A flight of three crows
added to
a dense grey day

Next add four
iconic conifers
as high as the sky
eternally ******* down

These things are
always in my sight
through my window
on this wet world

Multiply all of this
by a sweet daughter
who makes me proud
and raise the whole
to the power of a strong woman
who carries us all
on her back

The equation produces
a result that I am 95 percent certain
equals happiness
though the confidence interval
is wide

And this result
sweet as it is
and as uncertain as it is
will outlive me
leave a faint echo in time
an echo that will bounce off a star
and finally be found
gripped in my shriveled paw
long after the epiphany
nowhere near paradise
somewhere short of
the end of the line

This is a moment of happiness
stolen from time
hijacked by a fugitive
from civil society

I'll hold it close
until death pries it
without mercy
from my hand

Leaves it as a blessing
and a curse
for all who come after

Take the blessing.
Leave the curse.
That's the advice I give
with my dying breath.
And I leave this to you
from the generosity
of my heart.
With a nod to
the scant traces
of God's grace
that I find on these pathways
of travail.

Never lost.
Never found.
Always present
and generous
to all.

Be that.

Colours spread across the sky,
in dream-like structures,
where only fearless creatures fly.

They wonder on the edge of day,
watching the Earth below,
wishing, hoping they could stay.

Red and orange - orange, red,
dancing like a flame,
they don't burn, but caress instead.

So to prepare the path for Sun,
they gleam and they glow,
then melt away 'til there are none.

Cause everything must end sometime.

I bought a mirror from a strange boy,
his smile was truly honest, so I didn't hesitate,
but when I looked into that mirror,
I didn't see what I  was expecting.

No matter what angle I tried,
my face was nowhere to be seen,
the only thing staring back at me,
was the boy who sold me this peculiar piece.

I went home, all full of wonders,
and hung the mirror on the wall,
and with every day I grew more fond of,
the beautiful face looking out for me.

*And just slowly I realised I was falling in love.

Did you ever wonder why,
everyone keeps thinking of Death,
but Life gets so little credit?

Pass me the vase, will you dear
I've picked some flowers to place in it
They are purple, yellow, white and red
Don't they just make you smile

I will place them by your bed
So when you retire for the night
You won't miss the beauty
That's painted on their faces

Take a moment, will you
To appreciate their worth
Lean in close and take a sniff
Their fragrance is most genuine

And as you wake, remember
I've placed those flowers there
For you to enjoy and adore
If only for a season

The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.

the day
when even the not so faithful
were tempted to pray
for the health of the nation