Artificial Atmosphere of Civilization


Listen to, breathe in and taste the pungent
where once music sang amongst the trees
where once the air invigorated
where once eating was real
and where each was once one’s own mind
but now
in this time of greed, futile deaths, global one-upmanships & scaremongerings
and the religious balloonings of creation
we are surrounded
by an artificial atmosphere of civilization
where trees are shrouded in tentacles of grease and darkness; their songs all but forgotten
where our lungs are attacked on a daily basis; antibodies scream in disgust
where chemical wrapped food tastes of food wrapped chemicals; painful temptation encroaches
and where what we think, what we are and what we believe is no longer ours …

in this artificial atmosphere of civilization, where only the perfect make the shelf

; sorrow begets perfection begets sorrow



With thanks to Achilles Daunt for giving me the title

this, December thing


As cobwebs grow while we sleep
so does this thing
this, December thing …

How it throttles, suffocates and destroys
how it becomes a pestilence within the silent beats of winter
this, December thing …

The emptiness of broken promises
echoes from the sorrows of children to the sorrows of
this, December thing …

How it settles within bones, upon skin and like a question of blood
how it envelops with its pretence of realism
this, December thing …

Each movement choreographed to make belief believable
while deep in the bowels of truth it festers
this, December thing …

How it seduces, enchants and dazzles
how its cosy fireside warmth births solicitous souls
this, December thing …

Like the chill of death’s cowl
it touches memories with sparks of things long gone, long lost
this, December thing …

How it breathes with such passion, beauty and an evanescence of time
how it reaches in to kiss with the sublime heaviness of falling feathers
this, December thing …


How I wish … but this … this December thing, cuts my soul to pieces …



the mist rolls
‘pon the leaves of time

it curls
‘pon the memory of thine
; reflecting eyes

the mist rolls
‘pon the leaves of time

it drifts
‘pon the embrace of thine
; spirit of life

the mist rolls
‘pon the leaves of time

it kisses
‘pon the softness of thine
; fragile grace

the mist rolls
‘pon the leaves of time

it breathes
‘pon the sunburst of thine
; innocent charm

the mist rolls
‘pon the leaves of time

it plays
‘pon this heart of mine
; thine magical tune of love beguiled

Kissed by your feet


In love with a traffic warden
with your slow walk of grace
and how you appear where I am not
and I appear where you are not
and then we both appear
to glance where we are not
looking at what we are doing
but at each other
and there with your grace
you stir my thoughts into a whirlpool of thoughts
but do I stir yours
or am I simply a blip on your radar
just a momentary glance before
you slow walk
along the concrete
which is being heated by the sun
kissed by your feet
and glanced at by your eyes
and away to the distance you go
where tin boxes receive the fullness
of your attentions
and the concrete is kissed by your feet

To be loved


… folded into your smile
falling into your heart
flying deep into your soul …

Is this a witchcraft
Is this a sunburst
Is this nothing but a crease in time

… how soft the wind blows between us
how sweet the fragrance of our moments
how sultry is the air after the rain …

Is this a dance
Is this a thunderstorm
Is this nothing but a forest fire of emotion

Is this a dream
Is this a dream
Is this nothing but a dream of wishful thinking

where nothing is real
where you are yet to be found
where to be loved by each single petal of your spirit’s flowering

is but an eternity away
for you are yet to be found
for you are nowhere
and yet
there are times when the trees
embrace me
when the sunrise
kisses me
when the moon
enchants me
and when the very air
seduces me

… I’m wishing it was you
wherever you are
and whoever you are …

I’m wishing it was you

The darkness of night’s embrace


Beak full
skipping through daisies and buttercups
the blackbird hurries along
till it reaches the spread of green
beneath mottled clouds
beneath the blue
of distant time

and there in the shadows
he rests and imagines himself an owl
sailing through the night
with silent wings
seducing the air with soft caresses
of feathered kisses
in the darkness of night’s embrace

and there
beneath the comfort of green’s sanctuary
he peeks out at the distant blue
with only a beak of orange giving him away
and there
off he goes
to fill his beak once more
to feed his children not only worms and caterpillars
but tales of mystery and imagination
of owls and the beauty of life

and there
as they drift off to sleep

whoo hoooo
whoo hoooo

in the distance
of their dreams
beneath the comfort of green’s sanctuary