Hanging Trumpets – a poem

Ignore the vast foaming river

Of information flowing, far

Over rocks never worn, adamantine

Bedrock layer beneath the waves,

One’s will an ocean in storm.


A sweet zephyr winds through hills

Low rising rather than squat stacks,

Sloping sides call to mind madness

Long kept within, crystals catching

The sparkle of corruption, original sin.


What price could be paid, for surcease

However transitory? The soul deeds

Given up in promise of a life more

Than ordinary, yet painless, free;

Such promises are more dream than true idea.


Bright red bloom the opiate trumpets,

Hanging like devil blossomed fruit

In the otherwise dry forest on those slopes,

The waxy latex oozing, dripping, falling

From those hanging trumpets of sweetling death.


Mandalas of madness swirl high above,

Strange storms of charged ion dreams

Streaming in aether, a light pejorative

Cacophony called into physical spirals

Which make litten the red trumpeted valley…


Butterfly Dreams – a poem

Hopes, dreams, visions of success

Flit and flutter, float from aether

Groundward from heavens rare glimpsed

And roam when down, rove along odd rails

Until found, eyes without spark, lacking



The hope of eyeful storms stored

For late days, drawn evenings,

Those eyes watching for what waits

In the fulsome forward sweep of swarms

That wash over the world, drawing dry


Shades of Sunlight – a poem

The watery light brightens, after

Having faded for too long a time,

A poem writ in the lilting change

Of seasons and time come circling

Along the lunar month divided tides.


Soon shall be lifted that pall

Spoken of as Grey Heaven, dry

Whispers, all moulten, stripped

Bare and filled with light, gold

And yellow, newly born again.


Golden brown coming down, a pour

Of sun and newly bright sight,

Yet the coming of the light may

Mean little for what roams on still,

Stabbing, burning, shooting, pulse.


What voice might ask the road

Without lips to shape the words?

What sensations or expectations wring

Out the tired responses, old

Refrains heard without sympathy felt.


What should matter falls by the side

For what matters NOW, the change

Over from what is to what was,

The push and pull, ebb and tide

Of internal pressures, pulsing besides.

Perceiver – a poem

How far is too far when silence



Thunderous silence, enforced stillness,

Motion without movement, superbly grown

Mass besides size, dichotomy of storms

Forming super worlds, dream talk

Glimpsed on the far ruby horizon.


Did we gaze through difference

Only to find similarities closer

To home than sense common may

Have wanted to allow, to be,



Differences, desire, the growth

Of self compares rare to that

Which others think of us, aura

Outside of our selves, defined

By that infernal web, fraught


Stars in Waiting – a poem

Tidally locked, the faces of demons leer

From within the grinning void, blank

Chasms of space where behemoths dwell,

Hot fires raging from nearby stars

Alight upon swirling worlds close

And sear their cloud whirls fiery,

A conflagration due to come nuclear,

Burn hot plasma, fusion born living reactor.

Proto-flesh of stars sworn to circle about

Their older sibling suns for an eternity,

At least until they fuse, form from fire

Into flames that transcend mere burning, gas

Always trying to escape, balance sought

Yet through aeons long ages found

In those astral interstices, a symphony,

Spheres tidally stuck, stars in waiting.

Too Well Protected – a poem

When logic & proportion have lost

All meaning, the layers of armour

Gone and leaving behind little

For the hollow shell was formed

Long ago when too many tough pieces

Were added, the soul within forgotten,

A brittle covering left behind

And later too easily broken.


What worlds of nighted depths dream

Behind minds sore with sickness?

Armour encapsulated bodies dry

Hulk inside their shroud coverings

And whisper redundant hopes

For worlds where others held scope

Of surcease more than transient,

Yet tis a dark boon never relevant.