Poems
Jupiter in Scorpio [poem]
on this strangely serene and glistering night
of distant echo sounds and noises nothingness
shuts tight its sleepless eyes and opens a door
to somewhere way beyond what fathermother
taught us lives behind its lantern-coloured
lintels or the splinters of its shiny self unhinged
restored clean-beamed and damascened
then gold from heaven’s alchemy was poured
(for such alluring doors can never be ignored)
The Miracle you’ve longed to see [poem]
Even though our (G.U.Inter)faces (more or less)
portray the same allotted format every day
[despite the fact that most of what we think
we are is nothing more than empty space,
yet doesn’t fall apart into another face!],
a large amount of secret changes happen there
(what we can call the realful cellsome underplay).
But let’s not put ourselves in stark denial,
hiding from the looking-glass’s awkward truth.
The telling time is coming all-too soon when,
looking in that hostile mirror at our eyes,
we’ll not escape that transformation comes
and instantaneously realise (with laughter,
dread or resignation, sighs, or shock, deflation)
that time {in all its retro raw unglory} f l I e s.
A Flag is just a Rag [poem]
Phonetically speaking…
it’s not too far to go from flag to rag.
But also in reality; for flags are rags
indeed, and only used to generate
the seed for war in this poor world’s
conditioned young, whose heroes true
and few and sane go every day unsung.
For rags is all these emblems are —
just signals from a dying age
upon a piece of colo(u)red cloth
about the way that countries
plunder one another’s goods,
behaving like no human being ever should.
Parading them in front of mindless armies
marching to their wasted deaths, just so
the ones who sent them reap their gold
disguising their exuberance behind
a mask of fulsome grieving so the parents
of the ones they sent unto their deaths
won’t lose their comfort (falsely bought)
from thinking that they didn’t die in vain.
(They did — but if those mums and dads
would understand that stark and icy fact
they could not tolerate the thought of such
futility & hopelessness in their parental pain).
Since when was Music an “Industry”? [poem]
Since when was music an “industry”?
Yes — oil, steel or pharmaceutery,
ship-building, hotels, textiles or military.
But music, as the food of love,
(the source of which is from above)
is not a money-grubbing tool
to line the dirty inside pockets
of those greedy 10%ing fools.
Music as an “industry” is so uncool!
The very term “to have a hit”
[or should I put an “s” in front of
that to make it what it really is?]
means dollar signs in greedy eyes
& ego-boosting of attention-whores
who masquerade as singers, artists,
f(art)ing out their billboard lies
while screwing influential folks who’ll
open all their once-were-bolted doors.
Cosmic Barbecue [poem]
So here he lies, washed up on farsome shores;
his ragged soul now grown in all its broken glory,
like a used & once-upon-a-time was-useful vessel
(dangling from a wizened mountain precipice
just by his fingertips alone, within his jaded story)
from another starfield light-year’s wayward world
which astronauted space seas’ crested foam,
manufactured from the sap of some galactic trees;
discovering he’d lost forever how to be at home,
destined from now on in hinterlands to roam.
I am a Fool [poem]
I’m always ever willing
to be judged a fool
for being vulnerable
acting uncool
for showing courage
seeing life as “school”
dreaming dreams
imbued with passion
sprouting deep salvific schemes
exuding love from every pore
giving much (then giving more)
and all for free (a natural law)
eschewing herds
inventing words
living alone and watching birds
walking on untrodden earth
(even where there is a dearth
of angels on the way)
The Evidence of Love in Grace [poem]
The more my years have multiplied,
the more I’ve come to realise
that even more important
than mere love
is grace.
For love is soon misunderstood
misused abused and trampled on
and has as many meanings as
its theatre actors choose to give,
who live by their escapist dreams,
believing pheromones, it seems,
and so much wanting to be loved
that they will heed whatever words
some cad will whisper in their ear
(for almost everything is ruled
by fear of death, abandonment —
which are the warp and woof of
all that stands between ourselves
and evidence of love through grace).
Romance is Dead (& Gone) [sonnet]
Romance is dead. Therefore, long live true love!
When all worth saying has been said, I raise
my hat and bow my head, remove the glove
which romance uses well to mask love’s blaze.
Romance, I now pronounce you dead and gone.
You once amused me with your froth and dreams
when I was young and hung my hat upon
a plethora of June-Moon-Spoonly schemes.
Live Dangerously! [sonnet]
Live dangerously! and grasp that nettle
by the leaves — the rose by its spiky thorns
(ignoring the allure of each petal) —
then grab the bullock by its gory horns.
Be sure you never quickly turn away
when darkness rears its ugly little head.
Walk naked straight into the maelstrom fray
regardless if it leaves you there for dead.
The Price of Perfectionism [poem]
There is a price to be paid for perfectionism’s
purple pros(e)aically prejudiced plume
which we can grownly assume is roughly equal to:
EITHER
ª The harsh disapproval directed one’s way
[for high expectations will always dismay
as low self-esteem and a lack of resolve
result in resentment, so none get involved!].
OR
ª The aloneness one has (dressed in freedom’s disguise)
[for almost the whole world will run for their lives
when they hear of the earnest desire to preserve
one’s nature unswervingly: “He’s got a nerve!”]
The Naked Troubadour 