, 
Hide them away,
And drift away.

Saturday, 16 November 2013


Call it sparks of revolution,
Call it marks of evolution.
And take a walk through door revolving,
My fear I'll state clear, we're merely evolving.
Progress is slower than we might like to state,
Retracting steps on trodden roads dictate.
When notion-filled, guarded mind,
Seeks ritual in ties that bind.
When experience-authored, biased soul
Seeks ways to make pathways in the whole.
When narrow eye-lines assume their view,
For each of us captured in our own world-view.
When all these elements distort and combine,
Though external image we have come to refine.
When the doubts of our turmoil are unabated,
We realise we unknowingly discriminated.

For preferences spurted from delectation,
In salubrious settings beyond recrimination.
And the boundaries set by those making rules,
Are administered with questionable tools.
And the signs of the euro, the dollar, the pound
Controlling dissatisfied souls who feel bound

By their own lives that have slipped from their dreams,
Where inspiration's flashes are now only gleams.
No longer feel control of their own destiny,
So criticise those who are really free.
Publicly judging while privately sighing -
For a man not being reborn is surely dying.*
And judgements grow too from our own life story,
For I'm telling you one thing I'd never vote Tory!
So take up your mantle and light your spark,
Express your beliefs and make your mark.
But know that the values you have created,
Are progressive to some, to others outdated.

So work to your own ideology,
Even so, be wise to its fragility.
For in language of critical pedagogy* -
We're yet in naive transitivity.
For are we passive recipients, paying our own kind of retribution -
Or are we empowered participants, making an active contribution?
And while those at the top make wild proclamations,
We search and await our own Revelations.
And Russell Brand on the screen tells us not to vote*,
And this is the crux, this the zygote -
Where's your stand, is it well-advised?
The revolution will not be televised!*

For a panacea does not exist,
The antidote not to merely persist.
No unified truth,
No concrete proof,
No black and no white,
No quick answer in sight,
No categorical imperative*,
No lets face it, it's all relative,
No reality and no illusion,
No way it seems to draw a conclusion.

And we're trying to heed the call, to right the wrong,
To lover, friend, citizen, we don't belong.
And someone's encouraging you to consume,
Claiming it will remove you from this vacuum.
And the clothes on our back from a high street chain,
We know its maker's loss was our quick gain.
But it's all okay 'cause we signed a petition,
So to their suffering that's enough recognition.
And the wars we see only on the screen,
Physically removed so our conscience is clean.
And the magazines tell us, we too could have fame,
That 15 minutes* of a trembling flame.
So soon extinguished and quickly disposed,
Ego thought nothing of soul exposed.
And we're taking pictures of moments not lived,
Picking and choosing from ones that we've sieved,
Then Instagram them for an improved look,
To tag them on virtual walls of Facebook.
And the truth of it in any case,
Is the people looking know your real face -
But this we quickly forget to attest,
When image is placed above all the rest.
Self-report distorted reality,
With all this how can we hope to be free?
Don't let the shimmers of your heart be lost,
Know that image-seeking comes with a cost -
In narrowing our own identity
We start to judge others all too freely,
And until with open mind we're each seen,
The best we can hope for is only to glean
A sense of a surface-only reflection,
For from the core we make a deflection.
We're a mere moment of evolution's cycle,
History we continually recycle.
And upper echelons of this hierarchy
Are too subject to their mortality.
How do you want your memory known?
It's yours for the taking, yours only to own -
It's easy in armchairs to politicise,
While living a life behind a guise.
But when we own our souls and our freedom is one
Then that, will be the biggest thing man has ever done.*

*'For a man not being reborn is surely dying' - Loving tribute/outrageous theft of Bob Dylan's words 'He not being busy born is busy dying' from 'It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)'

*'For in language of critical pedagogy, we're yet in naive transitivity' - Taken from Paulo Freire's theories - Freire was a ground-breaking Brazilian educator who designed several Manifestos and practices including the area of 'Conscientizacao'; or Critical Consciousness. Developing his method through working in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, Freire empowered people to re-consider their position in society from passive recipients of a systemic structure to active contributors of their context. (Seriously worth reading up on!) Booklist available here - Overview of Conscientizacao here -

*'And Russell Brand on the screen tells us not to vote' - Newsnight Interview here -

*'The revolution will not be televised!' Gill Scott Heron -

*'And the magazines tell us, we too could have fame, That 15 minutes* of a trembling flame' - Famous Andy Warhol Quote 'In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes', believed to be based on the theories of Marshall McLuhan - Brief info available here -

*'No categorical imperative' - Taken from Immanuel Kant's theory that proposed for a moral action to be permissible, it must be possible to apply it to all people without contradiction. - 'Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law'  Info here -

*'Then that, will be the biggest thing man has ever done' - Tribute to/direct theft from Woody Guthrie's 'Biggest Thing That Man Has Ever Done' -

Saturday, 19 October 2013

Ain't Got No Time For Poetry

Ain't got no time for poetry, 
When the days twist with monotony,
When the nights blend with mystery,
There just ain't no time for poetry.

Ain't got no space for viewing art,
Trying to keep it together, not indulge the heart,
Trying to keep things in place, not another false start,
There just ain't no space for viewing art.

Ain't got no use for politics,
They play their games and make their tricks, 
Knowing context ain't how I get my kicks,
There just ain't no use for politics.

Ain't got no need to philosophise,
To contemplate is only a guise,
Gotta keep progressing,  just avoid their eyes,
There just ain't no need to philosophise.

Ain't got no cause for feeling love,
I tried it once and took a shove,
The hand that gave always wore a glove,
There just ain't no cause for feeling love.

Ain't got no dream I need to live,
Do what I can, give what I can give,
It's myself I never learnt to forgive,
There just  ain't no dream I need to live.

Sunday, 15 September 2013

And The Trees in the Garden Danced

The trees in the garden danced,  
Swayed in motion of the breeze. 
And as the music crescendoed, 
Straying peace settled and eased.
Soothing doubts of this wandering soul, 
That has for too long been wondering. 
But for a brief moment was whole, 
And all was well for that moment. 

And the sound of plastic on wood, 

As make-up breathed its smile.  
For night's questioning dwindled in sleep, 
Its longing by morning  beguiled. 
But lonesomeness flutters as sun sets, 
And mingles with each care. 
Toxic bluster, solemn alchemy, 
Lingers and sparks the air.

Until sleepy eyes open once more, 

Heart learns happiness is of your own making. 
No matter who the heart adores, 
Dependence leads only to aching. 
For our contentment cannot dwell 
In external fragility, 
As each path brings sorrow and joy, 
Our fulfillment, our responsibility.

Yet as trees in the garden danced,
And flourished to trembling rise. 
I for a moment wondered, 
And ventured a look to the skies. 

Show Me The Room

Show me the room where you shut out the light, 
Laboured last hours in twitching glimmers. 
Of that fine day and many fine days. 
Show me the room, 
For I've only see the door. 

Show me the room where you laughed, teased and played, 

Idled away dark hours of winter nights 
Lifting spirits, soaring hearts. 
Show me the room,  
For I've only seen the door. 

Show me the room where you knew, 
That for you, the world had changed,

Events that struck, and inner struggle sparked, 
Show me the room,
For I've only seen the door.

Show me the room where you traced, 

And retraced tender steps. 
Searching infinite soul for finite wisdom, 
Show me the room, 
For I've only seen the door. 

Show me the room where your dreams were made, 

The foundations laid, 
For you lived many lives before me. 
Show me the room, 

For I've only seen the door. 

Show me the room for I've clambered a view ,

Through distorted windows, 
Twisting panes; concealing their pains.

Show me the room,
For I've only seen the door. 

For though I assume to know you
That's merely because I love you
There's many lifetimes in each soul,
Most of which we'll never know. 

Show me the room, 
Let's open the door. 

Monday, 9 September 2013

The Connemara Mountains

Shadows chasing mountains,
Sweeping snatches of each moment. 
Of world embossed on world,  
As clouds flee the mighty skies.  
Fleeting and free and inextricably bound.
A panorama of stillness,
Only the lark ventures to speak,
 And her song the only sound 
Through silent stones and content souls.
Whispers of hopes and dreams, 
And of beliefs and doubts,
Honest trembling, whispering breeze,
Freshens face and heart. 

Shadows chasing mountains, 
Sweeping snatches of each moment.
Of all worlds in one world. 
And all dreams of one.
And the mouth speaks the language 
Purely transcribed from heart,
For stillness somehow echoes, 
And ventures into spirit. 
And the dreams awaken, 
Ancient as the rock, 
Renewed, reborn, reemerging,
Their realising not so far.

Saturday, 24 August 2013

Remembering Imaginings

William Blake

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” 

 -  William Blake

Biochemically speaking, 
(Which isn't often, personally speaking.)
Memory and imagination are the same,
Well this I found  a wonderful claim!
For some memories appear as if imagination's stirrings,
Indeed some imaginings send memory a whirring.
And down the crooked corridor of broken dreams,
The light buzzing and crackling having lost its beam,
Drifting through the cobwebs of each cell of  mind,
The imaginings remembering, dreams left behind.
Now picturing Huxley speak of mind at large,
Collective consciousness swiftly taking charge.
For in his own private experimentation,
Previously unknown realms started to awaken,
Quoting Blake's 'Doors of Perception' to further define,
And his findings went something along the following lines -
In our daily lives we perceive solely,
Necessary signals, not mind at large wholly.
But when cerebral functioning is reduced,
A new state of consciousness is induced,
Where facets not pertaining directly to existence,
(And we've learnt therefore, to meet with resistance,)
Are released, manifest and unfold,
Stirrings of told combined with untold,
And we are mind at large collectively,
Remembering all, seeing all through connectivity.
So then we are inherent in all moments of the past,
And in all moments yet to come now approaching fast.
And that through this; all is indeed in all -
This brings to mind a Hindu idea I now recall, 
For atman; the soul; the inner or true self,
 Meets Brahman; pure consciousness; the Supreme Self.
So add to that imagination and memory are the same,
Ultimate unity seems not such a distant claim. 
For to every person at all times we're implicitly connected,
Not solely to distinct people we have elected.
And all are all and of all and in all.
Infinite potential in each one of us all. 

All Will Be With You Yet

When your heart is set, 
And your mind is stirred.  
Bow leaps as arrow soars,
The dream is in sight. 
When your mind's eye drifts,
And future flashes,
Forward to your hopes,
And you're sowing the seeds, 
Planting and yielding, 
Dreaming and planning,
Working and hoping, 
And hope breeds further hope.
For today's aims,
Are tomorrow's celebration.
Now rolling with the waves, 
Where you're being directed, 
And know all you're giving will never be lost. 
Though it may not form the picture of your mind's making, 
The fabric of the picture it will form will be of the same forms. 
For side roads appear on the great highway of fate, 
And things may take a wandering venturing drift, 
But there's not just one route that leads the way, 
For it's bringing you ever closer, 
To your natural place.
And hope breeds further hope, 
For today's aims, 
Are tomorrows celebration. 
And it will come, all good things will come.
All will be with you yet.

Sunday, 18 August 2013

Monet's Water Lilies

Monet painted Water Lilies; a vast collection of artworks in his latter years in order to immortalise his beloved garden. He was, by that time, suffering with cataracts, and as well as his general vision becoming increasingly limited, was completely colour-blind. Despite this, he managed to produce the wonderful, and now world-known series of paintings.

Paint strokes to canvas in a vast collection,
Artwork stirring a profound connection.  
For through his last years brought his garden to view,  
Precise and painstaking recreation as new.  
And cataracts meant eyesight was quickly to fade,  
Reading labels on paint jars to ensure the right shade.
Yet the beauty he transcribed is ours now to see,  
His great accomplishment through adversity.  
Vivid and fragile and detailed and pure,  
A reminder there's nothing we cannot endure.  
Leave our mark on the world despite challenges faced,  
We deem them our weakness; perhaps they're our grace.  
So know that your dreams are yours for the taking,  
And the life that you have is of your own making.

Monday, 5 August 2013


The great mystical thunder rolling, leaping flashes overhead
Lightning streaking skies so you stumble from sleep-struck bed. 
You feel that trembling heat calm, with awakened breeze, 
And the lungs expand, breath deepens with a fresh-discovered ease. 
The calm had clung and hung, with a heaviness of heart.  
But marveling the skyline now, the storm's great work of art -  
For humidity had struck, 
And the mind had somehow stuck, 
And we'd lost the sense of ease, 
Several moments never seized.  

The great mystical thunder rolling, leaping flashes overhead, 

Lightning streaking skies clears heavy heart and confused head.  
So blow it away, 
Blow it all away,  
Blow this all away, 
Throw it all away. 
For you can revisit, 
But you can never change it -  
The shadows of the past, 
The shadows of your past,  
The shadows that have passed,  
The shadows how they last.  

The great mystical thunder rolling, leaping flashes overhead,  

Lightning streaking skies,to now each moment led. 
Let the lightning blast the sky,  
Let the bolts descend on high, 
Let the air be true and clear, 
And let the earth revere.   
Let the heavens open, sending forth a mighty rush, 
Let the rains fall in torrents and the earth be cooled to hush, 
Let your soul be flooded, cresting wave on turbulent sea, 
Let your flesh awaken and your spirit to be free, 
Let go of the ego and venture to live in fear, 
For safety is an image and image a thin veneer. 
Let the storms blast the landscape, 
And imagination roam, 
And let us all find cover in the place we can call home.

Cuts Make A Resounding Success

And so I heard provision is cut, 
And soon we saw it, for every cause has an effect.

And so I heard services are cut, 
Contracted work, 
And soon we saw it, for every cause has an effect. 

And so I heard the police force are cut, 
Man power, 
And soon we saw it, for every cause has an effect.

And then I heard the level of 'recorded' crime has decreased, 

And they called it a resounding success,
In the place we deny cause and effect.

Seeking Perfection

We look to perfection to epitomise our yearnings and legitimise our journeys.
We speak of perfection as an end-result, a change, a journey-point to which all things are headed.
We seek perfection and believe it to be immortalised and permanent.
Indeed we find perfection -
Though only in echoes, glimpses, and fragments - Transitory and ephemeral.
Subject to the same fragilities, circumstances, perceptions, time and constant changes we ourselves are.
Change; The only true permanence.
We speak of perfection and know nothing of its aesthetic.
Entirely subjective and even in each subject; ever-changing.

Change; the only true permanence.
So tonight, let’s not speak of perfection, let’s speak of acceptance

Thursday, 18 July 2013

The Shape Of The Poem

The Poem is shaped much like the soul,
Intangible, indeterminable, indefectible.
Its remnants echo in mind for a time,
Its phrases turn to tongue for a time,
Its message churns in gut for a time,
Its necessity burns in heart for a time.
Until the poem itself decides it is time.

And so it must be, swarming and settling,
A potent liquid that warms, excites and frustrates.
Leaving hues of colour behind.
And sometimes it ceases.
Its movements undetectable,
Its phrases forgotten,
Its impact swaying,
Its punch lost.

And sometimes it re-emerges
Its movement swathing, swarming,
Intoxicating, all-consuming, 
Demanding ‘Now I must be heard’
Demanding ‘I am ready to speak now’
Demanding ‘If you don’t listen I will disperse and be lost’
And that is when the pen must be held tight 
By whomever the seed of poetry has been implanted.
It’s not a process of writing per se
Not in the way we like to say

The poem sends sparks on to paper,
The penholder merely the instrument of its release.
And it speaks clear and loud,
It choses its structure as it choses its points.
Carefully but fearlessly,
It’s no process of rationality.

The penholder strikes the paper,
Etches the traces of its formation.
And it speaks quickly, hurriedly, softly.
Then stops.
And with that the poem is finished.

Its shape on the page - 
A mere reflection of the essence,
For it has long been forming, 
Growing and evolving.
It has consumed many different shapes 
And forms since birth,
From liquid to stone.
From mind to soul.
The poem is a shapeless wonder,
The poet, constrained by shape; enraptured.