I, poet, may write of love

and in that moment feel

a meaning clear:

yet my soul knows love

my hand will never pen

You, reader, read that word

and think to know my mind  

              I say you cannot know the love

my heart placed behind that word, only

your sense of the love you thought you saw

The poet can never truly speak

and have his reader k...

Read and leave comments (3)

Unknown reader, be glad that I have opened the door and let out

the dust of my verse for you to see an age after the words first found form on the screen, or

perhaps I have let in your imagination so, turning, you can see a single almond

blossom, pink amongst its pale russet leaves, to tempt your words out

Unknown traveller, on this day, stay, venture out

and, before they fade,...

Read and leave comments (3)

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?

Read and leave comments (1)

My rhymes form in clouds

over the arm chair

beside my note books

and the fire

My lines are captured

and preserved

in the remains of the forest

immortalised on its pulp
 

My words are held captive awhile

in the bright prison cells

where machines etch their pain

on smooth white sheets

My once quiet thoughts crash

noisily onto the leaves

again and ...

Read and leave comments (2)

the pain of the vacant page                                      stage

for the dance

of my pen

the fear of the frozen mind                                        blind

  to the hope

 of a rhyme

the silence of an empty house                                spouse

to the song

of my word

the hush of unwanted time                                      chime

t...

Read and leave comments (0)

To you, readers, I say

I am no writer -

these words

placed themselves

on my page

to tell a story

To you, writers, I cry

I am no chronicler -

these tales

spun their web

through my mind

to make a memory

To you, poets, I sing

I am no rhymer -

these lines

etched their pattern

on my paper

to form a psalm

To you, who come, I whisper

Read and leave comments (0)

Books make visible the writer's soul

Which bleeds its angst by pen:

Spread thin across life's whited bowl  

A thin red stain of madeleine

Books may offer us an author's eye

That ensnares the reader within its brail

Or should writers light the reader's sky

And tear apart the shadowy veil?

Books will hold the writer's thought

And bridge the gap twixt pen and read...

Read and leave comments (3)

It starts with that

the feel of paper

between the fingers

the paper worn by touch

the ink a little faded

but the weight of

the incorruptible text

resting on the eye

retaining its worth

for ever

Even before that

there was the heft of it

in the hand

the boards scuffed

the jacket torn

but the perfection of

that binding

resting on the palm

is ...

Read and leave comments (0)

what spills onto         the page

falls from                  my mind:

it tells of                   what is there

it tastes of                 my thoughts

so they are                spread here                      with care

                                                                        as verse

the page                    becomes

my mind                    bared

...

Read and leave comments (0)

Impulse is the best linguist

So Mr Thoreau thought

And often what is written here

Is spoiled by what is later brought

Yet

All I write and sometimes rhyme

Falls on the page untaught

So needs some tender love and care

Before you see it as you ought

So

The lines you read from any page

Should by your ear be caught

As best words ordered to flow well

With...

Read and leave comments (1)

To discern

                our place

To commune

To see

                beyond our close shadow of death

To focus

                my poet mind

I need direction

                a qibla

Or some beads to tell

                to take refuge from my life:

A candle flame

Only the candle

Flame

Flickering.

A journey into quietude

                begins

Int...

Read and leave comments (1)

What words have passed

What said

What read

What meaning cast?

What recall flows

What thought

What tort

What grievance shows?

What edge is crossed

What line

What sign

What friendship lost?

What nightmare grown

What meme

What seam

What darkness sown?

What text is read

What hyped

What typed

What despair fed?

What lov...

Read and leave comments (0)