Verse

New verse goes in the blog. Some verse I wrote earlier is here.

Let there be no barriers between us.
As your words flow in my mind
we become one flesh, like lovers
though we only pass in the street




"Just inner city", the Englishwoman said.
What other city centre's locked at six
Where troops patrol in lead grey armoured vans
Where steel and cameras separate two tribes,
protect the dole office, yes, and even the pub?
Oh English, have you ever lost a war,
known hate, or fear? What colour is your blood?

A war memorial to the glorious dead
Sean Savage, Mairead Farrell, Dan McCann
in gold on granite glittering in the Sun
a place for pilgrims! Little children play
like puppy Dobermans, and Michael Stone
is hero only half a mile away.
The murals' beauty shall ensure that they
live on. The English gawp, and do not see.
(1988)




Do not speak wisdom.
When her body is concrete
her soul vanishes




I want to move house.
On the Marble Cliffs
my walls are six feet thick
and twenty yards high.
Day and night
the pitch steams over the fire
and the guards make sharp steel darts
One for everyone in the World.
But who is outside?
A Saracen army, or people like me?
I want a bungalow,
brick built, with cavity walls
and a ramp for wheelchairs.
I would invite you in, and you
would chat inconsequentially, and smile.




Do not tell me what to be
Do not tell me what to do
Do not tell me what to think
I am Who I am

Do not tell me what to feel
Do not tell me what is right
Do not tell me what is true

Tell me who you are.
Tell me what you love.




O Mr Badman, tell me your fears
Tell me the words that you most dread to hear
Tell me your cravings, the things that you lack
I'll bring them all in a big Santa sack

O Mrs Sweetie, silent and small
If you do nothing, you can't take a fall
Come smell the flowers, and stop cringing back
Sometime I'll get you, with my Santa sack

O Miss Adventure, seeking a cure
Sensing the stillness, but not really sure
Enjoy the darkness, you'll soon get the knack
There's only blessing in my Santa sack




The whisky is newly distilled.
It is fiery, but needs to mature.
The stone shines because it is wet.
The whisky will mature.
The stone will be polished.
Permanently fiery
Permanently shining




From high ground, one can see further.
Why is this not true of the Moral High Ground?
Is it surrounded by mist?
Does the rarified air cause delusions?
Or, having climbed the Mountain
do I stare so fixedly down at the Hillock
that I can see nothing but the Molehill
that is mine?




In the moment
in the perfect absence of certainty
in openness to what is
in beauty and harmony
in service and delight
in togetherness and solitude
in wrongness and failure
in the sea and the sky
on the computer and in her arms
in the leaves in the garden
in fear and trembling
in trust and acceptance
where the unimaginable impossibility
          becomes a clear, obvious Yes
where I stay and stand and sleep and awake
where I move on
in becoming and maturing
where I begin to see
and run and hide and cannot bear it
and am lost yet safe
competing and cooperating
with amoebae and elephants
breathing and breeding
for all shall be well and all is well
and the falcon hears the falconer
There is the silence where we meet




If I were to paint an Annunciation
there would be no angel
Nothing to perturb Richard Dawkins.
When fornicators, outcast, died
the fornicating child
ceases to deny the signs, and cries
"All generations will call me Blessed."




I held the River.
I stopped it.
You may step into my river more than once.
I love the sounds of my river
trickling and rushing
I love the surface of my river
rippling, refracting:
so I have kept them.
You may wash in my river, for
I cleanse all dirt from it
and the coots have all they need.




Who was He?
An object of amusement for the sophisticated Tetrarch
The standard of Right the Roman could not win
The thing in the way of the High Priest's expedients
The mob's victim, sold for a brigand, at whim
A ram caught in a thicket
The price of an apple, the gift of a King




In a world of doubt and sorrow
Thousand-island dressing, and despair
I touch your hair
Laughing like there's no tomorrow
Wondering whom to blame, I call your name
you feel the same
My cat, Jeoffrey, tells me- Isle of You
I love him too
You are- quite pleasant
I wanna be with you
You make me feel brand new
In a world of doubt and sorrow
Doubt the doubt, and sorrow for- the rain
it's such a pain
Ploughing on my lonely furrow
I look back, and see you through my fierce
Mascara'd tears
of seven years




It's going to rain.
Then it's going to drizzle for a bit
Then it's going to rain again.
Then it's going to rain like it's just remembered how.
It's going to belt down, bucket down, chuck it down.
It's going to rain cats and dogs
                      stair rods
                            Jeddart staves
Then it's going to rain like it's forgotten
                England doesn't have monsoons
Then it's going to rain like it's trying to win a prize
Then it's going to rain like it just has
and then
    it's going to rain




What is Truth, said jesting Pilate
and would not stay for- a what?
An Answer?
Could there ever be an Answer?
What is Truth? said jesting Maxwell
I, I am my answer
but all my truth is work in progress

And God made the answer
and the answer was Good
and the answer was Racial Purity
and the answer was Don't
                 Touch
                Me
and the answer was repeating rifles
and more rapid efficient firing.
And the answer is satellite television
and a Kindle with three thousand books
and controlling all the supplies of Cobalt in the World
and collateralised debt obligations

I want the answers to get better
for my Will is enough
and the answer is just out of reach
and I think I have it and-

         if i know i know nothing
      god is what i do not know
   and

Though I search through all the realm
and make my prayer to St Anselm
My talent cannot overwhelm:
I could find no rhyme for "Larch". 

I rode under a wrought-iron arch
into a land the Sun did parch
I rode all year from May till March
I could find no rhyme for "Willow".

I lay upon my sweat-soaked pillow
dreaming of waves that writhe and billow
and my unforgiveable peccadillo:
I could find no rhyme for "Oak".

No rhyme for that? It is a joke
Such rhymes are written, sung and spoke
in baby's cry and old man's croak
and each intermediate kind of folk
say rhymes like poke soak bloke cloak coke-
but I can't find a useful rhyme for Oak