1) At last I came to a town. The strength of the sun turned its pale stone to white so that its beauty stood clear and sharp beneath the sapphire sky. I found the market place. I stood amidst its bustle. I felt the touch of humanity as its crowds brushed passed me and I heard its voices, its shouts and its whispers close to my ears. My pain was eased and my loneliness withdrew. I stayed all day and watched the colours. Canopied stalls and barrows of peppers, tomatoes and aubergines, ripe and shining. Pale pinks and greys of shellfish. Yellow cheese and dark red hams. Chickens and hens scratched and flapped in their cages. Pigs squealed. There were rolls of bright cloth, rows of leather shoes, piles of pots and pans and pyramids of brown and white eggs. It was a place of plenty. It was a place of sweat and haste, frowning brows and lips moving fast with the fury of barter and business. At midday the church bells rang out. A young woman came to me with wine, bread and cheese. She was small elfin, dark eyed and olive skinned. She wore a cotton dress of red flowers on pale green, her arms were bare to the summer heat and her hair was long in black braids. In the evening when the market disbanded and drifted away, leaving me alone in an empty square, she was still there. She took my hand and led me to her home. She nursed my weariness she gave me her warm, unashamed love. Her dark, lithe body was gentle and wild, silent and alive. Her young girl's breasts, the sweet dew between her slender legs, she gave and I took. I stayed with her too long. I stayed with her until one day I saw that her pretty eyes were seeing me forever, then I knew I had to go. As I left the town I saw its broken bridge. Half a bridge spanning half a river, as though its heart had broken half way across and it was never able to reach out and touch the other side. She yearned so to give. I could not give myself just so that I might take. I left her with a child growing inside. I hope she will not always be sad. From "Star Shine, The Ocean & The Unicorn" 2) The solstice sunrise on Bantock Hill was a yearly event for the Philistines and Dee was expecting their arrival but no one came and when the dawn broke the east with its first strip of daylight it was for Sam and Dee alone. The sun rose, a giant glowing orb like a red moon in a sky that was pink and cirrus sea that washed its weird tide of colour and unfathomed emotion over the man and the girl on top of Bantock Hill. From the hill tops of the valley to the far horizon of the lowlands to the north, generations of ghosts who had known and worked the fields and farms rose again for a moment to see time stand still on the solstice morn. From "The Lion's Carcass" Samson and Delilah set in 1970's Somerset, with a chapter of bikers called The Philistines. 3) It is first light and the troupe are on the road heading out of London towards their first venue in Warwick but their normally hale and hearty writer and director is disgruntled. Nobody pierces the silence around Michael's mood as he licks his wounds after a fitful night's sleep peppered with uncomfortable dreams expounding the harsh truth of Elspeth's words. These dreams pester him, unwilling to fade in the broad light of day, they linger waiting for him to acknowledge their illustration of events as they really happened and one scene in particular is replayed over and over again showing his sister as a young woman storming out of a family party, throwing down an overcoat Aunt Maud has tried to place on her shoulders and embroidered on the back of this overcoat are the words "LACKLUSTRE AND IDIOT" and as she leaves Michael arrives wearing a similar overcoat adorned with the words "CHARMING, GOODHEARTED BOY" . In an effort to prevent the complete unravelling of the seamstress, Michael spontaneously elects to wear the coat Justina has discarded underneath the coat he has become attached to, gallantly repairing as best he can the threadbare protocol of the mistress of the family wardrobe, Aunt Maud. By choosing to defend the order of Aunt Maud's propriety, Michael had banished his muse in favour of adopting the attributes of the second overcoat beneath those of the first. Michael needs reassurance that his muse has returned. A trick of synchronicity soon dispels Michael's fears when his muse appears in her human form somewhere between Uxbridge and High Wycombe. Franzine's recognition of Elena Joy Constantine causes Michael to insist they stop and take on a passenger whose tufted, urchin hair makes her a spectacle of pity and obvious need and on welcoming her aboard he politely enquires into her ancestry and her knowledge of 'The Flower Fables'. Elena Joy admits to being Esme May's grand-daughter and volunteers a recitation of the authors work..... From "Mrs Moon's Children" (was a work in progress. The first book of a trilogy to be followed by "Lady Angel's Adopted Son" and "Granny Walcott's Garden"
Stefan Von Krass, known as Pinocchio on account of his long nose and his lies, was an evil man with spite's glint in his grey eyes and hatred's thin curl upon his lips. There was a dark storm in his pinched heart forever leeching on the soft malleable generosity of those he fell upon and devoured. - "To Happen Upon And Destroy" - Stefan's motto, technique and vocation. Von Krass was in essence vampiric. His raison d'être was based on an innate need to take the life out of the living. The pure he would dissolve, the good he would suck out and spit away, the actively creative he would lay back down to its latent form, the positive he would obliterate past negative and into void. He could pinpoint a particular passion in an individual, a social group or a business concern and he would stride into the middle as one who shared it and slowly, impreceptibly he would turn the heat of their passion against itself so that it was rendered down like pig fat into nothing. Two or three of these projects would be run in concurrence to maximize profits that were reckoned up in terms of satiation. His momentary gains, though often large, were secondary. On waking one crisp winter's morn just a little way past the midpoint of his life, Stefan knew it was time to seek out greener pastures. The name Pinocchio had been bandied about within his own earshot too often too carelessly. He supposed he had worked the same game over and over far too long in too small an area and his cover had now blown. Recent victims were filing cases he did not wish to answer. No hard evidence could be found against him but nevertheless it was time to go. So he abluted using unguents of violets and cosmetic creams of cucumber and avocado, he blackened and oiled back his hair and nattily applied the faintest touch of pink blusher to his pale drawn cheeks. The fop in the looking glass peered from the high arches of his eyebrows, right the way down the length of his authoritative nose and sneered at the world beneath. Adhering to a staunch perfection designed to intimidate, he dressed in a dark grey three piece, a cream silk shirt and a paisley dickie-bow. His ox blood shoes were over shiny and his suit pristine. An outfit hard and sharp in crease and cut wards of curiosity. It speaks for itself, no one contests it. His clothes were his armour. He packed a leather travelling bag, each item folded with a geometrician's neurotic precision. The bag snapped shut. He settled a camel hair coat across his shoulders, placed a white silk scarf about his neck, pulled on black leather gloves, angled his trilby and set out. Lazily submitting to the rolling gait of the Trans-European Express, Von Krass, gazing through his compartment window from one heavy lidded but still resting eye, espied the Palace. In a moment it was gone and Stefan, wide awake now, had gone with it, captivated by that split second's glimpse of its strange medley of turrets and bulbous spires and outdoor spiralling staircases all perched like an eyrie atop a steep and forested mountain. He had to see more. But unfortunately for Stefan there would be no sightseeing party or guided tour, for this was a private Palace owned by and old and dying man who had a beautiful daughter, still too young and naive to have hardened herself against the wickedness of the world, would inherit all in a matter of weeks. I say unfortunately, because although here was a situation for the taking and take it Stefan surely would, unbeknown to him and indeed to anyone for the past five hundred years, the builder of the Palace had instructed a sorcerer to lay a curse on the stones that would come into effect should he ever be vanquished and his palace be inhabited by a rival baron. The wizard had stood at the edge of the quarry and over each large stone laid in a cart pulled by six donkeys, he uttered these words;
"Fool a Cuckoo with a welcome, Watch a Jackdaw steal the gold, A Magpie roost amidst its plunder And a Cockerel strut so bold. Pay no heed to a Peacock's vanity, Of a Vulture have no fears As its talons tear through carrion For four full years. A year of acquisition, A year of gain, A year of arrogance, A year of disdain. At a feast of Victory See an Eagle soar. See an Eagle plummet When the Feast Day numbers four. The foot that crossed the threshold lamed, See a Gander stumble, The hand that pushed the door will claw As its bones begin to crumble. A bird lies crippled in another's bed, Madness in its soul. A bird imprisoned in another's Palace, Caged in the cage it stole."
The spell was still intact.
A gingerbread station waited. Its window boxes abloom with geraniums, its shutters all daintily painted sky blue and dusty pink to match the decorative woodwork that edged the eaves over the platform and the low surrounding picket fence. The train pulled in. One passenger alighted, none embarked. Bag in hand, Stefan Von Krass hailed the one awaiting cab to his terrible end.
Granny Celandine in myth Was forever old, Or so her grandchildren Were always told. So the legend carried Spoon-to-spoon-fed Of an entire life lived At a quarter to dead. Celandine's vocation Began at crone, Wizened and wise one We called our own. Her childhood, her youth, Her middle-aged fiction To our eager hearing Of her detailed diction On earlier stages Of her pronounced longevity Appealing to our own Inconsequential brevity Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. We absorbed all evidence Of descendancy designated In our very own lives Where her lifeline resonated. We back tracked in time To stand in her shoes Imagining ourselves Where Time's lines lose The straight and narrow Of distinct definitions To warp and blur Between generations. Her eyes could twinkle, Her frown could scold, Her timidity was defiant, Her indignation bold. Granny Celandine had withdrawn From a society she despised To shelter where her values Were not compromised Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. Granny Celandine was a stranger To pompous vanity, Abhorring its concept She considered it audacity A blasphemous waste Of human potential Where arrogance usurps The plainly essential In a world misaligned And unable to atone She would neither collaborate Nor condone Actions in the name Of advancement and prosperity For the sake of too few At a cost to too many. She could not abide Nature's decline To industrial aspirations Considered divine Above the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. Imbalance surrounded Granny Celandine's haven Where her garden grew By a lore engraven In Gaia's own stone Of sustainable commandments Preaching an adherence To nature's investments. Keeping fish in the sea And nutrients in the soil Should be part and parcel Of mankind's toil. But vain impatience And ham-fisted greed Had prompted Mother Nature's Need to recede Where Granny Celandine joined her In abject disgust Warranting support And a shared distrust Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. While commerce raged With excitable force, Granny Celandine cherished Mother Nature's source By building a temple, Her honour to esteem, In the old oak's hollow, Her worship to redeem And here begins An extraordinary tale Of wondrous events With which to regale The reader of A specific bent Who is able to sense The magnificent event Of Earth's own magnetism In one concentrated well Rising from the ley line Crossing hill and dell Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. Granny Celandine's oak Hand magical properties Offering dreams and insights To seekers of prophecies Carefully chosen By select degree To enter her garden And visit the tree. The credentials of the few Allowed through the gate Were great in spirit And connected by fate To amass reinforcements Of compassion and care To combat economies Of global despair. And when Celandine's life Was finally to cease, Her name and position Were passed to her niece Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. Granny Celandine's mission Is amply fulfilled, Now timeless in legend And mythology instilled In the repertoire Of ordinary folk Whose lives will be healed Via the voice of the oak Softly spoken Into appropriate ears Of leaders in rebellion Over the years Until such time As the power-craze shifts From the stealers of souls To the bearers of gifts, From the vantage of greed And the viewpoint of gluttony To a judicious presiding Over a common harmony Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. The Great Granny Celandine, Chelidonium majus, Was once a reclusive Yet ultimately famous For her dowdy dress And frugal ways At odds with the wealth That shone from her gaze, Wide and bright With an impish grin Enjoying an irony She kept within While modernity ran riot Towards its own fall Beyond the sanctuary Of her dry-stone wall Surrounding the garden Handed down her line To Granny after Granny After Granny Celandine Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow. Old crone Celandine's Guardianship of the oak Was entrusted to her For her ability to revoke The corporate world She came to despise With a three quarter drop Of the lids of her eyes beneath which her savvy Shone in slithers Of inner knowing That slowly withers The Establishment's hold Over you and me As our gathering numbers Flock to her tree Where Green Man, Jack Frost And pagan sprites recline Beneath the steadfast protection Of Granny Celandine Through the woodlands And the hedgerows, Over the marshes And the meadows To the old oak's hollow.
he was a clown once, he used to thrust chairs into the jaws of stuffed lions and extract a flower, walk the tightrope fall..... hang by his teeth and raise his eyebrows at the crowd
but now he plays solitary tricks with memories in the gloom of his old caravan, his costumes gather dust in the cupboard, his faces fade in the drawer, children press against his window and stare at his empty mirror their breath clouds the glass
meanwhile the circus prepares for the show
suddenly the children scream and back away the door explodes........ a strange figure emerges from the billowing smoke resplendent in an enourmous striped swimsuit complete with flying helmet, goggles and snorkel, a large pink flipper tests imaginary water, the great nose quivers and tilts to the sky his arms raised high he dives.......... and swims through the crowd, and the children dance and cry: "Bazooka's back! Bazooka's back! Bazooka's back!"
in my sleep there was a frozen waterfall caught like a sudden splash of a huge white moon, and later there were fireworks and rainbows that gave out wonderful music as i danced and sang on the shore of a wide black river..... this evening i walk in the door of a house full of strangers the air full of slow jazz and wine, a woman, wide eyed and solemn turns in the lamplight like the earth towards the sun and greets me and aah! the magic ripples between us thicker than silver and i laugh and shake my head like a beggar who finds jewels in his soup - oh, what days and nights these are!
I cannot reach you I want to I need to We are both above the clouds But we are on separate islands We ought to be together Want to be together Need to be together But we are both isolated Oh please, I must reach you I cannot Why? Fate.
A crying conscience weeps Beneath fate's phantom-breath A whispering stream washes away A decaying depth of vision Only a watery-eyed image remains To be remembered
Smiling scenes appear in a misty-mind Soft eyes cling to delicate blossoms Left by a passing rainbow As a carpet of lace On which idle figures wonder Breathing the sweet, chablis flavoured air And savouring its innocent charm For as the present slips into the past The future floats in on rain clouds.
There's a core of people in this town Who do the work A grope for dope or cruise for booze It pins you to the grindstone But you don't fall down The abyss of reality
She's sane, got brain She walks the path that goes down the hole Pounds the hours round and round Work - the circle that makes you sweat Good times round the corner? No beginning no end
The shit flies but she can cope Men get scared don't kinow the type That shrugs it off but takes no more Tough but tasty, she pulls her own strings Meanwhile the beautiful people, puppet master's pets Having shown concern, drive back to the ivory tower
She goes round
But in a corner of some forgotten book, her love lies waiting
It rained I rushed Confused A recent conversation lingered Bleached my brain Thoughts grew Muddled Dispersed And were lost The sun glared On puddled-pavements I walked towards another problem I tried to solve it Before I met it
HELLO! Can they hear me? No they can't I'm too far away Away inside myself They see a person Which is my body They know a person Which is my act They don't know ME Because they don't know I exist Because they don't know THEY exist And that's what matters
Fall out of the clouds Land in insects mests A turmoil of faceless voices Retreat Search for the gentle waves Of the cirrus-sea Tormented By cul-de-sac'd catcombes In mazed-minds
In love with you, I ran from you, Cradling every detail of the missive you had bourne. And now, high in flight On the quill tips of my angel muse, It is too many years too late to return, Though in vision and in dream, This I see, this I learn;
That your love of life has crumbled Time and time to dust Between the smug, dry palms Of anothers distrust. Colleagues and companions Mindful of your courage, Jealously obliged With intent to disparage. Pinnacles of falsity, Narrowed, pointed, confined. The spires were all cold To the dreams you had in mind. And sweet Jayne in black lace Made from many a maids' tears, Her morbidity arising From the pit of her fears. She informed the movie mogul That you were a lost young man. To abolish your goal Was her fiendish plan. But I spied your etheral guide, I saw his name upon a stone And above his name Was carved your own. Like the Mayflower you must sail From the grey and passionless Isles, From yellow mouthed promises, From shallow-eyed wiles. Find meaning in the misfortune That has rendered you lame. Carry the banner of calling Into the battle of fame. Go forward as an orphan, Untutored, unchecked. Lay bare your truths, Embellish, dissect. From the heights of glory To the depths of strife, Reinstate extremity, Repossess your love of life.
I am now the messenger As you were once a messenger to me. My message is this; 'Love life for me'.
Bellies waffle-full Maple syrup, orange blossom brew Such sweetheart hunger satisfied Hands entwine the casual bond Of morning lovers returning for the afternoon To the naked, caressing coal of their shady room.
I imagined romance flowered gardens Of a summer-lovers affair But with petal passions declared fallen and dead I was quietly, quickly, neatly shelved Filed in a pussy-dealer's moneyed memory bank Wintering in my pmpered arms He left with a love-lined heavy purse of mine His emotions disposed of in the back door bin My pearls-strung tears still broken Into whispers of pieces of aborted dreams.
Nicotine yellow, indigo wine and red blood mingle Hot-heart pumping mad nightmares that stain my brain Body-supine, sun soaked Lazy heat-haze painless daze Only in the head does this sick sorrow spew.
Swallows swoop back through my eyes As rooks in grey-clouds visions Of mind and heavy soul Squawking, repeating, reminding Shame-hate-rejection-pain Sharp and sudden and again and again.... Another empty battle's acid reflections Of a cheap poison past.
There is a distancing Now that what we both thought And I still think Is for you, no longer true Although I feel I already know For you and for others It is only time who is allowed to tell Time the Judge and Time the Saviour Until in desperation for some proof of love You heed the evidence of a misplaced truth And by your own foolishness While away the days and hours Of Time the liar and Time the slayer.
I am the vessel That carries her voice She embarked on my journey And left me no choice She came aboard quite suddenly How could I refuse I am the writer And she the Muse
I am the child Who is loyal to no other She took me for a daughter Though she is no mother She adopted me quite ruthlessly And began to enthuse I am the writer And she the Muse
I am the prisoner Waiting for bail She is the judge Who threw me in jail My sentence may be life Bid who can I accuse As I am the writer And she the Muse
I am the dove That flies from her sleeves She the magician Whose timing deceives Plucking quills from my tail How she does abuse I am the writer And She the Muse.
Do you really think I would leave you? You should know that I would never do that. I am still very much with you, closer than you think! I will never be more than a heart beat away. For I am within you! I am in your mind & in your thoughts!
Now I want you to look around you! No! not that quick glance, I mean really look! Look at the people whose life I have touched & they mine. For in looking at them you are looking at me! Reach out & take their hand, for in touching them you are touching me!
The next time you should venture outside, feel the breeze on your face, the sun's rays that warm you & each tiny raindrop; I am in all of these. I am not only within you I am all around you.
Life like love is a never-ending circle, there is only continuation. It is the time to see not only with your eyes but also with your mind! to feel not only with your hands but also with your heart! Then we shall be closer still! As you see what I see & feel what I feel! You will know that I am still with you and still love you as much as ever!
One step imprints The tread defined By two good souls Forever aligned As they journey Joyous and unconfined, Walking forward To leave behind Their footprint On my heart.
(August 2001)
Written for Linda & Peter as they left for AUS & N.Z.
at the N.F.S.H. Cirencester Conference September 1999
Music of angels' footfalls Delivering soothing balm, Restoring and refreshing The jewel of inner calm, As incense curls aromas Around about the scene All swallowed in peacock's colours; Indigo, turquoise and green. A womb of meditation Where a single candle's flame Holds the reins on /Here and Now, That the rush of Time be tame In one eternal moment To touch Forever and feel Blessings of tranquility To enlighten and so seal The Sanctuary's healing All encompassing the whole From the aura's outer edge To the marrow of the soul.
Sitting quietly, off to one side. Timid, warm and gently aware Of a small child at the foot of her chair Sheltering in a little ring of calm It has found surrounding her there. The party continues. . . Her laughter comes easily, Loving to be teased And giving as she gets, The more so as the wine flows, Her finger a wag with mock admonishments Softly spoken but firmly put.
I loved to make her laugh Her laughter Her smile My joy
(6th October 1993) Ellison was cremated the next day God Bless Her
(THE WIDOWER) Had he fallen He might have been saved, But he did not fall, He merely swayed. Fear is rigid While sorrow flows And where the fine line rests It was fear he chose. Or did he choose? Had the choice been his To precede Hope's dying breath With Moira's precise and stealing kiss? And for Hope's passing Had he not worn a black band Too quickly concealed By his new bride's hand, Who's envy, denying The sanctuary og grief, Lost him Despaire Which lost him Belief. Moira pronounced Hope Null and void. Her memory dead, Her presence destroyed. The slop and scrape Of mop and pail Rid a life Of all detail. A harsh brush scoured The household clean. Nothing of Hope Had ever been. No lover's eye Could he now find, Where mirrored hearts Had souls entwined. No silken thread That weaves love's braid Where Joy had laughed And pain had prayed. No corner, shadow, Trail or trace. Where, why and how Had he lost this place? The question hovered Too afraid to be asked In the blaze of derision Moira unmasked. Though it begged an answer Across a starch-cloth sea, The opposing shore Refused its plea, Settign down her fork And bone handles knife To dab at the corners Of her victim's life. By pernicious slant And dainty slight, She cliched his loyalty With all her might.
At Hope's crossing Moira came. Moira, La Mort, Death was her name. The silent sweeping, The rush and glide, The arc of her blade To his blind side She scythed accusations Instilling disgrace. Askance implications Were common place. For his previous life He must atone, Its shame exemplary. Its discrepancies known. Her case against him Impeccably built On impending betrayal By former guilt. His fear and failure Rose to enhance The yellow flame In her preditory glance. She then devoured, Craven eyed, The strengths and virtues She so despised. Afeared, confused, Deceived, distraught, He could not see That he'd been caught, But looked to Moira To help redeem His total loss Of self-esteem. She who invades Does not recede. No part of him Would she concede. A past dismanttled Day for a day, By strange default Just spilled away To leave a man And all he had seen Barely believing He had ever been. Now so powerless Where once so bold. Where once so fervent Now so cold. No Faith nor Comfort Could disarm The hoods and blindfolds Of Moira's harm. Insight to ashes, Instincts to dust, No passion, no dream, No vision, no trust. He blamed himself For all he had lost, This lifelessness He thought the cost. Life's lustre By Hope begotten, Now humourless And long forgotten. Life's clear essence By Hope blessed, Now grey as granite And put to rest. His history's removal, His spirit's dispersion, All, relinquished To Moira's coercion. The coin had landed, He'd lost the toss. Heads for changes, Tails for loss.
He had fallen He might have been saved, But he did not fall, He merely swayed. Fear is rigid While sorrow flows And where the fine line rests It was fear he chose. Or did he choose? Had the choice been his?
