Dreams of Tomorrow

to the promised western rest
the tired sun from this court blessed
travels weary homeward’s way
to sleep until need of a day
when darkness bleak disconsolate
requires new hopes inviolate

an ancient burial (first draft)

what dreams lived in his head then
upon that verdant delta when
the gods played games among the stars
could those dreams be just as ours
or have they over the eons past
like ghosts in this decaying casket
took on a form not of our ration
beyond the realms of our abstraction

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-ninety-five : the final act)

he wrote the word “hate”
on a small slip of paper
then set it alight.

The Hat in the Cat

not to have a chubby cat
oh what tragedy would that
be on cold and frosty days
to miss out on a fluffy hat
that is not only warm to wear
but blocks the world out
with its purrs.

Three Minute Sonnet

These azure thoughts ascend
to partner with the skies
and in these heavens highs
my daydreams know no end
with your dreams they will wend
to live behind your eyes
where they by and by
into our wakings blend.

what once were dreams are real
enlivened in company
imagined lovers’ reels
in paired society
such fragrant dreams breath true
the scent of me and you

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-ninety-four : bus stop)

the dandelions sing
in sun coloured harmonies
between the kerb stones

Palladin (unfinished idea)

in these fields the bones of poets
slumber undisturbed
by the passing centuries
which pay to them no care
nor do the throngs that rustle by
in all their hustled days
yet still the bones of poets
dream the years away.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-ninety-three : above the Thames)

the stainless steel glint
of the river in the night
cutting through the dark

The Nonsensical Madness of Pub Breakfasts

gin palace breakfast bowl
old fat Henry Tudor roll
watching wooden tulips grow
big red bus to Old Kent Road
chandelier spiderthreads
reminding me of Pier Head
Mr Wimpey dropped down dead
and slipped into the river cold
somewhere in the heart of town
a pair of yellow boots were found
which stomped my nation underground
with it all our future’s sold
and so dear friends my song is done
I’m off to sing another one
before the inspiration’s gone
or if the day grows old.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-ninety-two : saving daylight)

I set back the clock
so that I can spend more time
thinking about you