A Passing Morn Of Sage

Pt. 1, A Bird In Death 


Over days, a bird so risked in joy                                                         Come windswept over everything again                                             Eternal flight into a quick release                                                         And land on the broken ground below                                                 Dark but quiet, brave but overwhelmed                                             Softly ache into a passing morn of sage                                             From birth to full breasted twitting rage                                           Be damned cruel earth that gave him life                                           And took it easily without a sign                                                           Will for the beak of prowess be his light                                             And turn his death into funeral marches for those contrite.  


Pt.2, Old Bodies Worn Out 


Then a new light left its mark                                                                 Redeemers of the previously compassioned                                     Into eclipses shadowing the smiling sun                                           From when it grew up bright, and became                                         The mind’s fuel for a shallow sentence shared                                  No mist on a tongue, nothing on my feet                                           A passing morn of sage, hail for sweet relief                                     Old bodies gripping undertow in gradual escape                             Tired men captured in a cage of forlorn hate                                     Shouting like they would at teenagers so outpaced                          From the light of morning’s right, still alive but so decayed. 


Pt.3, Every World’s Answer 


An answer is a question in reverse                                                   We all have theories that we know are right                                 Such is passion for life and to our souls                                       These theories bind like plasters on a wound,                             Keep the cut safe for a while but ultimately rot                               Away with time. Make up everything if you like                             Through lack of stress, i shall digress.                                           Every world’s answer comes with a million clues,                             A millions clues you do not use                                                       For that would paint a picture quite untrue                                   And salvage nothing out of your excuse                                           A passing morn of sage, come rescue in the haze                         And all the questions laid, come answered by the dawn of day.




Cooler Near The West Coast

Then a gentle forest spruce waving by the back fence, towers over the hanging clothes, hung out there to dry. Like protectors watching every move as if waiting for earth to douse its cause in flames or more eloquently, showers. Take its cloth from the fabric of this day and offer it to more exclusive virtues and displays.

Pine needles, never fully placed, stalking clouds for the streamless air, lift up into its turn, stay there through bottomed out landscapes left threadbare. Whence yesterday’s July had blazed a trail and sizzled its Summer into the sun’s deep face, then today’s new morning broke the clouds and buried its grey over all around.


Slight and calmer, mourned and colder, flickering drops of rain come closer, to the sound of wallowing near seasoned shores, for this day and forever more. What deeper gardens could withhold, the drying clothes and calmer cold, to generate its perfect strength in overcoming anything. To let a breeze exhale and bring, its touch to skin and human things. To weave its taste on a mouth that waits, standing in the middle state. 

From North West where Atlantic shakes and trashes its 6ft unbroken waves against the cliffs and against the land, to freedom to it will stand. A wind out there such hurtful hate but inland seldom seems the same. Thankful for its quieter stride and cleaner cut from every side, precious as a sleep at night, lovely as its sweet delight. When Summer skins us raw and rare, we peel our bodies til they’re bare. Until the West Coast takes its place and cools with mid Summer sea soft air. 

A Rose That Opened Up In Bloom.

A Rose that opened up in bloom                                                                  As a flower full of life’s enthuse                                                                    In every garden and every womb                                                                  Became the light of land’s recluse

A May of waiting for the day                                                                      To drink its torture and decay                                                                       From what toil would us so contain                                                             Through our shaking hands and face                                                            

A Rose that opened up in bloom                                                                 Had poisoned petals grown for two                                                               Twin tongues taste, me then you                                                                       Drink our last days into June.  

Gothic Apartments

Lined up along the streets like shepards seeing refuge from the unforgiving storm. An approachable wasteland buried in lead and felt tip pens, stretching out onto moderate sidewalk designs. Fashion emblem set against the sliding sun, forever in the shadow of the blazing heat. Outside walls slightly unclean, half made artwork, the letter V, Who knows what it really means? Maybe Vision or the TV program even? 

Tasted bins arching under a bathroom window by the alley, the smell of fresh fruit and rotting vegetables, the lick of lizards scaled in skin, camouflaged into windowsills with face unique instilled. The crawling of a thousand fleas from between the concrete cracks into a flash of dustbin trash. A grateful guide to the underworld ant collection this city does put forth. Diseased but never daunted, inescapable from gothic apartments, almost haunted.

 Flowing skyward in delicate remorse, each brick layered into a disguising vacuum. Awkward and rare, a temple to the magnitude of modern living. Only in cool houses can true art grow. Talk and musing from opened windows, 4th floor architects talking chemistry, the remains of a cultured tapestry ill-fashioned. 

Strong buildings lined up along the streets like vultures picking at the bread left for other birds. Pasted into its shell in antique victimless excess. A monument for wishing to vague stardom or something less important. A weak spot on a city’s soul, a blast of adrenaline so forced. Take us to gothic cravings, sanitized and sold, take us to our once great city, now so sad and old.  


Simple As Roses

I never met a man so beautiful as myself, so without the vaguest sin or a glass half empty ever. I never knew a man so perfect as was me, the bravest soul when danger came, left its door ajar and screamed. Sublime and only for an arrowed rhyme, kind and for my people try, they need me, why would I decline?

I never saw a man as simple as a rose, with thorns elect on all his stems, striking back and forth. I had but only looming dread of sight, I never knew a man who could fill with such delight. As was me and all I need, to pick the voices from obscene and lay them out on tasteful wreaths, a man as simple as a rose that bleeds. 

I never was a king, but only for I couldn’t sing. A talent made for only two, me and my other you. An alter ego barely any ego altered, pleasant lived and loved within the caucus, his soul exhaulted. I never was a lonely boy for I had so much inner joy, as If I care what others thought, I was just a perfect boy.

I never felt sad and lost or so alone without a cause. A perfect man, a perfect boy can only in their minds rejoice. Whispers sure but never talked, too good for them, I swear not lost. Who cried for wolf, once so long, was then a boy but now a man and still the wolf is howling on, I once was great but once is gone.  

 There is more than a hint of sarcasm running throughout this poem! 

A Sonnet : Elegance

A kind of beauty in everything                                                                                                       A faster walk from strangers                                                                                                        Of movies, men or anything                                                                                                     Can resist what is forever dangerous                                                                                            A sandy cove of security                                                                                                            On a beach so reckless and willing                                                                                       Hyper destroy our maturity                                                                                                          By victim response, oh so thrilling                                                                                           Come elegance, grace or perfection                                                                                      Come positive noise, over-thinking                                                                                            Has made our souls, sure acceptance                                                                                     And helped us with each new decision                                                                                     Sleek and terrific, that which was made                                                                                     Has a kind of perfect beauty, always maintained

Victorian Orchards

Swept away by mid-May shining, a worker picking apples by the brook. Elegant, gentle River’s edge flowing sweetly through the grind as he plucks the richest ferment forever. Sturdy and strong, perfect green and glistening overflow the strength of his holding. So much to be thankful for, so much Summer to love and cherish, colourful and pretty, falling over itself to avoid its conquest. 

The sun setting, cast by Eastern English hills and fawning through the layered branches to plume a shaving in the ground. A light that gloriously creeps its manoeuver all around and shakes the day  into a vast array of great endeavour. Tiresome toil, but worthful work for clever hands, pillaging the orchard of its plain but dandy skirmishes. 

He takes a youthful break for afternoon’s quiet teasing and playfully drops his feet into the River’s settling. Trouser bottoms rolled up to his knees and woollen socks cast aside like would the uneaten apples from a tree. Swaying back and forth, the running water dancing through his toes, between the bloom and banks of a riverbed perfume. Recharging its current to softly tred onwards, further South to meet another stream and brow. But for this moment and but for now it passes through this worker’s hour.  

Escape the clutches of its trickled passion, he returns to picking appled heaven. The most noteworthy fancied flock of a moment, the caressing of their softened peel in his hands, the undertaking of its decree by chance. To the gravity some shall go, falling to the ground below, the ground which swallowed up the sun and its shaving between the branches won. 

Cherry ripe, more work for the wanted, a finer detail for the land owner’s harvest. Corn fields of Victorian landmarks, await in fullest energy and example to be taken wild and lurid, sweet and breathless, this orchard repossessed and restless. Untamed by nature and everything unfolding skywards, only wounded by the apple picker’s anguish. 

He takes each one home, back to his land owner’s ravished soul. To feed a family or to eat alone, in their nourishment of gold. So bare but then become anew, to rise again its plenty fruit, the trees and land that were seduced for grazing infinitely through. Had Summer felt what was there, when firm hands gripped its neck and held becoming fortune in his tortured grip and took its orchard by the River’s edge.  

I would have quite liked to have lived in old Victorian England. Pleasant.