We’re as fixed as anything else in heaven,
You can’t use douters on black holes or stars;
Why try placing Cornwall east of Devon,
We’re constant as Phobos orbiting Mars.
No end to hearings heard by eleven
Coroner cloud-gods in black cortège cars;
Bones have feelings, and our bread will leaven,
Our teeth cut with stuff from atomised scars.
See these bones, barely ossified rocks,
Set in their place by the Goddess of Clocks,
Ligaments moulded millennial rocks;
Even space can’t contain these lost aftershocks.
When leaving life to imagining death
We demean depth from our one daily breath.
Love you suffused me, such measures outpoured
For my soul’s carafe of old dusty clay,
Your immortal drink surpassing Time’s cord,
I lay back and sipped from the brink of May.
Spirits inveigled, delighted we teased,
Casting adrift with a parasol shade,
Love’s wine’s inundated ewers and eased
The hollow vessel, with grapes coloured jade.
I’m intoxicated; let years slumber;
Form’s commandeered and you’ve nourished my soul,
Close all weirs from West-Wales to the Humber,
I cannot return to Lands of the Toll.
The reasons for emptiness you revealed,
Your Love, like lava, inside me is sealed.
To any sons thriving without Dads around,
For any sons finding their Fathers curtailed,
If minds to paternity had they bound,
This poem’s the sorrow they should have mailed.
Don’t traduce, you’ll reduce future power
From the weakness deep in their fleeting heart;
Wordings within time’s woodland and bower,
All’s born anew, your chance to re-start.
Understand now, as it’s written in acorns
Formed from dead oaks, beyond golden sokes cropped,
Less are the heroes, more troubled by thorns,
Better ahead, than before the yoke dropped.
Settle their debtors within and there’s peace,
Unfurled from success, all debts will then cease.
Less the requirement for tablet or shed,
Poetry’s gardens are seeds in your head;
Daily distractions will chatter and chase,
All their dull efforts, one rhyme will replace.
Minutiae delights, heaven’s your ceiling,
Don’t hide from your self, hardships revealing;
You don’t need a war for a war poetess,
Injustice and conflict sow your success.
Your heroes don’t live in scripts or a screen,
Your heroes prevail inside you unseen;
Don’t over-bake, or burn with keen edits,
Don’t wait for their praise, the obverse discredits.
More words you’ll intuit, let the free world fight,
Follow terms for your self, and freely write!
The time for sunlight to reach my old desk
Finds all people equal, cursed and the blessed;
The time for blood in my dreaming arm clots
Is your favourite song in twelve bar knots.
Our time to choose stairs, or elevator,
To views of Rome where many years later
Alone I returned, with my bag of regrets;
The time stays silent, with words never said.
The time for walking towards my gallows,
And judges drowned in red-rising shallows;
The time of pens to write a brief letter,
Gifts to a friend you have feeling better;
The time we lost for a bomb to explode
Should be time re-wired, to write this new ode.
We faked creation, misled the west trees,
Defrauded white horses and hoarded the sea,
Wild continents crashed, enforced marriages,
Better for writing, than one memory.
The bitter gale feigned, and bluffing the frost,
Old errors cursed, now the rubble’s not lost,
Latched on my cells as we turned and we tossed,
With counterfeit scales, love’s wage inflates cost.
With cattle I’ll talk, and prattle with dogs,
Weightlift in forests with woodcutter logs,
Blue kiss reduce me to spawn of the frogs,
Better for verses, love’s lapsed in life’s fogs.
If I could replace a shelf or a tyre,
I’d write with less time and lesser desire.
When returning, ride returning stronger,
When you stay, please stay a little longer;
The hearts of your new path will peal their bells,
Don’t dress your words for words don’t walk on shells.
Subdue blades of blue contemporaries,
You’re viewed with pride from our Hesperides;
You overcame the pitfalls of the second spells,
Exhumed the runes of youth from ancient wells.
History held out their liability,
Unbeknown, all the batons were empty;
The words from their spaces came tumbling down,
To write of rings and a white wedding gown.
So when you stay, rest a little longer;
May Love’s horse return you, ever stronger.
This fulfilled beauty, this natural love,
Born neither below nor pitched from above,
Our touch brewed crows to bonding froths of doves,
From dandelion roots bloom bright blue foxgloves.
We find more time as our figures entwine
Than decades slipped through abysses divine,
Love’s wide as the soul of a Shinto shrine,
Twenty-two heavens had heralds align.
Fourth walls flood open, diurnal delight,
Liberating souls imprisoned by night,
Fifth columnists diaspored out of sight,
We are free to gauge the depths and the height.
Suddenly lost, fragile heart-fever field,
Seeds on a breeze, bronzed a sword and a shield.
The barren bones of a poem inside me,
Some people have got it, and some have not;
I exhumed the soft tune of a sonnet,
Some people want it; most poets forgot.
I dress the dead metre with words and wax,
Our patrons in the palace were shot;
There are no survivors of their syntax,
Their betrayers reworked each person’s plot.
My adversaries expurgated wit
By blackly burning the books of my life;
Mistaken, my imagination lit,
The embers gave birth to a blue midwife.
This is the poem, newborn on my bed,
Where words and verses and whole worlds bled.