Beneath the constellations,
I see myself walking away.
from my dreams.
Wet leaves fly around,
like blossoming lies
performed each day.
Each leaf no more than
a pantomime promise.
And as my bold blood bleeds.
Young leaves peep
and see an unpraised poet.
No longer burnt by the sun,
or afraid to dance alone.

After the football,
I wrote down some words.
My answer to many things.
A lone mosquitoe
buzzed by and
asked me the score.
But I wasn’t
really interested.
And outside,
the sky seem to hang
upright… and uptight.
It was starting to think
about reasons to be cheerful.
I did all I could to help.
In a temple of thought,
I told the sky just to stand.
That is enough.

Lights flicker in and out,
along with faint gods.
Each still dreaming
of days gone by.
I think to myself,
who can tease out
another’s soul.
Or the songs of the oceans,
still labouring in vain.
You have your
charcoal universe,
and I have my words.
Through which
the flowers can
still be seen.

I wonder how
a summer breeze
can drive away
the rainclouds?
And make peace,
above this sickness.
A fading, a flowering
and then a sacred spirit.
As a spirit, I shall seek
and roam this
delight of flowers.
And know that my
life and journey,
has just begun.

The sky can be violent,
or still with no pattern.
Shouting at everything,
like a processed dog
tangled in pain.
Or soft and gentle,
like the dark wings of night.
Both sides drawn back,
I cling to your soft love
and heat of your lips.
One glorious flower,
in these bruised
and burnt days.

A morning misted view,
turns from me.
All around a
chrysanthemum chorus,
a sweet song of
non-attachment.
The only chance
to cast out the
autumn wind.

Ash and ash,
a debt paid to life.
The fields are
scarcely visible,
and clouds are
floating low.
Yet, in the distance,
sunlit silence –
a slow turn again to life.
This is the way we came,
and the way we go.
I cup my ears,
to hear the magpie call.
Something to comfort
me, or another.
An endless fountain
of immortal hope
and laughing souls.
From the day of my coming,
until there is nothing in it.
Day after day.

Although your voice,
has long ceased to flow.
Your beauty and love,
are still within my memory’s ear.
In the distance I see you singing,
that glow beside the sea.
Then, I know again that
nothing is so sad and grey.
And my life  and verse
still a chance to be.

Surely the morning sun,
I thought….
would melt away
many kinds of suffering.
And gently smile the heavens.
But the feast of the dead,
still lingers – dancing
over withered fields.
How long will this go on?
Tendered by your love,
my depths are still greater.
A new spring growth,
looking inward then outward.
And never walking the
universe alone.

The blossom’s colour
is washed away,
down the street drain.
Far off across the bay,
the waves alone draw near.
With overwhelming might,
muffling joy with sad rage.
But I am surrounded
by white bloom,
and the depths of your eyes.
That sparkle in a sky of light,
burying the shadows
and stifling laments.
Enough to keep
another returning dawn.