You cut a dashing figure
between em and en and
oh, by the way

Your abbreviated smile
has me wondering what
it stands for

as I place my finger on
your ellipsis … you lead me on,
there is no doubt
I feel left out

But as we track and kern
our forms, ascending,
make ligatures to avoid
an overlap of strokes

a diphthong doth emerge
o’er our line o’ type
and what was once

paragraphed into separateness,
our thoughts juxtaposed

begins to merge
(bind in parentheses)
you’n’me make syncope

and, once the story forms,
the digraphs make shapes
with our mouths.

Day opening, the blind’s tug and lift,
there on the counterpane, cards,
a nest of gifts tied with golden thread
serrated to the touch, bowed too
with deft hands, a box when un-papered
reveals a (stone-like shell-like) form
picked from a south-facing beach
and woven round to make
(harp-like warp-like) a loom
to weave the waves play.


Holding in her small hands,
the still-to-be-given gift
(beyond all gifts this bright day)
the stroke, the brush
of fingertips on the harvest field
of a bare arm, she unbows,
pulling preciousness so close
that between themselves
a shared to and fro comes
to the very moment of joy.


To walk out
on the springiest day
closing the door
on house and home,
taking off to a near-
distant hill now glowing
in greens and holding above
itself a tableau of blue and white
and grey clouds bringing
cool wind to bare knees.


Never an intrusion
on nature’s ambience
(our footfall on the path,
the wind breezing
through sun-dapple trees)
your voice’s song
sings out in the crisp air.
Quite under your spell words
turn and fall like the flowers
from a blossomed pear.


Once over the river
and up the glen,
following a stream,
passing self-sheared sheep,
a gradual climb with a
view forming behind us.
Horses relaxed in fields
then galloping furiously.
Cries of curlews now,
chuckles of grouse.


Lapwing
Flop and flap wing
Tumble over bird
In the moorland
Sky turning the
Cold May wind
Over and over
No steady state
In this brisk air
Lapwing.


On to the moor
and we stop,
backs to a rock
for a baked brownie treat -
coffee and cake and a vista of valleys.
Alone in the sunshine
we celebrate her success
(with smiles and a kiss)
of this chocolate confection
(a high 9.6 on the outdoor scale).


This empty place
so full of sky,
so rich in views
across and over and
down to folding valleys,
then up to far far-distant hills.
Stopped by a circle  
of twelve standing stones,
cold fingers reach
for a warm hand.


A stanza-ed stone
straddling a stream,
a paragraphed poem
breaking the unbroken thread
where water unbinds
and hangs at the waterfall face.
Pleased to be found
(and after a trek)
this stanza-ed stone
at Backstone Beck.

you gotta hold onto summer nights,
luscious trees glistening in bright moonlight,
paints a picture like,
things wont ever get better,
letters typed, can't ever describe
just how live
you feel, with a breath of that air,
and how quickly that free breath fades...
as time invades, once again,
warm embraces end,
soon after they begin,
temporary at best, temporary at worst,
i can't be the first to know this!
i notice, that the summer gets shorter each year,
and the fear that i won't live up to,
set expectations,
leads to hesitation, to start taking life
serious, but fear it just...
seems to paralyze, as i realize,
that this is all that there is,
and i can't describe what i want to do
with myself, i mean... i don't want to be stuck
on a shelf, i just... can't be looked over,
this must be the reason why we cant stay sober,
in life, death is always over our shoulders,
just waiting to take summer nights,
and luscious trees glistening in moonlight,
try as i might, they fade quicker
each year, but i refuse to be a short
paragraphed obituary. and i refuse to be
one of those forgotten many.
i refuse to let all that i have in this head
go to waste without changing the lives
of those misled.
i refuse to let summer nights just go to waste
on pointless *****-drinking, what was i thinking?
i refuse to let mind-numbing 9 to fives
allow me to forget the fact that i am alive,
and i can change the world,
and that i can make my obituary
front. page. news.
i refuse.

Author’s Note: Welcome to world of dreams turning into reality.

1. I always thought of becoming one of the *clouds; how they’ll form with the other clouds different shapes and sizes. I always imagined how they’ll shade us from all the that we should’ve been feeling; how they’ll weep for the cooling sensation that we would feel. I always thought that every tear from my hard work will cool off my mind. I always dreamt of becoming a cloud; going through a cycle on and on. It seems so mysteriously wonderful. But as I seek them in the sky, it seems like, one isn’t there. Today, she’s here.

2. The sun always seemed like this hot blazing ball of gas and fire. I wish I was the sun; the center of the solar system. I wish I could always light up the world; support the moon to even brighten up the other side. But I guess I don’t need to be the sun; I found the sun. I found out that it lighted up my whole world. I found out that she is right here— beside me — always. I should’ve been burning right now but as I unravel more, the more I endure the burning sensation.

3. I always wondered what would I do if I was the wind. I wondered if I could cool off the whole atmosphere. I wonder how it feels to be mixed with different kinds of gases in the air. I wonder how it feels to be drifted apart by your own force. I want to be this need of humanity — of living species. I want to be the wind, nothing more, nothing less.

4. I always dreamt of becoming you. I want to feel how living life was in another persons perspective; how could I survive a day full of excitement and paranoia. I always wanted to feel how I’ll be acting as the sun to somebody’s life; how I’ll be the person lighting up lives. I always wondered if you were me, and if I were you. Will the wind change its direction? Will the clouds ever reverse its cycle? Will the sun set at an opposite direction? If we ever change our role in life, would we ever meet — even in our wildest dreams? I guess fate has to decide what our next step is… only fate.

I’ve seen too many empty words
On papers covered with text
Like rows of parallel lines and
I’m painfully waiting for them to converge;
Feeling like a hopeless dreamer in a reality
Where intelligence is measured by the
Amount of white space you can cover
With a brush, but no paint.

And I wonder how you can speak with all your might
And still not be heard,
Am I simply not choosing the right words?

Maybe this rhyme wasn’t timed
Just right
For your head to ignite
With all the fury that spins inside of me
Like tornados of dirt in an open space
Where there is so much potential
But no one is there to observe,

How I can sometimes form images
Out of reckless stanzas of
Sounds that bounce just right
In the pits of my mind.

But these metaphors and similes
Don’t seem to put smiles on the faces
Of academics sitting up high,
On chairs of published journals
And research that stomps on your behind,
Until you realise you can never measure up
To their size.

But, I still twirl around in circles sometimes,
Collecting debris of those
Who have been misheard and
Misinterpreted as
Deadly villains in stereotypical stories,
Where their side of the story
Is simplified into scenes of disturbance.

I dance around manipulation
Ushering words I’ve gathered along the way
Until it amounts to a mangled creation
One that would make Frankenstein
Smile in admiration;
Until the story is turned upside down
And then all the way around.

I’ve seen too many bland sentences
In essays that we’re told to embrace,
When these chunks of information cannot hold themselves up
Without a thick spine of paragraphed meaning
And meticulously referenced supporting points-
Of relevance.
And you always sit there wondering
What the hell counts as relevant?
When there are thousands of combinations
Making up thousands of words that have yet
To grace our impatience.

I am still waiting,
Knees bouncing and hands drumming
Trying to piece together symphonies
In silent lectures about everything

And sometimes I think it might amount to nothing;
If I can’t make it interesting,
Interesting enough for me to want to weave it into
My natural disaster of a technique,
And call it a piece of myself;
A work of poetry.

In a wisp
In a way
we come together

we stray

An ethereal run
is our bond,
fortune's fun
is our song

Yet in words
and in strokes
fill paragraphed
hopes

Ends of the days
harrowing ways
Keep drawing us in
together, not fitting in

We set forth
in service of love
aloft
in the mud

Never together
Never apart.