Saturday, 3 June 2017


Saturday's Pub garden, littered with a thousand twisted cigarette butts, the scattered smouldering tombstones of last night's drunken dreams.

Here birthed the Friday madness wild, thirsting gin soaked mind of child, like infant nourishment craved consumed, the gun within was there exhumed, a firing squad of gin bemused, revellers revelling, devillers devilling, swirling whirling plastic smiles, pavers quivering raindrop tiles, summer rain seeping in vain, from neon roofed city's inane, to wander country lanes insane, a blind walk of the drinker's train, speeding locomotive taught, relearning burning ethanol thought, tearing selfless selfish death, the last epiphany with one last breath, before the darkness deep draws down, the flickering light beneath the frown, where the suicidal businessman drowns, his sorrows borrowed from newspaper dreams, that filled the once fragile mind with screams, in descending begging please, release him from social unease, moments lived but to appease, a fathomless confusion clear smoke screen, that flashes with the cursor black, it's wires snigger behind your back, while slack jawed starring swearing you, convinced you are one of the few, who knew but never said a word, beguiled you smiled, brush muse away, the stroke left blood for them to play and pay and stray inside your mind, soul secrets there in stealth to find, and all forgotten rotten, men in white wheel you away, they say poor soul's gone round the loop, and there you sit in a rocking suit, pinstripe straight jacket just for you, and all that's left after their scoop; is the popular poisoned and once bitten fruit...

By David Nickle Read 3/6/17
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Thursday, 22 September 2016

Insomnia's Online Sickness

Torn light flashes from Casms of the dark,
 a fevered fantasy entwined within crazed vision,
burning sickly, the raging nightmare,
an age before sleeps gentle touch, fog bound,
warped and trapped, in a tempest of abstract thought,
here to be lost, in a sea of wide eyed staring dreams,
where music has no dancing rhythm,
and songs are silent screams,
where the shattered ghosts are real, and invisible to fact,
 in the plain sight of a mind's eye,
or clear to minds of eyes, that through yesterday's blindness truly see,
where petulant worry grows as a virulent vine,
that climbs to an indifferent sky, and past demons come calling frantically,
to be relived, and then to die, to be buried in the yard of bones,
washed  clean by worms of time, in the portal of a wanderer's last sole step,
before soul crosses it's line, as the clock stops and starts at opposing ends,
of the universal loop, that rests in the mind of a giant,
in the ocean his hands can scoop, where he drinks a world to quench his thirst,
for rest to take his pain, where the reader finally understands,
that this is just one drop of rain, in a storm that breathes fire constantly,
within one human brain, the depravity of the internet,
driving all insane, where the righteous spill their blood,
 as all that's right is slain.

David Nickle Read 22/9/16

Friday, 6 May 2016


In the coming madness or false hype, depending on who you believe, we as a people have choices to make; do we stay in the EU or do we go. We have questions to ask ourselves; will things be as good or bad as we're told by the usual sides that tug mercilessly at us for the satiation of their greed and lust for power. All that really matters is that we as a people still hold all the power; all we need for that to be a functioning reality is unity within ourselves and maybe not within the EU...this is poetry's twist on EU-phoria.

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

~To Have & To Hold~

I would like to let you all into a little secret...
We have all heard people say, "When you find 'The One' you'll know; you'll just know"...
We all so desperately want to believe it...
Our hearts & souls call out in hope, willing us to believe it...
But we just don't quite get there...
The shadows of doubt creep from the edges of thought...
This idea so sweet & noble hides behind a pleasant veil of fantasy...
We run there for comfort, but it's never quite enough...
It's easy to lose hope...

I beg of you not to...
There is always hope...
You must always carry on...
I know this now...
The rumours are true my friends...
When you find 'The One' you know...

I became engaged a week or so ago...
To the one...
To have & to hold...

Sunday, 14 February 2016

~Dawn Hound~

Dawn breaks with the bounding hound,
awoken from sleep to the far crow sound,
high in the Oak Woods their cackle and caw,
high rising the sun to the Earth’s  morning thaw.

The Cockrels are calling as Hens rustle wings,
high over head the wild  Sklark sings,
frosty breath Sheep bleet a greeting to day,
as the Horse wakes and whinnies to fresh smelling hay.

In the distance a Woodpecker drums on the Pine,
alone in the Oak wood that fattens the Swine,
near by a white  flock of emboldened white Geese,
call with us all to the upcoming feast.

The Artist there stirs with his first cup of tea,
and the Poet next door waves a hand that’s pen free,
the tired musicians strike a tune for the new,
as fires are lit down here under the blue.

The rural bohemian Winter’s full swing,
of long blackened nights when we paint write and sing,
of crisp early mornings tending to the creatures,
as here we play out Oakley Wood’s ancient nature.

©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Monday, 1 February 2016

The Fact Magical

The trouble is, when we stripped everything
back to facts alone, we lost that which made
them worth the study in the first place;
their majesty, their magic and their beauty.
You can say that the feelings of love are
chemicals being released into our blood
triggered by instinctive needs, we are social
animals; If this is your belief, is there not magic
in the 'fact' that our simply being human makes
us love...

Sunday, 31 January 2016

~Skin Tight Illusions~

The night left the world to burn,
a Human lament of time lost them the Moon,
as the neon dawn flickered into fossil death fed life,
the City heaved a leaden breath,
and false day began the harvest,
where into the seizure,
 light bright night,
sneaks the government agent 'vice',
seeking the company of human misery,
as the concrete lips of a metropolis whore clamps
down on the fetid cock of consumer greed,
that hungrily coaxes the Sterling seed,
as guilt shovels red tape turds into the gaping and expectant
mouths of the ‘Work Til You Dies”
pinstripe clones of the brain washed west,
conditioned creatures of futile drudgery,
the media drugged slave in his golden cage,
berating the ‘Free To Screw After Breakfast’ crowd,
brightly dressed and one third proud,
a rainbow cause, a black cause,
a white cause, a bored cause,
all causes of the causeless complainers,
dressed in pink skin tight branded delusions,
only the most popular and expensive will do,
slurping on high protein illusions,
of sculpted hair and orange tanned skin,
who’ll soon call themselves a race,
and champion their cause, to bleat blindly within the herd,
and fuck into mindless oblivion,
with designer drugs and cheap tasting pricey liquor,
two days of every five don’t think, the other five think just enough,
were you to think past money’s honeyed snatch, you’d be a danger,
stay numb and compliant buying false comfort,
as ‘The Man’ harvests another piece of your soul,
you spit downtrodden mantras daily at the free,
as you drown in mass ego jealousy,
cashing in breath and blood...

©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Wednesday, 20 January 2016

~Last Night~

His fire under winter stars,
cobalt blue & burning cold,
vapours rise & twist with distant suns,
as the flooding Moon's silver sheen,
fills wood hill & river valley.

Where shimmering frost reflects the dancing sky,
and Sirius smiles a cosmic wink,
from distant frozen vistas,
to the little man of Earth.

He's gazing higher than 3 am dreams,
he'll catch a canvas night,
by oil lamps frantic flickering flame,
his thoughts in poetry he'll write.

His scribbled extension of soul,
in wayward season's bosom kept,
the drifting pain of tangled heart beats,
left behind on icy roads.

He's shedding the skin of social pretense,
thrown ragged to the gutter vile,
where the old blood runs as a ghostly epitaph ,
seen only by Owls & Vespertine wanderers.

How many have come before me,
who walk under heaven's fire,
searching a footstep's soul,
for the tarmac councillor's silent words.

A shooting star's blinding arch,
scars the eye of memory,
branding his mind with the vision,
of forces elemental.

They surround him with ancient whispers,
singing songs through soil & sky,
as the Zephyr bows to the north east wind,
he brings the night through ink...alive.

©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Tuesday, 19 January 2016

~Thought’s Playground~

 My heart,
can you see me,
I’m way up here,
in safety I watch the dark & swirling turmoil,
within a river of confusion,
where thousands walk in chaos strides.

If I were one of them,
a face in a dazzled crowd,
would I perceive the maelstrom of my existence,
would I know better or worse.

If I witness the sea of light,
and hear the sound of singing stars,
would heart & mind’s waking comfort be undone,
a dawning sense of the surreal.

If I accepted all before me,
would I see my soaring soul,
way up there calling down,
my heart,
can you see me.

©David Nickle Read 2016
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Monday, 4 January 2016

~Tear Step Trip~

The long distance trip began,
soul sniper’s soaring bullets strike,
fired from the ethereal plain,
through root stem leaf & sap,
the infant rind of classic verse immerse the senses in a warm violet haze,
it haunts you from the indigestive thoughts of a library wholly devoured,
a third eye’s meditation sight, 
shamanic auguries that rend the walls of the timeless,
ancient garden.

Here the seeds of knowledge grow,
becoming the fruitful truth of clarity,
digging deep through concrete streets,
to awaken from tomb-land slumbers,
the forgotten farmland’s bones, 
where a river’s ghost flows through lands of shrouded genius,
it’s vaunted banks lined with downcast faces trapped,
society’s boot upon their gift;
held down by dirty plastic soles.

So their secrets they covet,
heart pressed and blooming,
flowers in the dark casting webs of coverts scents,
drawing night’s Moth where the Butterfly should reign,
and there she plays in silent strokes,
screaming unstrung violins,
drawing her bow of a vision held,
over ghostly quivering strings,
she hears the music in her rhythm’s heart,
beating at the bars of her paranoia’s cage,
she imagines flights of fluid dance stilling the ordered echo of her prison,
plunging scowling laugher's faces,
beneath the humming tides of sunlight.

She takes a Christ like step,
upon the sea of tears,
waves rise from her light skipping sole to break upon my wayward shores,
where the Seagull cries of the long distance trip,
from here to evermore,
drifting endlessly in the brink of perception,
to walk the event horizon of her dreams,
and whisper my name to her soul...

©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved  By The Author

Sunday, 27 December 2015

~A Snake Smoking Soul~

The heavy soled snake slithers,
from the secret home of fear,
through the blood’s guilty river it slithers,
seeking the vein truth of a drug’s silken preface...
it stirs the silence from thought’s clamour,
turned in mind from congestive will,
to the night of freedom’s cool caressing winds...
shedding a skin of shadow between the ancient rocks of a paradise refrain,
imagined in whispers or whispered to imagination,
it sings, singing, singing, singing wild notes of forgotten torments,
as once more you feel your face in the sun,
freed from the grave of the flesh,
a sojourn in the spirit’s dance...
where the snakes waltz through infinite orchards,
under trees of infinite forbidden fruit,
offering the infinite naked Eve,
a bite of infinite sight,
in a finite cell of bones,
where the demons of temptation steal infinite finite wills of wax,
melting in the immortal flame of mortal mechanised madness...
unseen until thought of,
unthought of until felt,
unfelt until the heavy soled snakes slithers,
from the secret home of fear.

©David Nickle Read 2015
All  Rights Reserved By The Author

Friday, 18 December 2015


Scribbled poetry,
from crooked dreams of hospital pavements,
outside littered with spent cigarettes and scattered comforting daydreams,
inside they wait on time’s constant hand,
relentless ticking counters of life,
slow passing paranoia’s whisper,
hung heavy in corners as dusty factory cobwebs,
down endless shining sterile corridors,
flickering lights a mirror of life,
where one goes out,
another’s switched on.

Circles circles,
endless circles,
locked here in the desert cave,
things aren’t so different,
the shaman wears a stethoscope,
adorned in bright scrubs,
they dance with death,
stealing his glory where they can,
incantation’s of medicine’s tongue,
chanted over heart beat rhythms,
smeared with blood & enemies unseen,
count to ten Mr. Read...then dream.

©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Wednesday, 16 December 2015

Colosseum Dust

They remove temptation,
the big, ever present, they,
the ones that watch,
vicarious vultures,
soul sucked through sex,
expectation's loosely vexed,
their beady jaundiced eyes,
drinking life from stranded cups,
washed upon forgotten shores,
distant and inviting,
far from the falsely adverse,
free from their jealousy,
wailed as a child's make  believe shock...

All so scurrilous and scandalous,
they'd dribble if they could,
but their nature forged an ugly cage,
a petty puritan's plastic smile,
all he wants he shall revile,
a thirst born of lack life dust,
parched of love and blood and lust,
they fear to walk the arena,
Colosseum of society,
cum stained seats of cinema piety,
burning piles of red tape lies,
to light the way of vapid collapse,
a flickering screen of arse prolapse,
as the apocalypse unfurls within steamy walls,
money, saliva, cunts and balls,
sail seamen sail...

In collusion with the night,
away from this shore of loved hated delight,
walk with anger's purpose until the blood has bled,
to be lost, alone, as good as dead,
head buried in the sands of dark forest depth,
forget me, so I can forget myself,
forget you,
forget the world of people,
forget the anger beneath  minaret  and steeple,
forget facades,
forget  to forget,
and see the truth of existence,
burning bright against social insistence,
just forget,
for now,
for life,
for growth,
for memory to make sense,
for the future...

©David Nickle Read 2015

All Rights Reserved By The Author

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

~A Very Human Wit~

The wit maniacal poured so darkly from his veins, born of the richness unraveled, by insanity’s black gift; it hovers, as the genius vagabond, watching from the edge of a plastic crowd...a crowd, wrapped in the pretense, of their own, sweet delusions of worth.

They’ll die one day, in golden ditches, but ditches they are, none the less, obvious, forgotten and lost...’The Vagabond’, soars for the sands of one breath, and is remembered, for an eternity of true human thought...’tis a very human wit, that elevates the Duck, o’er the Swan.

©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

~Before We Fuck~

Their cool night air,
attraction there,
lust dances invisible,
a gyrating pulse,
of ever decreasing circles,
inward, inward,
the dancer steps,
drawing slowly closer,
to the lover’s languid dreams,
a shaman swinging censors soars,
in mind whispering,
heady, honeyed vapours,
as spells seep deep in vein,
soul blood infected,
thought rejected,
now impulse,
is your sultry God...

©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Monday, 24 August 2015

Saturday, 15 August 2015

~The Beauty~

The shining black snake,
monster of dimension’s loss,
tattooed with roman numerals of molten gold,
perfect in place, fluid and immaculate;
you are what you eat,
he devours time mercilessly,
it’s influence on the mind,
drifts ethereal,
whispering from the grasp of thought’s illicit and invisible hand.

The hour glass drips tears of fire,
flaring bright and disappearing without a trace of their presence,
the glass topples as the snake slithers past,
a three dimensional depiction of a twisted figure eight,
now lays upon my canvas...
we have only interpretations of breath;
within the stasis of our time.

©David Nickle Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Friday, 26 June 2015

~To Read Beneath Trees~

~The Passing End~

Porcelain castings of death,
In the green house of dreams,
Stacked lonely on bygone dusty shelves,
memoirs of perfect life trapped beneath cracked glass,
sickly green and brittle broken,
dirty blood stained;
and no place for the Sun.

Tin pot tearing Brambles,
sever rusty watering cans,
thoughts of eternal desert torture,
dripping from bullet pocked troughs,
makes puddles of reeking straw rotting time,
where the Flies of yesterday’s neglect,
breed Maggots for tomorrow’s guilt,
in the village of bones where dust children play;
with the ghosts of forgotten Dogs.

~Old Road’s Prophecy~

I rode along decaying roads,
where steel once fled Elysium;
in White Rabbit delirium.

The Trees have claimed back their land,
tarmac cracked and flower filled;
rushing rails of time slow killed.

Horse Chestnuts fall where Squirrels run,
old highway of death no longer roars;
another age beneath the forest floors.

I lent my bike against an Alder trunk,
listened to Beech Mast drop,
within Ivy’s realm a sign said stop.

The carpet of leaves a covering,
hide Cat’s Eyes and long white lines;
following the clock hand’s tine.

Brushing the leaves of years aside,
a road written prophecy of the day;
it said, though never read...give way.

©D.N.Read 2015
All Rights Reserved By The Author

Saturday, 13 June 2015

~Sea paper scissor stones~

If you go to the sea...
please throw in a stone for me...
for then the ripples that follow travel to where the earth bleeds...

They wash over the pain...
travel back around again...
coming back as the tide with lost souls of the slain...

I’ll carry them with me...
until the day that I die...
and that alone old friend explains the look in my eyes...

When you start to cry...
and your tears come like a flood...
let them fall into an ocean that pays for all the blood...

Sea paper scissor stones...
a game we all know...
but they’re playing with a hand that makes us all miss a go...

We are all to blame...
when the wild cannons roar...
if we really wanted peace then we’d open up that door...

We could one day stay in bed...
fill the money men with dread...
for if we weren’t turning the cogs the machine would lay dead...

Oh we won’t hear your lies...
we won’t care what you say...
leave you bloody in your sorrow praying for yesterday...

Now are you done making martyrs...
for a news paper fix...
as you twist the words of one who writhes on your crucifix...

No you couldn’t just hear him...
as one speaking of love...
no you had to write a book that rains down fire from above...

Yes you kill all our prophets..
and corrupt all their seeds...
no not a lot has changed since old Gethsemane...

But I know what you fear...
you can’t keep the soul down...
and one day in our voices your dark souls will drown...

I hope we’ll come to see...
that we we're all born free...
and all you’ve got to do to get it back is throw away your greed...

So when you’re standing on the shore...
watching the sun go down...
sing this song and throw your stone and watch the waves come back around...

All rights reserved by the author
©David Nickle Read 2015

Tuesday, 27 January 2015

The Butter-Wasp-Man Experiment


All Rights Reserved By The Artist David Nickle Read
©D.N.Read 2015

Friday, 5 December 2014

'Poems Of Constance'

 Hello, I thought I would give you, the world, a book to read for free. This anthology I've been adding to now and again called 'Poems Of Constance' She's evolved over a fair period of time and I hope you folks like reading it as much I liked the writing. Usually when I write an anthology they just come out from start to finish, not this one though, I've been adding poems and prose that I thought belonged as and when I wrote them, hence the dates in the copyright...anyway, I digress, I hope you enjoy it and I will at some point in the future make it available in paperback for those of you that love the too, can't help it.

Author Held Copyright;
Poem’s Of Constance
David Nickle Read
©D.N.Read 2012
Privately Witnessed Copyright;
©B.K.Read & D.N.Read 2014

The Poems & Prose

  1. Poet’s Flower
  2. Spare A Thought For Angels
  3. The Restlessness
  4. Lamentation’s Circled Love
  5. Reflections Of Frozen Design
  6. Thought Traveller
  7. Constance
  8. Man Morning Sickness
  9. Unique The Dawning
10. Strength In Patience
11. The Skylark’s Riches
12. Whole Broken Bottles
13. Wherever You Call Home
14. Damocles Media
15. Money’s Just A Tool
16. Society Thawing
17.  So Oddly Physical
18. A Long Way To Go
19. Acorn Contradictions
20. Angels Of Within
21. A Poetical Study In Pauses
22. Soft Singer
23. Paradox Acceptance
24. Present Transitional Future
25. Fevered Words
26. Title
27. Moulded Vision
28. Consuming Innocence
29. We Had Time Before Time
30. As On They Flowed
31. Teacher’s Dream
32. A Stain Of Sleep
33. Home Soon
34. Dreamer’s Cowl
35. A Lunar Tale
~36 My Deathbed Vision~
37.  The Art Of Night & Day
38. Sole To Soul
39. The Crack In Honest Mirrors
40.  The Fear Of Spring
41. I Mistook His Words
42. My Distance

1, Poet’s Flower

The song of rain on window pane, melody of Winter’s eve, forever chants of each rain drop, the web of sound it weaves.

Hollow howl of chimney’s height, sonorous lullaby, some hear as ghostly voice of night, dark perception of storm’s sky.

Outside the Oak trees moan and creek, black wailing depths of weather, I jump while writing, window whacked, broken wind blown sprig of Heather.

The watery leitmotif  noise, brings unexpected sound, distant water fall, my gutter, body and mind’s tension unwound.

The beauty of our instincts struck, reflecting Winter’s gale,
how subconsciously ready I was, by the elemental wail.

The primal noise of water’s power, snatched up my sense’s fist, this then is the poet’s flower, the mind and nature’s tryst.

2. Spare A Thought For Angels

The voices came so sweet and soft, as imagined Angels might sing, I gave over my will to them, the elemental truth they bring.
The ghostly faces, somehow real, close enough to touch, the melody though came from distance, for the heart almost to much.
Their beauty was beyond compare, I try to visualise,
mind’s eye, but how could I expect to grasp, that which is oft to Gods denied.
They were purest soul to see, no tangible state, contradiction speaks much truth at times, to hold their hands would seal my fate.
Their presence felt as if I’d left my body, or when time awake turns to deep sleep, when they smile the nature sighs, when they frown the nature weeps.
They spoke an august language, that’s heard far down inside, communication of all feeling, with no need of words to hide.
They come when sadness creeps to me, when torn are hopes and dreams, they stand with me in lonely times, they calm a world of screams.
You’ll know of them from time to time, the ghostly hand that smooths your hair, when you return to peaceful sleep, after dread’s nightmare.
They’re the ones who whisper, look again, crossing complacent roads, pull you back from night trains platform, when you thought you stood alone.
When you say to self after near miss, how the hell am I still here, you can thank luck if you want to, but just remember they will hear.
Spare a thought for Angels, no matter what they are, for when you need to be picked up, their hand is never far.

3. The Restlessness

Restlessness the creeping beast, disturbs quiet repose, desire to do, to make a move, a feel everyone knows.

It rises up from lack of purpose, when hand and mind have been long stilled,thought becomes a circus, turbulent folly filled.

Fingers twitching with the fractious mind, muse wanders over twiddling thumbs, I swear to madness with much more of this, the intellect will numb.

Thus as this disturbed thought flees, I grasped my lazy pen, escaping words to parchments ease, write away idol’s insane, restlessness no more to tease, upon my aching brain, pressure left behind in clouds,  smoke behind the ancient train.

4. *Lamentation’s Circled Love

The pessimist compiled a list, of many rankled wrongs, of smiling life he missed the gist, but he wrote a touching song.

The pain feeding his daily life, and he, are sadly one, but he wrote a lamentation, of a dying setting Sun.

To misery his scales were tipped, he wrote feeling of lost love, to the Mountains he stole with his script, hurt crying from above.

The people heard pessimist’s words, with him empathy they feel, so his misery had company, and found a love that’s real.

*The poem above is for those who can find the positive in the most negative of times and places.

5. Reflections Of Frozen Design

Moon light blades cast through shadows deep, slicing through eyelids to stir me from sleep, awake to see clouds chasing behind the boughs, catching my breath whisper heavenly vows.

Lifting coffin limbs of arthritic repose, rising floorboard joints creaking under the toes, donning cold wool jumper to stave off the frost, the sheep will grow back that which through time we lost.

Primal blood smoulders fire quickening pace, long to stand under Oaks Moon beaming face, crystal frost lawn crunches under each boot, startling Owl cries a hollow felt hoot.

The Mist drifts through Pine a gift of God’s design, inspiring snare of Night’s fate I resign, wrapped in awe’s ice quilt beauty’s frozen land, reflection in verse of that Night’s trembling hand.

6. Thought Traveller

Those of chosen moments speak, fated, their show of will, benign shall be the outcome, your choice to swallow pill.

The moments destiny derives, to show us to the path, first step of trepidation, or skip indifferent with a laugh.

The time, if it is indeed so, turns us from our quest, time limiting a man made factor, rushing all that’s slowly best.

The thought cannot be measured, exists outside clocks chains, to live a life time in a deep thought hour, ageless upon this plain.

Those of chosen moment’s voice, may speak a truth clear from afar, some echo eternity, full circles outrun stars.

The speed of light a sedate plod, confined by measurement, thought speed’s traveller there and back, before light ever went.

7. Constance

Such a frightful hash of things,
Constance seemed to make,
even rudimentary tasks,
an age she had to take.
When raking leaves on summer days,
she’d make a dreadful mess,
neighbours peering over the fence,
would pity saying “Bless”.
These leaves she’d throw up in the air,
laughing as they float back down,
oblivious as on she skipped,
of upturned nosey frowns.
She’d rake a giant pile of fronds,
arms outstretched she’d fall back,
twigs tangled in her auburn hair,
the town’s folk faces black.
She’d see a floating butterfly,
playing in the breeze,
twirling she’d follow butter-flight,
falling to skin her knees.
Her pout of pain a temporary thing,
Ladybird caught her eye,
she’d lay hands holding up her chin,
until off it would fly.
Her eyes would fix upon the blue,
smiling with Skylark’s song,
and all the time others would look,
swearing there’s something wrong.
The trouble is she's thirty one,
much too old for play,
for when all is said and done,
thirty one's should work all day.
But she never noticed one hard look,
if she did she’d never care,
at least they can watch freedom,
with their Constance stand and stare.

8. Man Morning Sickness

The somethings wrong not knowing song, written here for all,
not just a list of bizarre symptoms, but a poem of a fall.
Awoke this morning sluggish limbs, feeling slightly sick,
while making morning beverages, all movement seemed to stick.
A cloudy head shook for relief, but dizziness then followed,
only felt like one cigarette, hot coffee barely swallowed.
The ride to work on knife edge nerves, left me short of breath,
if I didn’t know the better, I’d swear feeling like death.
Set to work my staunch head down, get a grip man, shake it off,
but the smell of all the chemicals, just made me gag and cough.
I still finished with time to spare, it didn’t slow me down,
but temples have stomach butterflies, just more to cause a frown.
I cycled home morning shift done, head bent to biting breeze,
and all the while I felt better, each mile feeling more pleased.
Could it just be that on this day, I had an allergic reaction,
causing all this sickness strife, causing this distraction.
I think I’ve diagnosed myself, I’m sure I know the hurt,
this morning waking by my wife, I just didn’t feel like work.

9. Unique The Dawning

The dark veil still shrouded the land,
dawn yet far away,
night’s verses strength enduring,
sickle Moon’s light holding sway.

Icknield way I travelled slow,
rickety bike rattle my frame,
curses until beauty seen,
above the Stars aflame.

To work I settled mop and broom,
the dust and mud wiped clean,
shaking a rug in crisp cold air,
there came the eastern gleam.

Golden blue of birthing morn,
awoke behind the hills,
worth the rotten ride to work,
for each new dawn’s fresh thrill.

10. Strength In Patience

Boundaries decaying stone built walls,
of Minds encased in clay,
ready for firing in the tomb,
furnace of thinking days.

Hard baked brains of open thought,
one more dead creation brick,
stacked to make walls of blind realities,
politics to make them stick.

Futile energies of freedom,
compressed inside the grave,
life without expression’s sweet release,
another buried slave.

Warring faction’s interactions,
pressed and crushed we fear,
our individual thought is being bought,
the real enemy’s here.

Minds moulded by a country’s hate,
when hearts scream out for peace,
you’re made into a willing number,
to reach another’s golden fleece.

Thus back to our decaying wall,
 each one of us a sandy grain,
all you need do to bring it down,
embrace flowing time’s rain....

11. The Skylark’s Riches

Dawn venturing the early bird shakes his weary head,
of all the early rising folk this much there can be said,
that wandering forth in dawn’s first light can be a cheery chore,
though no other folk see the bird that’s first to go outdoors.

He ruffles lifeless downy form back into blood’s vigor,
the suns first light touches his eye and starts the singer’s vocal trigger,
one of the many rhythmic voices chants chorus’ of dawn,
washing away the tears of night and cheering those forlorn.

He spreads his tiny feathered wings taking to frozen air,
soars high into the blue above whistling away all care,
on high he watches mother earth stirring way beneath,
slow clearing of the drifting mists reveals the dewy heath.

The grey green canvas down below begins to paint itself,
oh to be laid here so envious of all the Skylark’s wealth,
men at work on hard roads side digging in the ditches,
smile to here the summer song of Skylark’s natural riches.

12. Whole Broken Bottles

Long was the inner madness toil,
bereft of heart’s true voice,
long was the walk with a borrowed soul,
chemically robbed of choice.

Swallowed insanity corrupting life,
ten green bottles of suicide,
guzzled cackling arduous death,
in sick revelry’s poison hide.

Dawn’s pain of halfway sober truth,
gazing hopeful at the cross,
twisted malt stigmata,
a soul the crucifixion lost.

Soda water sherry pint,
consumed in one at six a m,
haze of dying addiction smiles,
cavalier guilt self condemned.

Punishing self for punishing self,
liquor death catch twenty two,
judged by the grinning mirror,
reflection loving hating you.

Pill pot likeness cry for help,
sought with whiskey every hour,
sweet repentance of tortured suicide,
drunk asleep in graveyard flowers.

Waking at sunset swallow more,
pace the streets searching for hope,
judgemental faces never stopped to help,
the good town’s folk just cannot cope.

To woodland bed and thinking fires,
via the vodka store,
for the nightly drinker’s demon fights,
for tomorrow’s little bit more.

A world inside green bottles,
standing on the wall,
broken before they reach the ground,
no accident they fall.

The terror of the trembling hand,
tears haunting red eyes,
yellow skin’s black liver blood,
a ghost before he dies.

13. Wherever You Call Home

Some say it’s where you hang your hat,
put your feet up of a night,
some say it’s where the heart is,
a place for which you’d fight.

Some say it’s where folks find peace,
at the end of tiring days,
to some just where food’s eaten,
a spot where your head lays.

I’ve heard it said that home is here,
where you are when reading this,
some say it’s where they’re born,
went to school, had their first kiss.

Some say it’s where they’ll rest their bones,
come their final call,
where they’d be happy buried,
or just the place they finally fall.

I think it’s where you find yourself,
I think it’s where you’re true,
I think it’s all the places,
where you can just be you.

14. Damocles Media

Inconsequential leaden whim,
dragging down true thought,
news paper gods invite your view,
on the latest soul they’ve bought.
Berating bar-room barrage,
profanity firing at will,
if the opinionated carried knives,
the latest Lamb they’d surely kill.
From the billions a face is led,
dumbly to the slaughter,
a CCTV celebrity,
smiling at the bloody alter.
“Hey Mum look I’m famous,
they all know who I am,”
“Yes Son you’re about to die,
and no one gives a damn.
If  you were just a nobody,
they’d speak out to save your life,
but today you’re tomorrow’s bloody news,
under Media’s knife.”
A dalliance with dazzling fame,
kill character through your soul,
pub people tear apart your name,
welcome to society’s hole.
Consequences of your leaden whim,
buried your true thought,
news paper gods now have your voice,
you’re the latest soul they’ve bought.

15. Money’s Just A Tool

The morning’s wailing work lament, the hard day’s endless chore,
what time is there left to live life, existing, nothing more.
To respective jobs at dawn’s first call, then home for dinner time,
dead minds chew television fat, then sleeping freedom find.
Five days a week at least of this, weekends wash wax the car,
maybe movies and restaurants, never roaming that far.
Three weeks a year of holiday, enough time to unwind,
but you’re back to work just before, your true self’s meaning binds.
Fifty years of this at least, will buy you but old age,
yes your kids have education, prepared for the same cage.
This is the way of things I know, so don’t swear my way so strong,
I’m just saying make better use of time, TV stagnation seems so wrong.
There is a world of wonder, outside of your front door,
go out and feel the nature, just this and nothing more.
Every town has an allotment, go out and make things grow,
old ways provide for families too, there’s vegetables to sow.
Your life is still your life folks, I know we all need money,
but it’s your soul that achieves all your goals,
thinking it’s coins just seems funny!

16. Society Thawing

Coloured forming shapes of word,
fluent in mind’s vision,
catalyst of creation fired,
furnace of art’s decision.

Emptied essence of a soul,
bleeding veins of ink,
arteries spilling crimson verse,
ephemeral to think.

Binding words of fluid sight,
communication bridging voids,
holding true an un-named sense,
for vapid knowing thus destroys.

Tangible lures, the tactile law,
the playground of the fool,
sensing senses’ feeling,
is knowing senses’ tool.

Sixth sense a mere delightful scratch,
surface of feeling’s frozen lake,
open-mindedness needs not a key,
just time to thaw society’s fakes.

17. So Oddly Physical

Evolution of a covered word, wrapped in misunderstanding,
beaks breaking first light’s shell, new air of life to fly,
that which lifts the birds to flight, without which breath would die.

A word a dawn’s first breath then, many thousands more to follow,
coursing thought through mind and vein, semblance of creation’s manifestation.

Oh how the musings tumble, the science of intelligent design?
Sublime contradiction of sense, the perfect abstract vision,
stillness of place in time.

Frozen moments thaw to laugh, statues blink and smile,
lifting marble lifeless hands, hide smirking lichen lips.

Human ears fluent to Skylark, understanding feet on heath,
where lay ancestors who knew before, their bones of chalk beneath.

They whisper on lone windy days, when walking calls our path,
leave behind another story, our very human aftermath.

But goodly are our spider webs, criss-crossing the land,
who would think beauty was owed to feet, and not our mighty hands.

Our finest creation, accident, our legacy from A to B,
an immortal loop forever joined, growing for all who see,
we transition’s finest ghost, so oddly, physically.

18. A Long Way To Go

Short legs ,many moons past,
started walking little miles, long paths,
long shanks limping, today’s light sees,
walking long miles, long tracks behind.

Early days mind unclouded, the world,
saw freely passing traveller's steps,
world jaded vision stole many days,
long miles in foggy boggy fields,
this day’s eye clear again, given back,
long tracks behind.

Thought’s feather light floating feel,
began to ask the sky, books held no stories,
the path written below my feet, perfect print,
track of foot, track of heart, track of mind, track of soul,
all left from one crossroad, all came back to their start,
one path now to wander, perfect cursive beneath my feet,
long tracks behind.

Slowly walking waking sleeping, same state at times,
breathing every horizon crossed, feeling every print,
making paths of my own, weave a thread in greater web,
they leave their prints upon me,
body and soul a landscape of many miles,
long tracks behind, long way to go....

19. Acorn Contradictions it begins, stirring question’s footward gaze, contemplating dust, but thought belongs to another place, ground up chalk swirling, just a focus. Where have you gone, many miles at your back, still wander on, trance trudge, pebble kicking, eyes blind to outward paths.
Stile stopping stomping progress, here and now greets you,
sudden reality’s handshake, six miles footfalls passed.
Dawn’s open door began your walk, sunny sky now noon high,
impossible distance and time in mind, these daydreamer’s tracks.
Borrowed time now marked in rhyme, a day within this verse,
synopsis of a daydream’s drift, within this muse immersed.
Two places I can borrow millennia, one upon the road, the other cursive time slayer, driven by poet’s goad. Nowhere else can lifetimes pass, but there within our dreams, Oak tree of thought grown in a day, roots, branches, trunk and leaves, and so, here it ends...with an Acorn.

20. Angels Of Within

There is a place inside souls collected, where all folks dreams dwell in states of transitional peace, flowers grow there in wooded glades of effervescent green, they wander there in drifting sleep, gateway of the dreamers voyage. Here feeling is untainted by loss or gain, perfect cognitive gnosis of feeling, beyond the ken of physical touch, bridge to known life, the living mind. As clouds of spirit walking, they float shrouded in light, verdant healing figures of forest’s essence,  those of blue bell hue, dotted flowers of earth soul, rose pink warmth of fluid paths, they the changing ones, deep purple delving mystics, red fire’s blazing heart, the winter wanderers white, cleansing light walking. In all they dwell, when looked for answering calls, ghosts of the self, in consciousness they work, from subconscious realms they sing, existence in all places, the angels of within.

21. A Poetical Study In Pauses

My hand outstretched...ground touching,
sandy slate my path, somewhere joins the
great walk’s web...feeling chalk.

Can you smell the Sea...Herring Gul, hearing
Skylark, Jenny Wren Bramble flit, heather
visions...breathing all.

Woodland know a place, essence
of land’s magic, where roots delve, fingers
of Oak, Ash and Birch, ever searching, tendrils
feeling for the core...centre of place.

Roots splitting rock...taste the Sea, great
gnarled arms, lever Limestone, grasping
Granite, bark bound fingers stretch, sense
tactile presence of waves, hold fast, leaning
seaward precipice...fluid abyss...lucid taction
visions, hear a dream of Trees, in the wind
wisdom’s voice, whispering...”All...All...All
things one...”

22. Soft Singer

Time for singing softly, comforts limping walk,
mind transcending pain, a song inspired by vision,
scenes upon the path, I softly sing again.

Heather verses healing knee, fire bright Gorse my Ankle’s line,
new leaves a heady balm, Trees of bent old frozen men,
the beauties scene upon the path, I softly sing again.

Skylark soothing aching shins, Sea’s thunder neck caress,
shore waterfall wash away pain, wind torn by the high Gul cry,
all sounds upon the path, I softly sing again.

Wafting softly Bluebell scents, salt tang of rolling deeps,
spring rain upon sun dried slate, nets drying on the quay,
sweet smells upon the path, I softly sing again.

Cool changing grains of footfall’s sand, great rocks cool touching skin,
Seaweed slips between sore Toes, as healing on I sing,
the mind’s great link to body, I softly sing again.

Hum a tune to hold my thought, whistling with the Birds,
voicing wonder all around, throbbing joints forgotten,
my song upon the path...I’ll softly sing again.

23. *Paradox Acceptance

Petrol quick ignition shock, sense sent reeling flight,
where does the heart of passion lay, a love of sound at night.
Imagination terror grasp, conjures fancied ghouls,
where does the heart of thrills lay, sometimes within the fools.
Psychosomatic visions pain, attacking body with mind,
where does the heart of darkness lay, freedom that fear binds.
Seeking shadows that can touch, misunderstanding night,
where does peace in moonlight dwell, where vespertine’s will walk by right.
So many adult minds that run, inventions of their guilt,
where can you find fearlessness then, hiding under your quilt.
Gnosis open mindedness, many truths never one,
where does such a place exist, where one is many things combined,
acceptance of paradoxical, think within thought to find.

*This is an exploration of a simple musing I had, it is here to illustrate what I write now. Exploring ones mind is something never to be underestimated in value. It shows us who we are if we are honest in our explorations, it strengthens morale resolve, breeds in us the ability to keep an open mind and most importantly, when we can see ourselves in another light, we can learn to see others from a different perspective too.  Perhaps then, we can begin to understand each other and respect each others opinions regardless of personal beliefs. Some things of course are right and wrong, but it is important to remember, there are many ways to be right about one thing, and many ways to be wrong about one thing. We all have our own path to walk, some take the scenic route.

24. Present’s Transitional Future

There always has to be a first step, on great circles timeless continuum,
each new cycle has it’s footfall’s birth, last step’s transition to first, change the only constant. Chicken egg boundaries invade such thought, when did it all begin? Did first come first upon the wheel or last?
Hunting for answers, they will look back, tracking our steps to their big bang. They will delve further still, peering past said bang, finding themselves looking in the mirror of their present, struck with the realisation that they have no future until it’s upon them. Walking in a constant state of present’s transitional future, they will come to know that living in a statistically predicted future is a product of the futility of knowing one’s past and failing to learn from one’s mistakes. They will say statistics will prevent bad things from happening again and show them how to stick to a statistically good path, with the rein of probability in one hand and logic in the other, statistics firmly harnessed, it’ll all be fine...of course, all such things are determined forgetting to include imagination in the calculation, new creation has no past, their effects cannot be predicted, nor the outcome of the effects. They may find that the only thing that is not part of of the great circle, is new creation born of when did it all begin?
With a thought? It’s a thought that just made me smile, science may prove intelligent design. These are my thoughts today, they are new, now they have a past, I shall enjoy their present transitional future. 

25. Fevered Words

Rasping breath of pain, gasping mouthfuls of sweet air, sinus pressure suffocation, gaping, dying fish like, scales of sickness tipping high tide, pour green medicine, roaring head, pounding waves, poor green mannequin, become hallucination’s slave.
 Lucid moments slip away, imagination, helps such moments come to pass, catalyst of cracked sick visions, see them sail surreal, through the bottom of the spy glass, I’m sipping iced tea from it.
 Fall back to sand dune pillows, how did the beach get in my house, sea my bed of sweating fevered sleep, faces loom from distant clouds, fluid paint upon my ceiling writhes, they seem to speak a tongue of seagulls, I shoe them from my bread, I’m unwell I need the sustenance.
 Clouds rolling away, take the faces drifting, unsheathed sword of sunlight stab at my brain, flocks of cackling gulls now darken the blaze, pulling on the ropes of my ship, innocent visage of savage beaks tearing, a voyage may bring rest, it seems even here I must travel.
 Closing the windows of my feature’s cabin, wheel house of the mind, sheets  unfurled snatch the breeze, easy here to breathe, the navigator fled the deck, as we enter into dreams.
Upon strange shores of walking portraits, our craft drifts to a halt, five great birds beseech my ear, I listen from cold silk comfort.
 Of winged messengers, but few there are, these bright ellipsoid’s fooling days, dystopia stretched it’s sterile hand, to cast the birds away, fueling fear with social opinion.
 Feathers a band substance, comfort to high a price, dust mites, germs and pointed occasions, poke through cotton unexpectedly, the birds don’t mind for feathers remain, on the wing they fly, banished to forests to sing their refrain.
They outlawed the winged messenger, in his absence his voice grew louder, haunting dystopian ears, for none now sing in plastic parks or designated trees, gone is the winged messenger, with the silence of the leaves, their world a contrived mockery, of this little wood remaining real.
 I called to the boat for my quill, this story must be told, the ships first mate my mirrored me, answer’s clarity of tone, a voice that carries through cannon, though a gentle zephyr’s call, the very living vale to summon, sound soothing knight’s last fall. The reminder, all within a voice, from the truest heart, the melody of earth bound angel’s, wisdom to impart, these friends of melting shores slip by, plumage waving farewell, I promise them, their story heard, but I have deeper to delve.
 The storm approaches now, fear of mortal conclusion thunders from lightning horizons, laid in black veil’s sickness, dark portents of death plague my thoughts, visions played out before me, of what my time on Earth has bought.
 Six poems for submission, atop the mantle neatly creased, mourners in shadowed gowns discuss, should we publish his last piece. My will shakes off this gloaming muse, I’ve  knocked at real death’s door, I see cold fever’s hallucination, a Winter’s chill and little more.
 Chimera’s wailing voice tempts questions, what if this was my last work? What message would it send? my will’s testament to life, my mind before the end.  One said care for all the small, watching over the meek, another for amusement’s sake, with a twist for those who seek. One of dusty country paths, delving deeper into life, another of time’s futility, the thieving chimes that strike. One of open mindedness, the ever learning teachers, last of peace and acceptance, without sounding the preacher.  I thought thus in my troubled mind, sleep drifted over me, if this were the last ink from the well, my soul could now fly free, lost in this sweet delirium, with ending’s happiness  I’ve seen, a rose immortally in bloom, perfection of a dream.

26. Title

Here is the title, one day for recital,
if ever my words get that far,
and all are invited, to become exited,
if ever I can raise my bar.

Indeed I do try, to make my words fly,
to become great poems or prose,
but title shan't try, to capture your eye,
it all will come down to verse flows.

The title is here, in ink written clear,
for all to ponder and pick,
but what I hold dear,  poets without fear,
for theirs are the poems that stick.

It is truly hard, here after the bard,
to conjure both reason and rhyme,
but I’ll play my card, and glue all the shards,
‘tis my meal to season and thyme.

Thus here is my thought, for which I have fought,
inside and outside of my mind,
so long was it sought, and not cheaply bought,
in these pages for you to find.

We all surely long, to write no real wrong,
though righting real wrong is our cause, 
for real writer’s song, to capture the throng,
we must have your hearts think to pause.

27. Moulded Vision

The sublime path of all our art,
we follow mind’s fluid instruction,
to feel creation flowing free,
our poetry seduction.

Tempered wealth of moulded vision,
insurrection of the hearts,
distilled in passion’s potions,
a scene to play a part.

Equations of the vaulted truth,
how got you to the sky,
protected by a simple roof,
your glory but a lie.

Incandescent Venus repose,
carven purest white,
how got you past sin fearing eyes,
without the darkest night.

Alabaster Seraphim,
dance round chandeliers,
how got you these decadent heights,
without a mortal’s fear.

Love’s licentious pheronyms,
screaming dust from rafters,
accidental genius,
how got you fame here after.

To all greatness there is a cost,
blacksmith forging chains,
how got you iron ore to twist,
without the kiss of flames.

The sword snatched from the coals,
hammered fire that rains,
how find you now your will to forge,
behind secret blood stains.

Benevolent rat catcher,
setting malevolent snares,
how got you your morality,
from death without a care.

Consume you man, all resource,
snatch lightning from the skys,
but unless you love that which you paint,
you steal from your own eyes.

28. Consuming Innocence

Travelling the cruel hard road,
depths of night present a boon,
carcass of a Muntjac death,
eyes wide under the moon.

It’s last gaze fixed upon the fields,
where it was born and there first cried,
last moment running for the green,
upon Man’s black road died.

To country folk the Deer is food,
would feed well my wife and I,
such beauty must not die in vain,
lift light to boot with heavy sigh.

They of nature are as family,
We respect, we care, we love,
never kill unless we mean to eat,
thank ancestors high above.

The local Inn we drove and spoke,
of who might share the bounty,
Venison is prized by most,
in wild pockets of home counties.

I stayed and happy chatter flowed,
lemonade with lemon slice,
but the night had fitful plans for me,
once more rolled the fickle dice.

In the driveway of my Oaken home,
I played the Butcher’s part,
many times before and after this,
passed generation’s art.

The blades keen edge made it’s first cut,
moonlit steel slicing my my heart,
the tiny form of foetal Deer,
with it’s Mother still one part.

End of life’s chord umbilical,
the elfin form of death,
I muttered curses through my tears,
choking back my fleeing breath.

I carried them, Mother and Child,
back to fields where life they spent,
we never sever Mother nature’s bond,
or consume innocence.

Laying them under Hawthorn’s hedge,
bidding their spirits run in peace,
for the greatest act in human nature,
is caring for the least.

29. We Had Time Before Time

Lighting the way past the clocks foolish spell,
upon the tick tocking time many folk dwell,
fooling themselves into running too fast,
everyone’s late keeping time that can’t last.

A second is gone as the minutes tick by,
thinking of time’s wasting time with a sigh,
hours slip by as the days turn to weeks,
dwelling on death time of year’s end they seek.

The mind moving magically through the clock’s face,
mockery of a second hand cog out of place,
travel to the sun and back turning wheel’s tooth,
oblivious of time seeking a higher truth.

Invest in the silence to find peace of mind,
watching time pieces can make the soul blind,
delve inside self touching universal brink,
before we had clock’s time we had time to think.

30. As On They Flowed

Dust gathering footprints of parched country road,
summer scent mist kicked up on the path flowed,
winding forever towards setting sun,
locked in the mind with the wander we’re one.

Hedgerows rise either side of our long path,
birds chirping blossom filled sound of our laugh,
sat in the shade of the old hornbeam tree,
shadows of the clouds drifting night we foresee.

The lengthening gloaming of afternoon light,
soon to our rest we walk fire’s burning bright,
wood gathered patiently stacked for the morn,
blaze burning red morning shepherds may warn.

The sodden day’s sauntering dust turns to mud,
rain falling heavily cooling the blood,
track turning river runs chalk coursing white,
the sun burning through the clouds river run bright.

The same path of two days of great difference,
beauty’s contrast between them makes great recompense,
of trickling water way or dusty road,
as these words here started so on the path flowed.

31. Teacher’s Dream

Wake up star bound dreamer,
be at your ease from wandering mind,
the landscape of your thought remains,
return with sleep to find.
The path you left behind you,
lucid dreamer take your time,
moor the ships in harbour consciousness,
until clocks spherical chime,
return from any infinite point,
bending the light that shines.
Universal traveller,
the solar system seen,
stretch perimeters of knowledge,
with nothing more than waking dreams.
Cast free once more the anchor,
tearing apart the physics seems,
learned’ student learning teacher,
push open minded theories free.

32. A Stain Of Sleep

Nightmare's vision stole from sleep,
a dreamer's fluid rhapsody,
by silent scream's unconscious pain,
torn within the melody.

Warring soul destroying peace,
implosion's silent night,
where new colour's heart was made,
a void of waning light.

Drowning man's surfacing breath,
lacking it's sweet relief,
to see in dreams another's death,
helplessly awake and weak.

To plunge back into vision's lake,
to save a loved one's life,
eyes are closed but sleep won't take,
your mind now wracked with strife.

You wake and walk and try forgetting,
the pain of other plains,
a nightmare's curse upon the day,
marred by sleeps blood stains.

33. Home Soon

In the falling gloom I stood,
silent breath held listening,
from the harbour smells of burning wood,
window lights see water glistening.

Above the slosh of sleeping Ocean,
toasting glass and laughter lifts,
my lonely heart beats into motion,
willing my feet to shift.

Along the cobbled crab pot quay,
weaving between wet ropes,
past the skeleton of John Dory,
drawn by musical hopes.

All at once the fiddle wailed,
ebb and rise rhythm of tide,
cuts to the depths of all who’ve sailed,
and smiled as Seagul’s cried.

I stepped into the warm stone Inn,
breathing atmosphere’s boon,
always here in thoughts when travelling home,
always I’ll be home soon.

34. Dreamer’s Cowl

Sleep a distant dreamer’s web,
fatigue plays lucid tricks,
not entirely conscious,
forced oblivion won’t stick.

Begging of self for drifting wash,
ask invisible gods of sleep,
where are the cooling waves of fantasy,
where are the numbered sheep.

The sheets tie knots of restlessness,
pillows refuse to keep their cool,
arguing with the mattress,
now I’m inanimate’s fool.

I’ve thrown open the windows,
I’ve willed my body still,
staring blankly in the moonlit room,
pondering window’s sill.

Outside nocturnal wonder stirs,
Owl’s cry drifts to my ear,
musing on how ease of sleep finds him,
when divine rest made answers clear.

I’d wandered into dozing realms,
while thinking of the Owl,
through quiet simple thoughts I fell,
under the dreamer’s cowl.

35. A Lunar Tale

All but the glow, hidden in veils of silvered cloud,
shifting drifts float silently over Moon’s watching face.
In standing stone stance I stood, soul rooted to Earth’s
ancient skin, gazing from Valley’s churning depths;
that which hides the silhouette hides me, it swells the
gentle Brook, her white angry claws, fluid lurching
fingers grope, spitting over stone and fallen boughs,
playing her small part in time’s weary wearing waves.

I wonder wander far upstream, retracing prints of
yesterday, Memory’s footsteps carry me higher up
the lush damp Coombe’s womb in living tomb, stone
grown Trees unbent; n’er touched by Old mother
sea’s raking zephyr, where time too, etches not it’s vicious
tongue upon the world, it’s wind’s wicked tearing stilled,
it’s story all but lost, buried under ancient moss, where
never was there heard a clock, no modern draining tick
and tock.

In Dyrne Wood stood; listening through Brook’s cascading
rage, eyes closed searching sound, seeking whispers of place,
my feet are yet a stranger here, my senses know not yet this
path, nor it’s guarded secrets, nor yet the lives within. They
watch me with their old gnarled faces, shielded glances from
under mossy brows, peering over great knotted Oaken
shoulders, Chestnuts creep through crags to see, Beeches
humble might speaks in windless tongues of creaks and groans,
while Holly stoops from leafy banks, a stare unwavering as the
hiding Moon.

Fairy tale Fungus adorns the Eldritch gardens of
shy unknown creatures, their round burrow doors arched by
roots or topped with lintels of water worn quartz pebbles,
dry moss and nearby Meadow flora scattered neatly
underneath, these homely holes looking down upon
Footpath and Stream, here too, glimmering eyes carefully
twinkle, winking from vaulted hollow trunks.

I whisper that I mean no harm, my only wish to quietly be,
within the Woods that clocks forgot, knowing sometimes
they forget me, alone under the Moon’s soft light, a
wandering Vespertine, or under Sun to breath the air,
with my love, my earthly Queen, part of this hidden world
forever more, mere brushstrokes of a scene.


~36 My Deathbed Vision Remembered~

That endless night spent wandering the tombs of Mind’s
Fire, searching archives of the forgotten muse, dredging
fathomless pools of inspiration’s stirrings, the ripples
have sunk deep into it’s endless gleaming jet jeweled eye,
those crypts had lain dusty long ere I found the key,
ethereal scripts revealed buried under an age of  imagined
sketches, canvas stacks leant on shifting walls of memory,
timeless ghosting forms within this ancient vault, swirling
opaque thought’s  drift the untouched  mist.

I’ve been searching here before, footprints stain a floor of
vain fantasy’s grime, they lead to a door with no handle, the
keyhole of purest will taunts me with it’s riddles, so many
prints though here converge, disappearing under the smooth
cool stone of the entrance I built to forgotten places, I forget
how long ago I bent my mind to it’s construction, time means
so little here, ‘tis but a word.

The image of my first pair of tiny blue leather buckled shoes,
stands on a rack beside the door, together with memories of
wondering what my fingers were as a baby, from the
distanceless expanse music drifts, the soft sound of Mum’s
voice whispering lullaby melodies, as she swings me in a
wicker basket from a garden’s smiling Trees.

I lay my hand upon the door, it seems cold now, the only word
that comes in wisps; before, the place where a lifetime passes
within Sun’s rise and set, all prints lead here to a horizon’s
entrance, but first they turn to a window, a brief diversion from
their course before returning to vanish under the locked door,
I too turn to this ominous gate, carved next to my locked door,
I hear familiar rhymes begin, it’s rhythm capturing all...and
then our words began;

Upon the sill potted heather grows,
beside it my book and pen,
I left them both resting just here,
while gazing way back when,
I was staring at the setting sun,
of thirty five lives of men.
They all sat outside the window,
laughing around a fire’s side,
they all had different face,
but they too all had my eyes,
one turned and shouted clearly,
“Always a different guise,
but make no quick mistake young man,
we are all you sitting this side,
go back and come again one day,
you’ve not yet even tried,
and stop looking through our window too,
it’s not for those who’ve not yet died,
turn ye back and use our memory,
for all our tears you too have cried,
so when you’ve played our part again,
the door will open to this side,
but first in life you’ll wander,
you’ll laugh, live, cry and bleed,
then write your name and thirty six,
your ink one  last time freed,
etched in the book with the other thirty five,
David Nickle Read.”

37.The Art Of Night & Day

If Night began to paint the day,
He would dip twilight's mute colour,
In the silver white of the Moon,
He would cap snowy blue grey mountain peaks,
With the bright changing hues of Sirius,
He would take the spectrum of sunset skys,
Mixing them with Meadow's mist,
From a dew drop's moonlit prism,
He would imagine flowers upon his canvas,
He would stand back and know;
that his dark eyes had painted the dawn,
As his Brother Day begins,
To paint midnight from Forest shadows,
And the deep pupils of a Highland Loch's gaze;
When trying to think as others see,
Art exists in the opaque wash,
Of individually perceived understanding.

38. Sole To Soul

The sound slowly waves,
greeting from the beach far below...
A Gul's eye watches,
wind born tears fall to our scene...
Revelry's origin evolving,
amber frozen flawless moments...
A fire burns in Rook's gazing hue,
flames leaping higher than the stage...
Today's  musicians play with ancient souls,
ancient souls let them...
Invading inspiration from time's spherical depth,
crowds lurching leap in dance...
Silhouetted half light's half naked figure's,
ethos possessed stolen spirits...
Reflections of a half shackled people,
chains unseen on sand's great canvas...
Seeds of innumerable change,
sown at their feet...
They step from clock's cage,
twirling to contradiction's rhythm...
Feel the shift,
that place is potential's window...
Look to firelight's mirrored beach,
look to dancer's feet...
You step where you look,
sole to soul...

39.The Crack In Honest Mirrors

In comfort's lavish lap,
they curl up blindfolded,
reality's cold outside;
of their warm delusion,
contrived rules for one,
mind used for base disguises.

In a lie's affable opulence they strut,
garnered in shrouds of the material,
pain banished by their mass addiction,
drugs, money, gluttony and toys,
fully grown children's playground,
despoiling  x-rated ice-cream.

Vile unquestioned submission bites,
sweet poisons coursing in vein,
dark self oppression wraps them tight,
parcels of hidden life,
tied with diamond thorns,
blood escapes you as others are pierced,
outside wrong inside.

In high forgotten places,
realisation struggles,
rebelling against the golden's bonds,
dragged low to pain's new beginning,
cures sought in stubborn continuity;
a false paradise beckons,
as the cycle is quickened,
they curl in the lavish lap,
eyes close tighter as the cotton wool burns.

Outside the others scream,
throats rent bloody pleading;
for them to wake from walking death,
the pens run dry in begging verse,
musicians braking strings,
futile seeming quest for freedom,
at least half don't know they're slaves.

Next time we see sad stranger's eyes,
they may just be for us,
find honest mirrors and take a look,
for true hidden reflections,
behind the cracks we never see.

40. The Fear Of Spring

Confused mad overtones of leave's fallen past
when Spring covered all with budding youthful hearts

Summer's sultry haze mocked sanity
a beauty sometimes terrible in fleeting spirit

Autumn gave the soul her song's purest fire
knowing an end must come
stubborn melodies of love matured
effervescent glory's last dance before death

Winter's cleansing bite preserved her memory
seeds of past seasons buried deep and dormant
perfection's vision

Frozen land sleeps in sweet unfeeling dreams
how I dread the Spring of her eyes

Loving mortal
immortal love

41. I Mistook His Words

Twilight words sink in mind's rift,
chasm rent by modernity's shift,
deadened words reach from anger,
pacifist words greased and dangling,
for strangling it hovers,
over taunted hands...

A haunted touch on the edge of frustration,
felt indignation of fruitless strife,
teasing life for pity's manner,
just to watch the work wedged spanner,
thought cogs scream grinding notes,
symphony's smote by seething rage,
upon the stage set to test,
by the player's best,
performance proved...

Though heart's unmoved to script's intention,
lost invention drowns in boiling blood,
hateful flood hiding valley's green,
grinding spleen in daily mills,
contentment's grave steadily fills,
with push and shove of art's lost love,
cried by delusional crowds...

Darkened shroud's cloying hand,
blackens land of faces bright,
abiding night left for glazed eyes,
the clamorous disguise rattles onward,
tearing forward to mind's wild rift,
within to drift in circles vicious,
consuming delicious,
treats of gold...

When growing old adage awaken,
Grandpa mistaken years ago,
his flow of wrinkled ageless words,
his caged bird's short metaphor,
guilded gore within he saw,
warning us not to lock our doors,
the open mind,
a two way street...

42. My Distance

I have to write,
to paint,
to walk among the Ancients,
vaulted boughs in greeting,
leaves cast welcome shadows,
My escape,
My verdant night,
when Sun belittles breath,
cool still darkness of the Wood,
soothes the Storm in Mind.

I pay homage with pen,
in paint I find memory,
all carries my soul in safety,
across  green field’s distance,
far from the unthinking.

I bear them all my love,
accidental oppression burns my sole,
so I walk until in company,
of wild soft spoken Trees.

©David Nickle Read 2014
©D.N.Read 2014)

You May Remember

Hello, I hope you like the new layout, I thought a change would be nice. You may remember that I was writing a book that was essentially the contents of this blog in paperback, however due to various complications and, I'll be honest, the fact that it takes too much time away from writing poetry, prose and other bits and pieces, I've decided not to. If anyone was desperately waiting for that to happen please say in the comments section and if enough of you want it then I may reconsider. This does mean of course that I can get back to posting things on here that I think are worthy of your eyes & minds. Posting again very soon.

Peace In All

Friday, 7 November 2014

The Lord Didn't Giveth You The Gun, And He Sure As Shit Didn't Tell You To Pull The Trigger

The feeling's rise without thought's pattern
Confused medley of overplayed saddening sonnets
The heart becomes a beacon of fire
Where soul consumes the fickle scenes of temperate conviction
Care fleeing from the delicate hands that cradled the age's petulant prayers
Gone are the ghostly lips that vied to answer you
Mewing fools stirring their false cauldrons
Too intelligent now to plead ignorance
You must answer the once silent steps laying footprints alongside you
The Earth shalt shudder under the roots of God

Minds fearful twist in degenerate criticism Smirking at a word for being said
Forgiveness was written by the same pen
Tolerance was written by the same pen
Acceptance and brotherhood by the very same pen and yet...You mock?
So quick to judge are you not?
Consuming your time preaching religion's downfall
Forgetting it was simply was individuals just like you who were blindly led
Who accepted the halter of the tyrants who twisted righteous peace
It was individuals who followed evil
Any one of you can pick up a book and see the good
But do you even try to?
Or do you hunt the excitement of wickedness?

It was simply written
Does blame lay with the author?
Does blame lay with the founder?
Or does blame lay with those who never question the tyrant?
So easy to blame the Priest and Vicar
To slight the Rabbi or Imam
Persecute the Monk or Guru
Is it so hard to look at one's self and say...
I was wrong to be led so
I should have read with love in my heart
But I looked to smite
I looked to revelation first
I incanted the passages of God's wrath before reading of peace?
Is it so hard to say to yourself
Wait, anger is so easy, I must read calm, then use my own mind?
Would it be so hard to be inspired by a holy book if it was not called Holy
Were that stigma not attached or it came dressed as Hollywood's Latest
Would you still so readily shun it?
Are you not capable of deciphering metaphorical reason?
Can you not just take the good?
Who's fault is it really
All these years of death?


The Zealot?

Or the weak who followed without question?

From The Book 'Time To Kill'
©David Nickle Read 2014