Void Dreaming – a dream poem


Skills of detection surprise even us

On an interplanetary scale, shimmers

Warn of fields lying in wait to tell

The false ones from the soothsayers…


We knew not what awaited us when

Our party crossed those space screens

Hung betwixt worlds without names,

Rare marbles indeed, shock unabated.


For what we wished to achieve, did

We dare go further than those before?

Nay, for what might escape chains

As strongly made as the void’s dreams?


A Zone Observance – a poem

Counters click clack louder, beeps come closer

Together as we study the reports arriving

From so very close, so nearby, still too far

For us to consider reachable, distance

A term fluid, flowing…to reach is



Reflex draws back that gloved hand as high

Rises the counter whine, noisome indicator

Warning of psychic fumes ephemeral rising

From that river oxygen rich red, which runs

Through the Zone, mere kilometres away;

Ineffably dangerous.


Event horizon and flashpoint heatwave babble,

Memory of a concatenation caught in a monolithic trap

To unknown ends reaching; the rivers ran

Redder than blood can allow, an oily pall

Settling like ultramundane impossibility;

So we stay behind

And study.


Report from the Zone – a poem

*written from a dream*

Rumours abound on the periphery

As the air swirls, colours topaz, blue

Slowly segue, reflected in oily water,

Irradiated horrors roll unseen, slower

Than observances may wholly grasp.


Casual wonderers need not apply here,

Here be dangers sans warning, silent

Serpents of insidious holy fire, burning

The air itself, storms of doom abound,

Shown in those oily pots above ground.


Stay wary.


Mechta, the dream – a poem

Recitations of Beat poetry,
Half rhyme made to work,

Part sung & spoke every

Possible halting way, a dream

Written into the air, rarified.


Mechta, the dream lives, short-

Lived yet enduring a long time,

Paragon of drive, realise, a sign

Of the clouds yet to be caught,

Ensnared & set to work, thus called.


We all need dreams of song,

Even if they aren’t sung,

Voyeuristic vicariousness turned

Into fuel for the solar powered mechta,

Prototype of all archetypes born.


That which is born must ever die,

Né to korosu, the tower sign

Rings, calling all dreams to fly,

To soar, wings spread, eating time,

Mechta explodes, declines…& lives on.