The hour suggests me
the day re-forms
No need to interrogate mirrors
thawing revelations have turned glass
into watercourses
I have begun to live out-of-myself
- at a distance
a new skin for an old ghost
just a breath away
and no longer clutching
at an out of hand
life raft
tangelo sunrise
suggests day full of promise
lifting my spirits
routine is my nemesis
schedule is my enemy
I like to change directions in mid flight
being wildly free appeals to me
I do not like to be caught in time restrictions or webs
I enjoy journeying where my feelings take me
repetition and rules I threw out long ago
My days are my own, and I love it so.
No one suggests, directs or manages me.
I am wild and free, so wild and free.
blue pines sparkle
under snowy gray sky
on top of voluptuous hills
the evergreen in Winter -
their slant suggests skiers,
and worshippers
around a bonfire - the red house.
the main house in uplift
on the port hill
with conifer’s oceanic tint
xanthous-blue streaks
calming round moon
forest points to the stars
and the fluffy, wet snow, gently falling
Mr. Macron now recognizes ‘Palestine’
a country that never was, that never had borders
He somehow thinks that things will be ‘fine’
with Hamas in charge of ‘law and order’
Mr. Macron now recognizes ‘Palestine’
whose people claim the land ‘from the river to the sea’
He somehow thinks that things will be fine
that such people will coexist with Israel peacefully
Mr. Macron now recognizes ‘Palestine’
though its Arabs came there to reap Jewish-Israel’s goldmine…*
Mr. Macron, it is the Jews who are indigenous to the land
No ‘recognition’ of yours can divvy up their sand
________________________________________________
*"Far from being an indigenous people, supplanted by Jewish
migrants, a close look at Palestinian origins and censuses
suggests most Arabs emigrated to Palestine alongside or
even after the Jewish immigration. ~ NSJ, National Secu-
rity Journal, 'Pandora's Box Opened,' July 25, 2025, MSN.
It falls with grace.
Metallic bawls hail the strength of zinc roofs.
At the mercy of the thatch,
Drops drip from needle points of skeletal
Palm fronds.
Particles of rain descend on thresholds
Among dewed terrains.
The petrichor befriends the atmosphere,
Caressing limpid warmth with floating cold.
Lightning, a white dancing Anaconda, races with speed,
Filling the tenebrous plains with lights of hope.
Troubled skies ululate through the power of thunder.
I always recline on that liquid voice!
Rainmakers cream their palms
And roast fresh leaves of
Epochal petals
Plucked from somnolent trees.
Bubbles, green and full of life, puke,
Filling up the mouths of burning woods.
Grey darkness suggests the pleasant wars of
May through October,
When distant wayward drops
Trickle before the deafening deluge.
I hail the blandishments of July
For the society of fattened yams and the
Worthy tendrils —festooned confetti of ceremonial
Harvests.
Droughts yawn in vain when the attitude of
Wet seasons befriends the skies,
Yielding fecund grimes that grace the soil.
This posed a problem in ancient Loch,
As it’s not a canvas of Van Gogh.
When paint ran down my arm
While squashed and ground bugs harm,
I still labelled it ‘Woolly Epoch’.
CURATOR’S NOTE
Period: ‘Holocene epoch’. Medium: Bug pulp, cave soot, elbow grease. Description: In this seminal work, the artist explores the tension between modern chaos and primal innocence. The squashed insect motif suggests a commentary on the fragility of existence, while the arm-smudge technique is a bold rejection of bristle brushes.
The above is a pseudo note in line with the humour of the Limerick.
Coming back to recapture and constitute whys,
To understand our train of thought, the path we seek with our eyes,
The external influence that suggests and surrounds,
Take it all away and what have you found,
Lay your heart bare and what do you see,
Under all the layers of your reasoning,
What you grip onto so tightly in order to let go,
Take it all away for a moment and reevaluate your soul,
What pain pushed you and prodded you to run into your ways,
What traumas made you run away from your pain,
Take away your fix it mentality because control is not in your hands,
Lay it down at the alter and give it away again,
Give and love freely without control and confined,
Stop trying to conform yourself to free your own eyes,
Love the freedom to love...love the freedom to give,
Stop putting rules on your freedom to live,
We are an entity and so is space,
Mandukya Upanishad claims as true,
a knowing which is revealed by God’s grace,
when flickers therein show light passing through.
Déjà vu suggests time does not exist,
for there’s no way we could have been and seen
and yet we did so why should we insist,
that life’s not a movie, played on time’s screen?
Space and time entwined, is the cage we’re in,
anchoring us in manifestation
but if practice of silence we begin,
we see through pores of space, light’s pulsation.
Dropping then all vicarious knowing,
winds of truth in our heart begin blowing.
Imagine an alternate universe, one born in the reverse rhythm of our own Big Bang.
In this cosmos, the arrow of time flows backward, not as a regression but as an elegant symmetry, a dance of retreating possibilities.
Galaxies do not expand into the void but instead coalesce, condensing into radiant singularities, the luminous echoes of futures we can never reach.
Here, light emerges only to fold inward, its journey truncated before it graces the expanse.
It is a universe hidden from us not by distance alone, but by the very nature of its existence—its glow always arriving too late, its truths eternally just beyond our grasp.
Yet, even unseen, such a realm invites awe.
It suggests that reality is not a single thread but a cosmic loom, weaving countless tapestries in both directions of time.
It is a humbling thought, a reminder that the cosmos, vast and intricate, may hold infinities we can sense only in the whispers of our dim imagination.
I reach for a book
A tiny arm comes out of the spine
The arm slaps my hand
Not that one, my muse suggests
The next novel laughs as I open her
Then she screams
But wait
Is that another laugh?
Have these missives always been alive?
Why has it taken me so long to notice?
My God is the God of broken ladders,
many rungs are missing
and I don’t have the skill to mend them.
My usual recourse for the unfixed
is to pen a poem about the
imperfect beauty of the
unfinished and damaged.
Breakfast is just for seating two,
there's another broken stool
propped up against a wall -
a silent testament
to 'found poetry' that needs
only a missing meaning.
I am not useless,
my wife says I am not useless,
but she never suggests furniture
that comes as a flat pack anymore,
and she often asks more adept visitors
to bring their own tools.
My God is a God of broken rungs,
I shall keep striving to fix them,
keep my toolbelt greased,
as I hammer images and metaphor
together
with yet more split nails.
Determined energy encapsulates what smolders silently inside.
Quiet resilience produce a bold, inspiring presence that space opens wide.
With a colour gamut of profound earthy tone,
Striking fiery reds and chilling white hot lashes stand alone.
Morgan's painting suggests the perception of dancing flames to a beat,
Within the vision, to create a physical feeling of blistering heat.
This symbolizes deepest strength of passion with his brushstrokes.
Dynamic intensity instills the mesmerizing impression of movement it evokes. Demanding attention to the potential of power below the surface.
Gifted craft accompanied by the celebration of beauty is its purpose.
As I gaze at the canvas, undeniable appreciation of this abstract can begin,
With wild untamed spirit ''The Fire Within".
To possess freedom which is absolute,
needs God to be the dreamer and the dreamed,
wherein breath by breath, as He does reboot,
He ensouls all objects by His will beamed,
deciding when each soul will be redeemed.
This blueprint suggests that there’s no one here,
save ego as smoke, which will disappear,
having no independent existence,
so all that’s required is to erase fear,
melding with silence, shedding resistance.
SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS
Extraordinary suggests it’s great
Defined as an extra special state
Probably better than merely good
And to be wonderful, if it could
Could one ever appear satisfied
Good is quite OK, as is implied
State for the record just how you feel
Great times ahead, even on appeal
Related Poems