Poet Introduction I write mainly poetry for the inner journey. I also have a feisty side-line of writing poetic commentaries on the war industry and politics & culture. "When power corrupts, poetry cleanses" (JFK, Oct 1963)
Now where was I? Oh yes, gathering cool facts from northern winds, smelling secrets of the desert in a southern breeze. A gale brewing from the West tosses ideas in my direction, entangled with esoteric mysteries blown in from eastern shores.
In a flurry all four winds fuse to tangible silence, a moment’s clarity brings exquisite stillness, peels back the techie blabber, offers shelter from a howling world.
Thoughts flow into the pen’s ink, seep onto the page, catch the act of a thorn ...
On the left rail, prayer; on the right rail, emerging history. At the vanishing-point they meet - maybe. The reality-train travels the track straddling both sides and steams over the vanishing-point where the rails remain apart, equidistant.
The engine-driver, shovelling coal, is not thinking of these things but of home - and dinner. Carriages full of passive passengers pass over the same spot blissfully unaware. What happens, happens. What doesn’t, doesn’t.
The watchtowers of Detention Centres don’t weigh tears: they shoot them whilst still inside gathering strength behind the eyes of cliff-edged humans, denying their expression to heal the world. Not even a sparrow falls to the ground with such un-love though the Book of Life records it all for post-mortem correction, even when merely counting to ten … and you only get as far as five.
Gently chiselled from past pains her words carve new hope into a troubled world, leaving treasured gems next to upturned stones, offered freely to perceptive travellers trekking through the jungle of everyday life.
On a twinned planet where stars shine in different patterns presenting constellations with unusual names, valued perspectives shape parallel curves converging at vanishing points of uncommon human experience. I’ve been taken there on many occasions returning to my world filled with a sense of intriguing possibilities.
Beyond my usual radars, clipping ships sail the horizon following special instructions; they filter my assumptions through a strain made with soft, yet durable, gauze. A stepped pyramid is imprinted in my...