The diamond forms from pressure,
and gleans its gleam from such,
the earth can not contort itself,
nor focus quite as much,
as such steadfast material,
it must be formed and reformed evermore,
reactionary to its core
never content to stay in place
although it roams through outerspace
a boil of activity stirs constantly earth’s scenery
the surface of our atmosphere
will dance with weather’s weary cheer
below the weather still more motion,
man pushing earth and earth the ocean,
when the ocean pushes back man rues his work,
but abandons not his quest to shape
the very world despite – perhaps despite – more apt, ‘because’
of nature’s inconsistency,
a trait at odds with human insecurities,
and getting on not all that well with the maturity,
of our peculiar species, we
that turn the land into the sea, defy imprisoning gravity, and deftly wreak our havoc with an arbitrary majesty.

Dream if you can of a future,
affected by nought except you,
Possible things are pearls upon strings,
for the taking according to what you choose,
Imagine a world without influence,
where decisions you make are all yours,
and destiny forms, so curiously,
into exactly the shape that you choose.

You know, I would cry.

They leave their unintrusive selves
in black-lit pasts and background social scenes
only bring the sharpest knife
to the fight
the conflict waged in brutal words
and apathetic stares
that preen and start
in the alcoves of physical commerce.

Leaving cares and manners alike
(so alike) in the basement apartments and rundown condominium highrises,
the beat up bungalows on the borders of the burbs and the metropolis,
where society stirs in self incriminating circles
only in practice, it is just practice
for the play of words and fists,
guns and knives,
but also hugs and kisses,
on the streets of the city
in the passionate grip
of those sickly-sweet summer nights.

Not quite a meal but more a waking dream
With bits of food that drifted through my teeth
Slowly passing
From plate to me
While my mind did so proceed
That all I thought
Was mere imaginings

My mind a fictive horse with wings
To ply the airy, surreal heights of what’s not yet
and what can’t be

In search of what amuses me

I often find myself thus lost
Before I find the muse accosting me

Sometimes with a wink
other times
With a playful pinch on the cheek

Tremble, says my body to me
For pains of deprivation need
But one sole thing to stem their anxious tide

Instead they run.

They course through nervous systems,
Producing nervous tendencies,
and flow through coursing spines

Only to die.

Not to be fulfilled, their purpose is to tell
Only of what they have not found,
For in the absence of my deepest love,

I find that they abound.

These shudders, from the coffin of my love
Buried by time, and distance parted,
Shake the very earth that is its prison,

Against my love my sanity is slowly martyred

Winter, tell me why it is,
You come at such a price?
Your snow is nice, and winds as well,
But rain’s no match for ice.

Dreary autumns end
Is something dismal to behold.
It reeks of damp, of must and cold,
Unlike what will unfold.

For winter in these farmers towns,
Is cold and clean and bright,
And the smell of snow is crisp and fresh,
As calm as death at night.

To stand amongst the crystal trees,
And attend to single snowflakes,
In the woods when all is covered,
Is enough to make your heart shake.

So in memory of beloved winter
I write this mournful piece,
Pining the time when the rains will end
And the snow is thick on the trees.

The pebble all alone,
Might be the stone,
Inside your shoe,
Or a diamond in the earth,
Or a diamond set in an invulnerable alloy
To shave and mould the others of it’s kind.

So many stones together,
Might be the gravel on your driveway,
Lightly dusted by the heather,
Or covered in snow by winter’s weather.
Enough rocks in the right place
And you’ve got a gravel beach,
Waiting for time to teach
Every one how to be sand,
As though it were bland.

Turning every dull piece into a hundred thousand
Glittering particles of dust-like sand.

What does it take to break down
Into an indistinct sea of distinct matter?

Just a little bit of space and more than enough time for everyone to ponder
Think of:
The mountain that gave you the beach that you walked on last.
The stone can’t help but surrender,
To you or time, it matters little.

(those of us born in March respond)

‘We are the children of the Spring,
and merrily greet it’s approach,
and happily wish it on it’s way,
glad just to see it’s face again,
and cheered by another birthday!’

Reccomendations more than welcome…

And thusly lunged a piece of grisly rock
Across the unborn nether, black-lit all
Obliterating in its path a million, trillion
Other stones which through space fall
In all direction do they fly, but to each one
Just one path through the endless night
The lunging piece of rock had met its end
In 1904 as we count years today, exploding
into countless fragments flayed aground
And shards eviscerating deep the clay
A river bed in what we call Siberia
Was turned into a maelstrom on that day
And still contends to deconstruct the trunks
Of eighty million trees in a single grave
Who knows what beasts in countless numbers
Lie beneath the sheets of ice by the Tunguska
Animals who, startled by a noise, were immolated
Whole with all around them, in one moment
Under the shadow of a space-lost stone

One passed nearby the earth today, much closer
Than a moon’s throw away but far enough
That we won’t pay it notice or take note
Of craters when the earth of Past was smote
Our planet riddled by these daunting marks
As if some heavenly muse made it her art
Be they celestial gifts or cast off rubbish
From the heaps of garbage chaos theory
Has left lying all round the heavens, Let us hope
That we are never subject to the stare
Of a substantial object locked
In a decomposing orbit or
An errant asteroid heading for
The corner of the earth we call our home