Five Poems

Helpless. Rage. Love. Words. Sparrow.
Written 2004/5


There is a searing heat
that generates from the lightless wells of painful memory,
and in its fierce and overwhelming glow
I stand, ready to play my part inside this
hauntingly beautiful music, consonant with painful truth;
note following note, carrying the harrowingwords
of a dreadful story;
singing as if on the tip of afurnace.

Watching you,
I want to crawl inside your heartbeat
and with the air inspired to sing
exhale a soft wind in rhythm with your breath;
blowing away those horrors from your mind,
expeling a tide of tears and washing away nocturnal fears
and, with the agitation of an eagles wing
eliminate the scars of mind and body,
that cut your childhood short with such brutality.

I see you cry
I see you tremble
and mybody responds with familiar age-long sorrow.
In my heart
but with an ache
that invades every muscle nerve, vein and sinew
my skin so thin it will not contain the shivering,
needing to reach out;
to still your suffering.
But I can do nothing.



Show me your oppressor;
show me the one who tortured you;
and let me look evil in the eye.
I will grind a heavy boot;
my foot in that boot having become cyclopean in its rage;
capable of crushing the very contours of a face;
I will grind this heavy boot
removing all that is recognisable
forcing my fingers;
now monstrous spiked talons
scabrous as steel
into the eyes of that man;
tear away the skin that he hides behind
make agony come to him
create a hell on earth for him
fill his mind with dark and terrible images
see him choke, throat full to bursting with his own blood
feel his bones crack under the heavy weight of revenge.

Show me your oppressor
and I will howl a feral song
in a harsh and fractured voice torn out of a rabid larynx
with a velocity that will
penetrate mind and muscle
ululating with my mouth pressed close to his ear
in a voice so cacophonous
not a maddened note would be missed
and he would hear that enraged music alone
in the darkness I have inflicted on him.

Let him hear my song. Feel my boot.

My rage.


Love life; for it is a fragile wisp of a thing,
a butterfly wing
easily crushed between thumb and finger
an insect, indiscernible to a human eye, drowned in a raindrop
one second to linger on the edge of existance
and in the blink of a moment
on the whim of a maniac,
for the colour of skin or a belief misunderstood
a word spoken,
an eye caught
becoming visible under the gaze of those who would be executor.

Now listen, rain falling from voluminous clouds in a theatric sky,
a million languorous drops
permeate the air
plummeting into the trees stirring a million leaves into a rushing living
landing on earth
in a thunderous applause
in celebration of you and your life
and then in its aftermath
warm sun in tandem with a rainbow
giving affirmation of your vital spirit.

travel alongside curiosity and imaginings;
beginnings with endings so far in the future
you need not consider them
live night and day
walking beneath
your skies
breathe deeply the scent
of your earth & your oceans
eat life drink life
nourish yourself with the succulence of nature
honey, fruits ripened under the sun, olives & warm bread,
ambrosial sensations
make art and life one oscillation
with love
most of all, take life with love.


Sometimes I cannot speak.
I fear my scattered tongue
as words fall like shreds of broken glass from my mouth.
A dangerous concoction, out of control.
And in my confusion
the sense is tumbled about in a torrent of chaos
submerged in tangled language.
So, I dare not speak.

Unspoken meditations
ripple like vapourous thin threads in my throat
unexpressed behind my lips
still whirling
inside my head
not spilt into the air
but sitting
in a pool of clamorous
thoughts, hidden from view
behind the edge of sane reason.

Intent has no life until I speak
no meaning until you listen.
It is the root of our communion with others
and does not exist
until we allow it outward substance.
I write in silence,
singing the words in my head
onto the page in rhythmic lines.
in touch with heart and mind at its most intense.

Contemplating the pattern
of letters and symbols,
fragile words, like sorry, care, love and sorrow
seem so small.
A wanting between the word and its essence
And I mourn the absence of flesh and blood.
And the words appear useless.



A torn and tattered thing
this tiny bird,
with broken wing;
a fiercely beating heart
fluttering in his breast.
He flies,
he tries
to reach the stars;
too far
his body has no strength.

His throat is full
he longs to sing
adrift in silent flight
there is no song
his tiny tongue,
spinning in circles
in a
night sky
where scorched orange urban light.
obscures the heavens.

On winter’s icy winds,
a vertical descent
wings split
eyes blind
voice mute
above the city,
a tiny unseen bird
amongst millions seeking refuge.

Now, watch that tiny bird,
and listen
as he sings
a powerful song,
as he
flies on wings
as delicate as ancient lace
with the strength of an eagle.........
a flight of grace and courage