Intrinsically Given

In the instant
Of reading that one word
An entire mountain of miasma is swept aside

And how, the Buddhist might ask
Could you invest such trust in another’s
Simple expression

Easy becomes love
When the merest hint
Of the gift of affection is offered
Said the poet, the writer, the flaneur of dreams

I ask that you don't give up
For I have given up
Given up way too often
Given up way too soon

In that moment
Imagining the one word spoken
The aeroplane of joy is already boarded

And how, the analyst might ask
Could you hold such faith in one others
Sonic explorations

Vibrations of love
Soothe and excite our minds
As potent as the gift of youth's elixir
Said the poet, the writer, the flaneur of dreams

Four crows cling to a sapling
Two flocks fly above
Above of who knows where
Above of who knows why

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Perceptions

Every image carries the means of resurrection
The reams of recollections pour forth unabated
Light and darkness equally weighted, sincere
That the reappearances were unplanned, more
By chance, and happenstance than any more
Furtive or regurgitative motive, voted in by
Darker knights, or prevailing queens, scenes
Of love, and lore, and lust before the cusp of
Nightfall called again, for fear of falling rain
The pain is covered with just enough green
Tarpaulin to turn the nosey parkers rolling back
Stacked up against the often, slow-played, refrain
The midnight train, to nowhere more than images
That flash by, for girls that cry, and boys so sly
Going away to that land of evermore, to score the
Fateful wonder why, trying, dying for introspection
As if their correction could be found on rails that
Run underground, that sound out the steelwork
Echoes, the ghettoes of the fathers past, the last
Night at the proms, the Strombolian sailor boy
Who casts out, with a faded shout; land ahoy, decoys
Are everywhere, however deep the stare, or quick
The glimpsing of ships that passed in the night
Tighter now, shedding plight of previous owners
Condoners of the ugly sins, loans made within
To souls that have fallen into disrepair, fearful of
Their dereliction of duty, and absentmindedness

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Picture Perfect

I am in this quiet place
It is where I want to be

I have desire for no more excitement
Than to feel the suns rays pierce
The window panes, and fall
Warmly onto my lap

Through your photographs I saw that
Other kind of drama, the turbulence
Of raw passion, the emotion, as
The storm clouds gathered

We are in these quiet places
It is where we want to be

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Disassemble

I will find my own place of quietness
That I may both think, and daydream
Space without silence, and yet space
Free of the noise of subjugation

The uneven walk alongside
The wild side of the hedgerow
A wander on the vague path
Through the adjoining pastures

Taking the mantle of the flaneur
Who, with keen observation, might
Allow all of our intrinsic machinery
To whirl altogether more smoothly

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Visuals

Fallen leaves
Laid out at random
On the early morning
Frosted garden

A dry stone wall
Gives adequate protection
From the sparkling white light
Of a peaceful meditation

Available on Kindle