Willing on the wind
to lift and reveal itself above
rolling turbulence that dances
down upon our area of earth
wrought through heavy blocks
fragile upon a railing world
of wailing rhythms, set sequences
of cause and consequence
a line cast, faintly hauling a heart
higher - a forgotten desire, to be
wholly tugged upon, drawn up
and out into spirals
limited only by angles, seeing
the world from another place,
emotion with another face, this time
and the last … where next?
it's a boundary between nothing
and nobody, air is where the mind
sets free from set ceilings to unbound
feelings… to dreaming.
There is a magic in the colour
set sail upon the other cover of a finely
written line up arching through holding
forces, a hug up on the air around us.
All a loss, when up on the whirl of wind
should we flounder, to fall fast and sharp
upon our answer or broken by a question
all a lesson, learning curve to lessen.
Contact, with a world up there
ahead of us, regardless of our actions
to tame or name it …
A break down
a shatter cry of exasperation
at the edge of elation.
An awkward doorway
unfitting, twisted, heavily painted
yet securely embracing a single
dimension springboard.
After watching, waiting,
taking a break from the excellence
of reality - to see fleeting memories,
projected enemies, berated
places of all elements within
worn outwardly, upon a certain
freedom of expression, granted
flicker fast gyrations, by light.
A crashing cushion of night
softly shadows the edge into
eternity, to follow
clawing inside hollow tree trunks,
rasping at the roots of branches,
eating at the soft underside of bark,
biting at animals, crawling
we are revolting, flailing works
of our own imagination, when we
separate ourselves from creature.
An unending agony, is to see
against all intrusive odds - of words,
of works, of state and church
a carol, hymn - i wish my heart
would sing.
To see apart from all that's given
a delicate part in the layers of the strange
veils reign,
journeys that crave to remain,
never the same.
Eternity is an endless knife edge
a path across it, shot through blood,
into our life course, DNA.
When faith wanes,
that the world is there.
When life threatens
to slip away within.
There is a crack
upon the ground, should
you ever fall - a split in
the fine veil of skin between
head, bone and brain.
We know these things
as facts, yet increasingly distant
seems reality, when we dare
not scream out, about life -
in our dreams.
It is a thundering, foul weather -
a cloud that reaching up, may
display it's dark underbelly,
boiling with rage and killing
the horizon.
There is no going back then,
across the bay. So we stumble,
run a little, work at it and whirl -
away an hour, an hour more.
Confronting the cloud -
is to see through it. To allow it
over and roll right under with
the understanding that life
is you standing, firm in it's
fold.
We were all given breath
by death's dark hold, over
the chances of every creature
that bore before, our genetic
imperative… to go on.
Our way, is life expressed
across eons of death - a dark canvas,
with an intensity of brightness that
shakes on eternity with such harsh
contrast, as to simply be.
A diamond sharp, swung blade,
blazing down through grey mists
a part of it - to break through
beyond undreaming, into life
I know what in time
will come to hurt,
is strength and purpose
gone before their worth.
Alone.
In realising this
at heart, it all feels pointless -
the beating out of pathways
through many networked veins.
A cowardly face, retained
and trained to bravely fade away.
Remains.
Casting back our value
is such a fleeting memorial -
to pay for more, escape.
Esc.
Simply to chase down, around
and drown in our own escapism,
our entertainment prison?
Division, comes when we take chances
to find out where our own romance is.
Neglect the lines we have been given
and draw the rails up and out across
the sky, with freedom, with feeling
rushed without direction. Flush
with raw reflection and falling out
of all of fashion, all reaction …
it's just a tragic crash of wasted cash.
Storms will come.
Worlds will fall, remould and form
the warmth of blankets rolled around us.
A burning double helix of infinite intention
ploughs on through and past us, without us
and all devoutness to any cause or friction -
a mere warp among the hefty weft of time.
When we break the machine,
we call a child to our fallen shuttle
we plead with obvious fears
and deafening dangers
to hear our endless anger.
Reminder.
To change our lives all ways, for the better
of all ways and options open to us.
in it's demise, in it's entirety being,
edged towards the edge of vulgarity
and falling in, enveloped within,
holding tightly - burning brightly,
but without fire or light or any retreat
from the clamp-down of laws,
governing who and what is yours …
pulsing, purple - pounding ripples
within, descending into a whirlpool
of ignorance, cherished indifference
victoriously withdrawn from the world
of worlds beyond our making
Loving the solitude,
loving the clarity, the vision
the stark reality of a world unbound
by any sense of purity, but creating it constantly
by tooth and by claw.
Save me from your fears.
Remove your foul of reality - a goldfish
alone in a perfectly clear bowl, in a world
of nothing but endless white.
I take no delight in your blindness.
Open your eyes, and see the world's wonders,
then wonder again at the "How?" and the "Why?", knowing
that what little you may ever know will never be enough
to encompass it all, everything that is, the wonder.
You're calling "Y", when you have the answers,
preprepared, engrained and instilled - that's a lie.
Nobody knows, and we all are equally qualified
to make our own blind judgements, or those based on
instinct, gut feeling, intuition or reason - even feelings
for freedom to be and drift and dream.
No, to your limitations and eternal commandments.
No, to your threats of endless pain and damnation.
No, to your presumption that there is only need and anguish.
Yes, to loving life as it is … wonder full,
eternal to us in it's darkest reaches, fleeting in it's brightest
flashes of crazy fancies - delightful and powerful
frightening and unforgiving
our narrow vision, time scale and sense crushed by immensity.
We had a lovely gentle chat today,
about being unknowingly led to pray.
"You have to put your hands together,
hold them up like this. Say thank you,
to ..a mystified look.. for the food we eat."
My son is only four, he does not properly know
how to say the word 'God' or 'Lord' let alone know
what it means - why ever should he know?
I say to him as he shows to me,
it is just a thing you do in school,
a quiet time. A time to join in,
… but to think for yourself.
Take that time, as I used to in school
to quietly think for myself.
Quietly, calmly - every day.
It tastes insidious. Positively poisonous -
To the loving of all of life …
I tell him about all the dinosaurs, animals, the sharks,
fossils and his poster of the "Tree of Life" topped
by a man … Charles Darwin.
Are we, two-ways, drawing a child's keen attention
across a forever riven world? So it is and so it is, all ways
given to all - ways of knowing, thinking, deeply feeling
revealing. There is no choice, in truth,
rejoicing, praising, singing …
"Claude?" I ask, but he does not know …
… he trusts, as he trusts "Bob the Builder" to be
innocent, educating, exuberant and funny, only words.
He does not know.
I explain that 'some people' look up to a someone -
a kind of person or man … a "god" - up in the sky.
A man who made everything, who looks down on us
and everything - and who looks after all things.
I tell him his Baba does not agree, or believe in this man,
that he does not need to worry or take it too seriously,
there is no big plan or anyone looking over,
no laws or orders from anywhere other than ourselves.
The nature of time,
blind to tomorrow, in
anything but the mind.
Eternity is behind us.
Holding our place here
is one long, sharply darkening and decaying arm -
life desolving easily within our emotional depth,
yet fired up into our vibrant living souls
through legions of fallen bodies
before us
torn material, cracks in the earth
a shoot of life among the monsters
of death, dragging down with a force
so shockwave hungry, that it burns
with wetness, worming its way
chewing and churning inside and urging,
by evolving, us.
The workhorse of worlds, revolving -
for nothing can stop now - eternity turning
the timepeice of mine, onto my wrist
and I am learning
the earlier, it leads me to drink
at the fire and brimstone edge
of a torn up world - of whirling dread,
only I can see it now, from here
as fresh, blood red, raw and evolving
Quantum Physics, fostering two steps,
away from the blind of the blur of the mind.
A particle, article, wave while apart across
spaces and places in time outside mine, a joining
adjoining, work without worlds of a whirling fabric,
of space and of time unshared, but rapid
rhythms of distances blistering to the listening.
Outside quenches the inside, whirlpool dropping
words torn into mysteries meaning less than the oceans
abounding to the call crushing negativity, with positivity
beyond the event horizons of everyones reckoning,
lessoning the yearning for more of the sharp edging, towards more,
of the truth - that ruthless pursuit - breakless, reckless, wayward
and more than worthy of a whole world's financial salute.
cast a net across the sands
of times we have not seen
for the freedom of our minds
to rest and rhyme with fallen leaves
a world revolving
keeps on turning with narrow wheels upon the ground
while the heavy hands of man are blurring skies, burning lives
faintly swerving, but are we so deserving,
of all the cargo we can carry?
so hastily the narrow lines are swept up
around the wide wheels of our machines - that
drive us too, that supply our food
so are we all to blame for chasing down
the rain and seasons, demanding more and more for less
and now
the buckling of narrow wheels around the
grinding cause of our global catastrophy to come
causes nothing less than a full reaction
a brutal shock of screaming brakes and broken paint
a loss of everything sacred, of all direction
of all beauty and face, style, substance and grace.
our cause is chased down
to the freshly scratched earth,
ground in oil - tasting of the end.
nobody can make amends or bend the facts,
but knowing that it goes on does not stop
you dying, crying, heart stolen by a stupid world
wildly ignorant of the causes
rewards without feeling for the freedom
to wander and whirl through the air, fresh and unfocused
upon anything but the minimal journey without impact
and getting there to a place where
dreams lay unbroken by the engine.
so a poignant, powerful vision
is all that is left, that life
snatched so cruelly
might return a regret for our own neglect
Without one single word given me,
I cannot justify putting any more into print.
My time is spent here, now mourning among the thin
lines of my own making. Lost of any cause
or relief from an awful truth. One step removed,
one step back - jumping might do it,
it just might - but hold out
for the hand, to the man, with a call back to safety
don't be so hasty to judge this all fallen
flat
a glaring white sheet of fabric
a vast expanse of unimagined potential, casting no shadow
folding over corners in nobody's mind.
Forget it.
An abrupt black glob of oily ink, reflecting blue, tasting
naked of news but raking in memories of the
crunched up ends of chewed pens
nothing can make amends now
nothing can return the feeling of safety in numbers
of letters
of lines
or words, reworked and fine ... all mine - I and we all
are safe here, among our own chosen channels
be off among the worlds that do not abuse us,
away from those that do
and it will be quiet at the end of our day, a fueled silence
fallen over the sharp folds of life - smoothing, calmly,
softly, silently - seeping around our sores - isolating
Nothing, as it comes to me
is buckling under fire from me,
the higher I climb, treading over
broken stretches of imagination.
A violent stance here, all
alone.
Clasping the rifle of words,
guttering the ream or so, for knowing
the chance of being heard is blowing,
... in the take-away wind.
A hollow, rigid rhyming spell,
a dropping knell. A reminder of losses
I honestly must have known I would be baiting here,
and now I stop to openly stare.
Down the sights of our empty streets,
worn like a sick-bag. Thrown amid crumpled
cans and broken glass, paper, plastic, cardboard
food cartons - crawling, falling, spitting, rolling.
Calling out their attitude
a rotten, core gargle of rat-food and it's poison.
For no other reason, than it grasps outward when it gives,
at values drawn down to somewhere sweet and chased,
made so base with nasty haste.
I stand here, shaken by romance
while clasped tightly by my inaction - a lack of ability,
a common sterility - to boldly make the momentum pass
all inertially bound, undriven eyes - and yet
.... why would I want to call them over?
I do not. I will and must not faulter from my own falling.
For we are all free and calling out our attitude.
A dragon cast initial arm of iron,
stops anvil dead, the shattered blade of reason
before spitting it's jagged, sharp tongue
back at the notion of moving forward.
A glorious green, bathing in red
on white - for the fight, for the delight
of never changing colours among colours
or the politics of it.
The Atheist Bus in Tonyrefail, Rhondda Cynon Taff on Wednesday 7th January 2009
All we have.
Conspicuous at last,
a clean and simple message
inspires me to stand up tall
on a green metal bench -
'...that is my view across
Tonyrefail'.
My young son follows suit by my side,
for the shear fun of it, 'No!' to HIGH we two,
and it strikes me that this is it.
I am rejoicing it,
the first day and here it is.
A lifting from the cold,
over and past such hollow,
burnt-out decline. An unclean
world's calm reassurance that we can
do better - repair, clean up and hear our
inner sense of right and wrong.
It is more than the sight and sign of
the words alone, that crack this
wretched crime among thinking, sinking,
feeling, believing, seeing people ...
dreaming of escape - when this is
all we have - this is all of us
The inner archway
crashes about me,
my arms out stretched, straining,
bleeding. A crushing negativity
chews and grazes, past masking collapsing
- a cauldron of rasping.
Seemingly still.
A bubbling, silent, squashed jostling,
for some stance without chance of
ever rebuilding - a cleaving of meaning
from dreaming, less believing
and
seemingly still
I call without feeling,
into a void without needing.
Is it a foul of the air to speak
of freedom, to speak of differences
to speak of reason? Obviously it is -
obviously - without need nor call
for expression or a digression -
a lesson for time to tell us alone
and when
seemingly still
we wonder past the moment we are lost
of this life, will we be then last to know
the loss of all we have was worthless,
without reason, within a meaning
unseeing of our feelings,
our believing, our everything.
While seemingly still,
I know we all churn over a devotion
until a revolution, until a clarity
finds our vision and we latch on for the distance.
Resistance. A mission.
A Christmas. An infection. Rejection.
It is eternity that holds us on it's knife-edge,
twisting and turning - one stumble, one fall,
one step out into ...
Looking out across Tonyrefail at night,
there is a calm that is tightly held in place,
by the grid of warmly glowing lights;
a certain soft reassurance,
a passage through the black.
One street while bathed in moonlight,
an outline diamond-cut coldly by the stars and
one's reflected fire, lifting gaze;
a broken plain,
a temptation to desire.
There is a footstep on the moon,
a light that never made it home - a fire that at once
saw me but that will never know, or care;
a tunnel back through time,
a bleeding cry of ungiven light upon me.
I walk this passage, taken to me by the moments
everyone has taken before me, never really knowing
but always by ever going on - when abruptly;
a guided flight by fire,
a whirl of sharply crackling sparks
and I am cast up into the sky, my eyes almost seeing
the drop - fearing it - not knowing it's nature
but feeling it's nurture, falling into the shadows
I didn't see it. The line,
I was meant to have taken.
Washed away by my motion,
emotion. The rushing to an order,
said once by one with impact,
drove me higher...
drove me past her, fire.
Left crashing, into vastness...
you are nowhere too. Only the line
marks out my clever error. The
terror of having you near me, sees
me passing wishes with another,
movement within you, within me,
without you.
The envy burns, and I am higher.
The triangle slowly seeps into me
and seizes my soul. Impact...
and I am drawn to the point so more
savagely than all those now more
exquisitely aligned,
alone the line
