After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

Hunger of the Eyes

Its easier to look into the soul of an attractive woman, or try to, or pretend to. What are you doing when you gaze into the eyes of someone? What are you hoping to find? What is it possible to find there? Perhaps we get closest to those who are closest to us. Perhaps they are easier to discover. So there can be a forever stranger, someone you can't find an understanding of. You can romance their mystery, yet mystery is insincere and untruthful. But mystery is a magnet, is a lure, when it holds no answers, just possibilities. Unless of course a mystery is unravelled right before your eyes.

The Raven and The Dove

Funny how it bites when you aren't really looking nor paying much attention. The power invades you, and you don't want to even stop to wonder why, you just are, and just you are in that moment, with .............?

Dark Truth

Its a simple game but a game with many versions, like the thought behind the answer to the question, like the quality of silence in Cistercians, and the ring of life has truly no diversion. Is there sun behind the whore in the darkness??

One Saturday in June When I Had Taken a Rest from Living

There are too many people and they intermingle just a little bit too much. And then there are relational difficulties. Its a a great big roundabout where people hop on and off all the time. Perhaps everyone screws evrybody else one way or another.

Warm Summer Rain

Loving someone , you step outside of yourself, losing yourself in the midst of a picture you can recognise without seeing. Haunted by the moon and the demon pulls you open to a torture of the soul. SoI played my guitar and I sang songs to Venus and the songs were made of clay, when I had thought them living. I knew that I was a fool to be so foolish, and I ran away into another corner, finished the drink and threw the glass away, and she stood there crying in the wild jukebox evening and the day grew dark, and she consoled me with her care, and then there was fire, and the fire was a mountain, and as it tried to break its way into magic, the shepherd came with the memory of the ring, and she aligned herself with the feelings of the shepherd and she erased me. I walked into the deserted day, when it was indifferent and unknowing and it walked to the side of the world we had been in, and I picked up a candle in the flickering daylight and I was cornered by the years and they forced me to recognise them and know they were speeding and I smiled in my soul without tomorrow, and the moment grasped me and stopped me and I was passive, but recognised the moment without ever having seen it, and I was thankful of time anthe clock was silent and the day stood still but I was getting older and I saw the past, and the past ignored me and all I had left was a dream that I could not remember and I closed my eyes to mystery and blew the candle out and walked into the warm rain of the summer

Raining on the Day

Its hard to understand the day when it is raining.

Spirit of Light

Spirit of Light: The dam bursts into the open arms of the waiting nighttime, where the cold is dark and forbidding. Her name is like the wind and the cover of the sky, and she is in motlion. her eyes suggest a tranquil sound and I meet them in a storm of passion and I feel suspicious as I look upon my feelings. Somewhere someone is making love tonight and all that I can think about is consideration. its a subliminal world whre the conversation isn't really conversation, where fantasy is more fantastic and truth is imposssibkle to feel. And the daytime is like a magnet for the barren darkness, a present future where change is not for sale. The passive time of the present moment must be blown up into tommorrow when and where all at once a spirit of light will reveal.

The Poet and the Coalman

Poetry as deviation, disguise, deception, appearance, and then the 'poet' who really shouldn't be there, from an outside point of view at least. And the blinding vocabulary and truth staring with the look that only truth has and the 'poet' must squirm and face the reality. Perhaps he should have been a Coalman!

A Fortunate Photograph

A fortunate photograph, in a day that betrayed reality. Could've been another person, a series of persons, a type. And she loses herself in style until she is only a part of a group picture and she doesn't want to be herself anymore. And I gaze from the side and identify her from before. I think that I know who she really is.

A World Reborn

Suddenly, the world became transformed and remembered what it was and where it was, and it gazed inwardly and all around noted the changes. In turn the changes became a mirror until the mirror lost its power of reflection. And the skies smiled on the day and the day was still and and at peace with itself.