Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Secret Fire


Give me the Secret,
and I’ll tell you what secrets are
that lie in the heart of formless being,
deep in the heart of a darker knowing
yet  are never told;
that we grow old with and fear to tell.

How can we know who we are?
Or what Love is, beyond passion,
beyond union of forms, rhythm or heat?
Beyond sweetness or ecstasy?
It’s Knowing!

Oh you who beguile
with dark eyes that consume me with fire!

Sunday, 24 April 2011

Do You Remember Love?

Do you remember Love,
Luscious at the borders of sleep’s
teasing dreams,
through long shadowed hours;
shrouded in silken sheets
tumbled with longings;
down into the first rustle and sigh of the yawning dawn,
gone the owls hooting, the night jar’s song;
the earliest waking light aroused from shadowed night
two ever as one.
Do you remember Love?
Its scent and feel?

Tuesday, 19 April 2011


Still under moonlight, silent and serene,
a land half shadowed and half seen -
a vista, tranquil as a sea becalmed,
a harmony, no sound to jar
the silvered waters of dappled light
and shadowed depths where night
yet lingers.

Here and there in milky white
forms of beast and tree and stranger shapes
beguile the sight -
transformed by moon and shadows;
pools become quiet mirrors of the stars,
high in far celestial seas, and galaxies
in a universe of infinite unknowing.

Yet I would know it to its limits!
God alone could tell what heaven or hell
should be there; all appears as dark at heart
as a crystal to an unbeliever’s eye;
no intuition yields a sacred vision,
we are left bereft, unknowing;
moonlight is moonlight
and night a time for sleeping.

Wednesday, 13 April 2011


I’m a looker, I’m fit
I’m a girl with class
don’t you really long
to see me strip to my lycra thong
as I wriggle to the tune of the raunchy song
to a sea of faces in the shadowy throng
of men from the firms in the office blocks
and the pc worlds;
I’m your thing in dreams,
the pliable barbie of your private scenes,
I’m a page 3 pic
that you flip to quick -
an icon from a world where the soft porn girl
is a look-real-pearl that appeases the needs
of the office boys and the men in tweeds.
I dance on the laps
of a whole dirty dozen of leering chaps,
reflected in the gaze of the one who pays
for a scent of my skin and the hoped for fling
of a one-night stand –
reduced to a grope from a furtive hand.

As a pale light dawns on a tired morn
and she finds her way from the reek and haze
of the midnight bar
and the hungry gaze of so many men -
another lean girl from a dirty world
whose stock in trade is youth and beauty that will never last
and she’s teased by the hopes of her youth that passed
too quickly, in all those misspent hours
window shopping in the tawdry malls,
and the shabby halls of imagined fame,
deep in the thrall of glamour from the world
whose profit is the gain of the merchant men
who dismiss her kind as legitimised sin,
whose lust for thrill and salacious whim
have turned women like her to a sexual thing -
a toy for the joy of the boys in the bars
and she wears the scars of her secret shame
as a sexy smile, but her eyes betray
the desperation of the game
that’s changed her name from a lady to a tart
and she can’t get smart or even have the luck
to cut loose now
before the raucous shouts of the jeering louts
claim another fraction of her yearning soul
and she sinks ever deeper in the yawning hole.

But she knows she’s free and enjoying her right
to make her choice and in the sight of the world
she serves, they want her to believe that liberty
is a freedom of trade, and they’re free to enslave
to exploit and use women like her
in the mags and the rags and the sleazy shows
and the grotty little bars where no-one knows
her privacy, her pain or her goddamned name
as long as she smiles and pouts
and flaunts to the louts that hurl her cash,
but secretly condemn her as a piece of trash.

Monday, 11 April 2011

The Beauty

I will beguile you and take you on a journey
to places unknown and lose you ...
And if therefore you feel a part of you is always lost
Know it is because I took you long ago and lost you;
And therefore, too, only I can bring you back ...

If in the cosy normality of the quiet routine of weeks,
The days unfolding a pathway down into old age
Cobwebbed by dusty memories
You have forgotten Love;
The dappled sunlight of dreaming afternoons;
The hot and sultry nights, the beauty of the moment,
Let me remind you;
For I took you there so long ago and left you
And only I can bring you back.

Tilting Windmills

Ranks of new age windmills
wheel in heavy silence
high on the windy ridges.
No old Quixote with horse and lance,
just me in my battered red car,
and bright Quixotic dreams
looking for something.

Pools of shimmering heat
puddle the long hot road
crossing the bleached blonde plains
of vast Castile La Mancha –
where long ages past
so many armies fought and passed
pursuing the Reconquista
south into the lands of light
and Andalusia.

Heat on my face,
light in my eyes,
cadences of sweet guitars,
ruby Rioja and lazy siestas,
scent of jasmines on the wind;
like a lost lover,
like music half remembered
caught on the edge of sound
I dream of you,
how I dream of you,
your fiery kiss
and hot embrace,
your turbulent rhythms
tease the thirst of my longing ...
How much I miss you!

Friday, 8 April 2011

The City

The City with no pity,
hot and hard and thirsty
with multi-million dollar dreams,
and cheap illusions and dirty schemes;
A million screens that flicker the news
of money’s views a world away,
no time disturbs this day,
For the world never stops turning
on a yen, or a pound or a dirty dime,
no thoughts or hopes sublime
disturb the moment’s fixation on the moment
when money breeds money,
a virus in a chain.

Verdant hues of figures that flash before
an endless screen of bonds and cash;
Wealth that never knew a human need,
a dream, a scream of unreality
borne in a heart of greed.

It’s the Real World I hear you say -
Hard as a hungry whore;
Desire deeper than lust -
a need , a must to win
and failure the only sin;
The soul’s reflection in the gleam
of a limosine, an air,
a bold presumptive stare
with the face of wealth
and a heart of stealth;
Ambition with love in chains,
that spares no pains for those daily gains,
For those stocks and shares
and gaudy market wares;
A heaven and hell that turns
on a sell, the tolling knell
of a passing day a world away
The City, with no pity.