The Wind.

I hold allegiance to no stone
nor tattered cloth of colours bold
my blood is not of any earth
nor flesh writ in fables old

I am of the summer’s air
upon which swallows wing
no country can I thus betray
my nation is the wind.

the morning sun is come

the morning sun is come
to paint the robin red
and daub the shadows golden
which take me from my bed
but as I rise to greet him
the dreams of you remain
and though the night is cast away
no thought of you could wane
so the morning sun is come
and lights the dawn anew
but like the robin on his breast
I wear red dreams of you.

STANDING STONES

are their souls afire still
from the mountains long since dead
and capped perpetual winter’d chill
no more the flames of Vulcan’s dread?

they stand to watch the eons die
no mortal mind may fathom well
as beneath the countless skies
these sentinels no secrets tell.

so silent stands their mystery
as before man from clay was born
that none may know their history
from then until the last sun dawns

The Poetry Reading

de la Mare, did not care
and Cummings could not come
Auden sent his deep regrets
as did Betjeman.

Housman was a bit put out
by Yeats as absentee
who was with Thomas down the pub
drunk with Bukowski

so of my little soirée
is much best left unsaid
it serves me right I’m sad to say
for inviting just the dead.

THOUGHTS INTERRUPTED

the heavens shatter
a madman screaming
insanity
testimony
to the days spent dreaming
of a coming storm,
a minstrel singing
songs
all wrong
in his head ringing
the sunshine breaks
a baby crying
imbued
in hues
of summer’s dying

Art

we dare tempt nature
into unnatural forms
and then call it art

Process

this disjointed mind
finding broken metaphors
in torn up poems

Darkness

I see not the sun
even in the brightest noon
darkness harvests light

Teardrops

inside each teardrop
existed a universe
which died in the rain

Drum

a drum in my head
the beat of which has no form
its patterns unkempt