It caged me in its cold confining bars.
Long have I been its lost and longing thrall,
its tenant-serf of weary plodding on.
Its tentacles clung round my throat, my eyes,
and darkness was its cruel confederate
who caged my strong uprising Ne’er-Say-Die.


But lately, through these months of journey labor,
I’ve groaned and strained to heave off shell and shield!
Bright-beauty-bursts-dark, red, that primal pulse
sings in my veins and I feel me revealed,
but tentative in fragile waking Joy.


For I am soft, and never more me clothed
with harmour. I am closed, but only just
in poise for the Great Opening to come,
my exit from the carapace that clung…

Her Song and Sun e’er on my windswept face,
I’ll live now, bravely, on the precipice.


No April Fool We

Fed up with the drivel and condescension,
we made a dash for it!
Baubles joggled and then
fell like dead leaves and moulty old shells,
but we didn’t stop for them.
Those trifles were known to us now,
minus the shine, the shimmer,
the sting of deceptive bribe.

Trailing lies, and curses
streaming out behind us like snapped leashes,
we leapt for the wall and
monkeyed our way quick-shinny clamber
over the top!
Freedom-vented fragrances
tickled our nostrils,
and the air was heavy
and thick with liberty-scent…
but our jailers were breathing hard
through their mouths,
hairy and drab-dull
stone brown buffaloes
galumphing along
behind us.

They shouted, threatened,
and wheedled for a glance back.
But we had heard of Lot’s Wife,
and thought that the
salty tang of freedom
was better than
the certain security of slavery!
So we bolted,
gleeful and breathless,
scared and exhilarated,
dreaming of all that
we knew lay nascent
and yet to be born.



Stones are alive,
inhabiting a welter-world.
Speaking, standing,
preaching, crying out
in mute voluminous
wordy paeans.


But some have forgotten
they are stones
and dwell in
silent dull “there-ness”.
They have forgotten
their voices, and their throats
choke on dirty cloddy poems
fed them by
taxmen and misers.


Those stones leap
into heavy horned hand,
rocket from ragged arm
to fly and howl and maim
and drink vorpal draughts
of gouty spurty blood
welling up from crushed
and broken tender skin,
and throbbing in
painful, reflexive retreat
from standing.


But other stones,
sentinels, stand and watch,
witness, and take note
in their solid and lasting tongue.
These very rocks cry out
when all else is silent
and their melodies
wing back to the stars
and their song remains
forever chronicling
the rule of Grace and Mercy.