This was our time:

A time of fat,

A time of plenty,

Of gluttony, sucked straight from the vat,

And pots of gold in packs of twenty.

A time of excess,

Of haunting, taunting, flaunting,

Of stretching the zeroes to impress;

A time of unrepentant, rabid lust,

A time of cities reduced to dust.

A time of the swine, the plundered mine,

Of hate and anger drunk on wine;

...

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Are we but ephemera,

Or timeless?

A work of art

That disappears

Gradually

In the mists of time?

This material form

That endures so short a time.

Then, reappearing

In the dewdrops

Of a frosty Autumn morn,

And in the sunlight

Of a bright Spring dawn.

The comforting songs

Of a dawn bird singing.

I...

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This melancholy fug
burrows into my bones
After delving back again
into those memories recounted
with such forensic clarity
Comes a cold blue atmosphere
a fragrant longing
and precision-tooled regret

Those searingly stark lines
old faces, wild flames
lost friendships resurrected 
I’m dropped back into the thick of things
Drifting through teenage streets
old freedoms, vintage fantasi...

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Why do I not dream of you?

The ocean grows darker, it's calling too deep

But I build a bastion of love in my sleep 

So why do I not dream of you? 

Why do I not dream of you?

A lawlessness reigns in the unconscious sphere 

It whispers of fragments, a sense that you’re near

So why do I not dream of you? 

Come, now let me dream of you

Let us run freely in worlds w...

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Light breeze,

Flowing through your hair,

Like swift waves of silent sea.

As we hear,

Gentle rustling of leaves,

Their sound, A music indeed,

With the moon's light,

Shimmering through the sky,

Lightning our path,

Your dark eyes,

Twinkling,

Like an ocean, filled with stars.

Hear me, my dear,

I know it is hard,

But, I want you,

To forget all your worries,

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At the time I was somewhat cold,     

A child doing as it was told,   

Sitting in the hut Dad just built,     

Not so solid, a bit of tilt,    

The rain dripping onto my head,  

Family there, us being fed,     

Avoiding spiders seen about,     

Waiting until we could run out,    

Back inside into our home warm,  

Before drizzle turned into storm,     

Yet now all I...

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At the time I was somewhat cold,     

A child doing as it was told,   

Sitting in the hut Dad just built,     

Not so solid, a bit of tilt,    

The rain dripping onto my head,  

Family there, us being fed,     

Avoiding spiders seen about,     

Waiting until we could run out,    

Back inside into our home warm,  

Before drizzle turned into storm,     

Yet now all I...

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a global race is a global race against time
the hands of time is the race against time
god is the hands of time
god is the hands of race against time
time is in the hands of god
time is in the hands of a global race
god is a race against the hands of time

time race against religion
religion race against religion
religion is a aftermath of a religion
a aftermath is a global aftermath
a...

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Shut my eyes on Sunday evening. 

Moments pass, the clock is screaming.

Flip my switch from dream to drowning 

in a sea of morning light.

Scoop the mucus from my lashes.

Splash my cheeks and scrub my gnashers.

Quell the bloating crush of pressure.

I’m already late!

Complacent men and placid women -

TV Breakfast hosts - sit grinning

at the fan-like big hand sp...

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Yesterday

I opened the windows of my room with the night

I let in the stars and slept in their time

    I knew their waning

When I awoke

My pillow was flattened with the weight of their time

My mind was present in the immensity of their span

    I knew their past now

Today

I curtained the new day in my room with the dawn

I breathed in time and dreamed of the...

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As I write, each line reaches for memories

lost, fallen beyond the edge of the world:

kamarupa dwelling in infinity, fading

when my lines do not find them

and my words fail passion and desire.

Eons, lost pasts. Which of them

could dream my frail dream of this

verse? Which, thrown

across the fabric of time, could make

nothing everything?

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Written in March 2023: one year on.

(...sees races, eras, dates, generations,

The past, the future, dwelling there, like space, inseparable together"

Walt Whitman, Kosmos)

Only fragile glass

                                   holds the cold

                                                                night's times at bay:

each star above the beech

owning its mo...

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there once was a boy

good-hearted and innocent

worried not about the 

flecks of mud

clinging to his toes

thinking not of the

stinging scrapes

kissing his knees

worried not

save for the dwindling daylight

bringing end

if only temporary

to his fun

there was once a man

chased by the sun

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