Nothing to be seen here

Chit chat, does not a poet make

to babble over knee high waves

expression for the masses,

words that rest in shallow graves

cheap wine in dirty glasses.


The footing is always at behest

the grounds a wander and turn

away from the fray at hand

no escape from the minds subtle burn,

over falling fluid dangerous land

drifting lost on courses from there to here

along this wayward winding path

not where or how, not far or near;

but cross along the hairs

fine razors at the footing

each nudge a waver leaning

every word the song of mooting.

As one shall come to reap

There’s an ever easing flow

of the land that’s far to sea

where blossoms are within the tow

and the spring sings out with glee,

birds above a gentle swing

as the trees stand tall in flow

songs of mother across the skies

where the flowers reach and grow,

once there was a bitter cold

from the queen whose heart is ice

but now the sister moves up close

showing glory to the thrice,

All hail his Immanence

the Father of all we know

for his glory shines in every time

precious life by deed and row.”

A striking momentum

The moments crawl beneath the floors

where blood was spilled among the pours,

the flow would call in striking cries

at the blade that cuts the ties of stride.


Tails are sold for each gaze of eyes

one seldom to see the pouring

waters flowing from all directions

at the depth of a minds deep unknowing,

recollection is standing knee deep in the well

where the blinded are only lurking

gentle sounds of whispering trickles

madness within where sanity is working.


And it would seem again we are here to stay

where the music is loud as they stomp the parade

down the alley streets with the dogs at their bay

and the pipes on their puffing under the moons gentle sway,

‘why’ we ask over and over again fluid from day to day

washing up upon the shores with nowhere left,

and something to say.

Blues in ‘D’

There was a cross in the meadows

to where my eyes can see

there was a cross in the meadows

to where he stood and breath,

Blews across the wheat fields

O’ commin to carry me –


Gold rings on every finger

where nails used to be

Golden rings and broken nails

there his eyes settled upon me,

Blews across the wheat fields

winds of change for me –


Strung up like the scarecrow

singing like the breeze

Strung up like a scarecrow

pleading wont you pleaze,

blews across the wheat fields

O’ commin; O’ commin to carry me –



Carry me too far away

too far away to be seen

carry me so far away

away from here and then –

One door, one way, your choice

And so another grazing day

has left me at the wayside

within relevance of crashing waves,

my feet they stammer in reluctance

and the sands are deep at the knee;

where once I used to forage

my heart is now blind to see.


The ache is deeper than all can be

and the splashing of arms not calm

the breath is at its all time low

and the mind is all but gone,

broken ribs from sobbing

and laughter to the hilt

were all together in madness

loving every precious guilt,

to stop and look within ourselves

would surely mean to kill

the lies we have earned so willingly

its there that skin like chill,

so sleep each night among the scars

that litter across the floor

bodies gasping to and fro

bloody fingers seeking the door.

A strand of days

Its today and soon tomorrow

relics of what was yesterday

weeks adorned with sweetness

and footing at no expense,

is it here now that the moments lost

where I sat in languished solitude

cracks along the border fray

and eyes a gesture of too afraid,

things go on in and, and and

reaching for the punch

but little to no one can be done

for generations are out to lunch,

I stir the food for better taste

but the palette is far from clean

the day to day of impiety

my mind a threaded stream,

so surf along my salty dog

along the shredded ways

where dope means all is good

and life is just another day.

The delicate taste of harrow

There is a tick at the back of my mind

the canny unruly and ahead un-behind

and the frost among the lilies lie

with ashes and spit among the blind,

to what may ask becomes of them

when the haunting and furrows have been fed

the skin a crawl over depths and halls

crying souls ease from out their bed,

its the waking of these that are so blind

too late to hear among their calling

when the depth of tears are fluttering

and the words as embers adrift in falling,

standing hear I remember the well

where we sat at the eve on the morrow

hands entwined as vines upon lattice

filling grapes by the glass with sorrow.