Not mine

Not mine

Not mine

A rubble strewn sky

Diaphanous white handkerchiefs

Wind-blown. Shambling

Against the blue of hope and space

That forms a shroud for us

Not just to me

That aching distance

Has always been a dream

And conciousness is gravity

In our high-blown minds

That are anchored here. On the ground

Not just mine

The last thought

Before taking action

May be fatal

May be an inspiration

May be an epiphany

Not just to me





If I were handed ‘the’ book

Inscribed with the letters of my name

It would be a raggedy thing

With torn and missing pages

In parts, a mystery to me

More lament than history

Where glowing deeds are reduced

To blown ashes and curled corners

Of half remembered things

But I am learning

To fear not, or if, not, less

Because the actual day I inhabit

Contains the truth

So I make history stall

In order to build

Day by day

A fitting legacy

That even I would recognize





I live in beauty

I must

For squalid does for me

Closes me down and draws,

the curtains

on the envelope that is outside


I look for an essence of the infinite

In a caught moment

Then trap it in words

And celebrate

Because it all will pass by

In a lazy caravan of sighs


And so I sit

A recipient of bliss

Quiet with my gift

Not at all guilty

For I would share this

With anyone.

For eyes

For eyes

For eyes


I am witness. I am life.

Hunter. Gatherer.

Your very own all-action heroes

Two messengers to high command

That you exist in time and space

I am sight


I crease. I fade

I am another’s witness

For often I am truth

And I mutely signal

Distress or desire

However they are dressed


I am the arbiter of the light

You receive

Your watchman. A sentry

That hint for a smile

That mirror to shame

I am yours I presume.


BitsFragments are all we have

Those splinters from visions we had

That seemed to have value, then left

A chimera


All the pieces will not fit

They can’t. They are not meant to

For progress steps over remnants

And builds different castles


So memory is the only glue

That may half offend

Or re-instate small victories

From shards we recall


Do not construct a fantasy

From glittering pieces that are false

Superstition may alter the mood

But flesh and blood obey the mirror


The imperious urge

Or fatuous vanity

Will always attempt to conspire

With someone else’s silver tongue


But reflections are just that

Interpretations of slippery facts

That wobble on the surface

For those that take flights of fancy