EVOLUTION

His charisma was undeniable.
His manners impeccable.
His charm irresistible.
What choice did they have
but to flock to his banner?

It was easy for him to climb inside
their heads, and engineer fantastic
ideals of self-sufficiency
and supreme power.
It quenched their thirst
for a better life, made them feel
important, invincible.

So they built him a pedestal,
this hero of theirs,
and worshipped at it's base,
fulfilling his every command
with unquestioning obedience.

And even when they began to notice
unmistakable signs of imbalance,
it was excused as
the eccentricity of genius.
So they revered him even more.

Soon, they were deaf and blind
to all but his will.
He had finally created
his dream super-race of inhuman
brainwashed automatons.

It wasn't until they were burying
thousands of mutilated
skeletal bodies, that they saw
the path of his evolution
mapped out
in the entrails of his victims.

Only then did they understand
that Evil Incarnate had changed it's name
to Adolf Hitler.

ALBAN ARTHUAN

Winter Solstice


They're singing Christmas carols today
in our local shopping mall,
and the seven metre
recently slaughtered Pine
is decorated with glitter and
flashing rainbow lights.
This unnecessary taking
of the life of so noble a being
grieves me, yet
could there be a more fitting
sacrifice to the One God
who has overshadowed the Many?

And you stop
to hug and kiss me
as you pass, and wish me
'Happy Christmas,' your breath
reeking of whisky.
And I nod
then smile, wondering
why you assume
I'm a Christian, simply because
I'm white and live
in England.

Beyond your thunderous celebrations
I hear a more harmonious song, subtle
but immeasurably powerful, issuing
from the roots of time itself.
The Song of Taliesin.
Pulsing through my veins,
it infuses my entire being
with a sense of identity;
is a solemn reminder
that I am a daughter
of the Great Goddess,
a woman of the trees
dwelling within, but not of
your society.

For mine is the much older Path
that leads away
from noisy, crowded places
and into the quiet sanctity
of Oaken Grove, where
communication with The Bright Ones
requires no intermediary, but is
direct and natural.

I have no need of  holy buildings
because no Deity had a hand in
their construction.
They are the work of man alone.
Being inside a Church
makes me feel alienated and cut off
from genuine Spirituality.
A free Spirit such as mine
could never conform to the
unreasonable rules and regulations
set out by the upper hierarchy
of an orthodox religion.
And however well schooled
in ecclesiastical circles, a priest
is still human and is
therefore as prone to misinterpretation
as any layperson.

What I need is the Earth beneath my feet,
the wind in my face - only then
am I being true to my inner nature.
This is what it means
to be a Pagan Druid.

Unfortunately, the
coming of Christianity to these Isles
has robbed us of many
of our Traditional Sacred Sites,
for they now lie buried
beneath Church foundations,
as do the Old Ways
of our Ancestors.
Not a single person wished me
'Solstice Blessings' today,
although it is the native birthright
of so many of us.
I find that rather sad.

Here, tonight,
under these Midwinter Stars,
I feel the crisp frost
crunching underfoot, the
cold air penetrating my robes.
And it feels so good to be home,
in our Place of Unity.
You will find only living Trees here,
adorned by Nature Herself
with spiralling Ivy, crimson berries
and shimmering pearls of Mistletoe.
There is no other beauty to equal
such a magical sight.

As we enter into the Silence now
at this Hallowed Place,
the unmistakable presences
of the Old Gods and Goddesses
permeate the very air around us,
instilling their ancient wisdom
into our living Souls.
This utter Truth
of direct understanding
eliminates the need of faith.
There is simply a profound
inner knowing.

And as the Old Year draws to a close
at the approach of the midnight hour,
we cast away everything
that has been holding us back
these past twelve months,
allowing us to embrace this
New Beginning unburdened
and receptive to new influences.
There is a wonderful sense
of weightlessness and elation.

Now,
as the Druidic New Year
is reborn and we ignite the
Light of Arthur in the East,
won't you join us for a
celebratory glass of wine
and slice of Solstice cake?
For this Festive Time of Inspiration
belongs to Everyone, not
just an elite few!

May the Light of Arthur illuminate your life!

Solstice Blessings Everyone
               X X X

THE PROFESSOR

Do you remember
that sunny June day, when
I had an afternoon off and
you arranged yours to
take me on a guided tour
of this delightfully
absurd place?

How it makes me smile
to picture you then,
relating it's history to me
with near manic enthusiasm.
I recall how
you paused, mid-lecture,
to gaze into my eyes.

After what seemed like
an eternity,
you asked me what I saw in you.
'I'm so very, very old ,' you said.
But I hadn't the slightest interest in,
nor understanding of, the
morally defined
mathematical equations
of physical and emotional attraction.
I was never that intelligent,
not like you.
I simply felt it.

If only you'd grasped
the uncomplicated fact
that each grey hair on your head,
every wrinkle time-etched
into your dearly loved face
fuelled such a hunger
deep inside me.
Your slightest touch
was pure ecstasy.
How dared those small minds
castigate you and denounce
our love
when it felt so right?
Just thinking of you now
brings me out in goosebumps.

But they must have been getting to you,
because doubts were beginning
to creep in.
'I'm so afraid you'll break my heart
one day,' you said, a tear
threatening to escape
from the corner of your eye.
'You'll meet someone nearer
your own age, then I'll lose you!'
But that isn't the way it happened at all, is it?
It was I who eventually lost you.



And I tried desperately hard
to strike a bargain
with the Ferryman - begged him to accept
three-quarters of my life allowance,
in order to bring us into line
and bury that wretched
fifty-year age gap,
instead of you.

But,
without a backwards glance,
he sailed slowly away
into the distance,
taking you with him.
And my heart bled to death
right there,
on that bleak shoreline.

Without you,
life has been
so dead.

THE TRAMP

Illustration by Joan Walsh Anglund

I was once a wealthy man,

Before my unfortunate obsession began

With betting on the dogs and horses.

So now I've had to leave the forces.

I was a Major, highly respected,

Until the Colonel my activities inspected.

Then I was discreetly shown the door

For becoming an embarrassment to the Corps.

So now I live in a cardboard box

With my sole companion, an urban fox.

But it isn't at all too bad a life.

At least I've escaped my nagging wife!

And this shabby old box you think you see

Is actually a stately home to me.

It's decorated with furnishings rich,

Crafted from things I found in the ditch.

Now here on the streets of London I'm free

From everyone making demands of me.

I can come and go whenever I please

And laze in summer under leafy trees.

Those are the days I love the best,

With empty spirit bottle hugged to my chest.

Surely I must be in paradise,

Apart from being eaten alive by lice!

I think I'm being prompted to take a bath,

So down to the Thames I follow a path.

I bet you don't have a bath this size.

In comparison yours is the booby prize.

As long as I earn a crust now and then
By busking and begging beneath Big Ben
I'll never starve, in fact I'll thrive
For I need very little to keep me alive.

'But don't you need hot food in winter?' you ask.
Well, haven't you ever heard of a flask?
The soup kitchens are open all day
And they always allow us to take some away.

'Aren't you cold though as if in a fridge?'
Not when I shelter beneath the bridge.
And even if frostbite prompts me to die,
There's no need to feel sorry for me, nor cry.

For I will have lived my ideal life,
Free from all the stresses and strife
Of pandering to a society
That never really was for me.




THE ONCE AND FUTURE KING

Last night
in troubled dreams, I saw
the tower of Vortigern fall
through time
into now,
while all around
a greyish darkness enclosed me,
until I stood in the centre
of  decaying wasteland.
Mortally afraid, I sought
the silence inside,
where I found him.
A slight, not very tall man
mounted on a creamy-white stallion.

'Arthur,
why have you broken
your promise?' I blurted out.
'Bankruptcy, violence, greed
and wars no one wanted
are bringing down
your once great nation;
while invaders creep in
through bureaucratic cracks
to insidiously destroy us
from within.
Albion needs you now.
Yet still you don't come.
Why, Arthur?
Why have you abandoned
your subjects in our
darkest hour?'

He smiled indulgently,
as if a petulant child
stood before him.
Then,
speaking the language of chivalry
(virtually defunct today)
through cloud-form,
Raven song and patterns
woven into the land,
he taught me another way
of seeing.
From the heart.

And I learned
what love is.
It isn't that shallow
ego-driven thing
that all too often
masquerades in its name,
but is the pure
unconditional power
that created the Universe
and resonates in the Soul
of every sentient being.

And I understood
that nothing evil can possibly exist
in the presence of  true love,
and that it is solely
our unloving hearts
that have blocked its free-flow
and allowed this mayhem
to run riot through our land.
We have become the source
of our own destruction.

And I awoke then, knowing
that Arthur hasn't abandoned us.
It is we who have banished him
to the land of legends
and imprisoned him there.


But there is hope yet.
If we can only learn to open
these locked and desensitised
twenty-first century minds,
then maybe he will someday return
from the Blessed Isles,
our Once and Future King,
then Camelot will rise like the phoenix
from the ashes of anarchy
and the promised Golden Age
will dawn again.......

BOVINE LAMENT

I wonder what you actually see

As you pause at the gate to gaze at me.

Is it a dumb and senseless beast,

Or perhaps your next Sunday feast?

Maybe a new pair of boots comes to mind,

Or do you think my skin is the kind

That would make a quality three piece suite

With a stool on which to rest your feet?

I'm sure it has never occurred to you

That I have thoughts and feelings too.

It was torture when I was snatched from my mother,

Then castrated along with my younger brother.

I would have loved some calves of my own,

But they'd have been veal before they were grown.

So it's probably best that my conscience is clear

Of inflicting on them what I'm suffering here.

For I know it's just a matter of time

Until the abattoir claims this life of mine.

They're like chambers of death from World War Two.

I'll be slaughtered just like a tragic Jew.

So before you turn and walk away

And forget me, please answer me pray,

How can you look into my eyes,

Then go to the pub for steak and fries?

SPIRIT OF THE WIND

On fierce
stormy nights I await him
with impatience, fevered longing,
for I know
he will someday come.


Tonight
these bitter Northern Winds
are full of his voice
calling me.
So I scramble to the summit
of wind-battered moorland hill,
where impossible dreams reactivate
long abandoned desires.
Rising from this tomb of flesh
to glide on torrents of air,
I dance amongst falling autumn leaves.
And I find him
hovering here,
a whirlwind of Stardust
in vague human form.
He offers an oxygen 'high',
so I breathe him
deep into avid lungs,
where he becomes the lover
of a restless, untamed Spirit.

Together
we smash through the boundary
of Earthly time,
spanning the entire planet
in an instant;
oxygenating the dying parts
to bring new life
and impartial healing
to all beings.
In this Airy Dimension,
We are,
Have been,
Will be,
Are perfected.

Relentless Storm,
rage on.
Wrench apart these shackles
and take this virginal mortality,
for I want to stay
forever in your eye.

TREEOWL

I came across you one summer's day

While rambling through countryside far away.

I found you such a beautiful thing,

So expertly crafted from claw to wing.

Every feather was true to life

And as I drew nearer I felt the knife

That had carved a totem from living wood,

Creating a species not yet understood.

You incarnated on Earth as a Tree,

But who you are now is what puzzles me.

Are you this Owl that my eyes behold,

Or is it still Spirit of Tree that you hold?

Your lack of movement denies the former,

Plus if you were he you'd feel much warmer.

Yet, although hewn from trunk you're more than Tree.

So Treeowl I conclude you to be!

MOTHERHOOD BLUES

Here lies captured
a fleeting moment
in your life's evolution.
Within this
photographic time capsule
you'll never suffer
adult woes
nor grow old.
I promise to keep you
somewhere safe - at least
for as long as I'm here on Earth.

Wish I could melt
into coloured ink
and sink
into glossy paper.
I'd pick you up
and hug you close
as I loved to do
long ago.
There's such longing
to repair
a broken mother/son bond,
to feel needed again.

The you I see today,
towering high above me
is distant,
far too macho now
for a goodnight kiss.
And I so grieve
discarded childhood;
it's honesty
and simple gestures;
that natural lack
of self-consciousness.
But complacency ensured
that I failed to notice
when the youth shed child form
to become grown man.
So you moved on without me.

Motherhood
is redundant now,
and I no longer
have a name. 

SAMHUINN

Feast of the Dead

Should you pass my home tonight,

You'll see a candle burning bright.

It's not inviting 'Trick or Treat',

But guiding the Ancestors home to eat.

I've cooked my Grandma's favourite meal

And scented the room with sage to heal

Any rifts that keep us apart

To ease her passage back to my heart.

I've reserved a place for Grandpa too,

By favourite tobacco placed in the loo.

For he always hid in there for a smoke

Until Grandma came and gave him a poke!

For my Father, a picture of his veteran cars

And his favourite chocolate bar - a Mars.

While my Mother I'm sure I can easily lure

By photos of picnics on Hayling shore.

My baby daughter who I still deeply miss

Will soon be home to claim a kiss,

And so, you see, this time of year

Has never been a time to fear.

Instead, it's a time for celebration,

For our World briefly opens to Spirit Vibration

So all those we've lost can return again,

Entering through the candle's flame!

 

HIT AND RUN

Inspired by the movie 'Que la Bete Meure'

 Arriving home in a terrible fright

I struggle out of the car

And into the hall to turn on the light,

Before heading straight to the bar.

Trying to steady my staggering gait

As the room spins over the door.

Next moment I'm in a bewildered state

To find myself sprawled on the floor.

My memory's fighting with the booze

To remember what happened tonight,

When past my window the ambulance crews

Race amid blue flashing light.

My arm is hurting, there's blood on my shirt

And a frightening sense of doom,

When suddenly I know I've hurt

Someone out there in the gloom.

Slowly the pieces fall into place,

I recall the sickening thud

As a young girl's horribly broken face

Bounced from my screen to the mud.

Split second decision - I'd had to escape

As I dreaded what I might see.

Imagine the mess her blood would make

And the effect it could have on me!

So I'd raced off with my foot to the floor,

Praying that no one had seen,

For my misdemeanour I was sure

Would cost me every bean.

But now grave doubts are setting in,

As the fog clears from my brain,

And so I go to the fridge for a tin

To obscure the thoughts again.

But it doesn't work and my flesh starts to creep

As pictures in my mind

Begin to make me shudder and weep.

That child out there could have been mine.

So in a desperate bid to forget,

I go into the lounge

To switch on the TV set,

But catch the end of news round.

They're appealing for witnesses to come and help

With a fatal hit-and-run.

At the sight of her face, I let out a yelp,

Appalled at what I've done.

That beautiful child is no more

And I'm the one to blame.

If only I'd waited, although it's a bore

Until the taxi came.

What must her parents be feeling now?

To imagine, I can't begin.

If only I could tell them how

I'd give all for her place to be in.

And so I decide to give myself up,

But the police have already arrived.

They're giving my car a thorough check-up

And inspecting its caved-in front side.

When I approach they caution me

And I offer my hands to be cuffed.

As they drive me away, through tears I see

The spot where that young life was snuffed.

'Oh God forgive me,' I cry in remorse.

For I can't bear what I've done.

It'll haunt me 'til I die of course

In prison at seventy-one.



JUDGE GEORGE JEFFREYS

At home they're treated with cool respect
his wife and children four,
but when he wears judicial wig
he's a gentleman no more.

Then he's the great Lord Chancellor,
the most brutal England has known,
as he reigns over the Bloody Assize
striking terror right to the bone.

Haughty and sadistic, he gazes down
from his throne-like bench on high,
anticipating the pleasure to come
as they lead the prisoner by.

But he cannot prove her alleged crime
so he bullies a petrified jury,
forcing them to acknowledge her guilt
or themselves bear the brunt of his fury.

So this frail old widow is condemned
through gross perversion of laws,
to be bound to the stake and burned alive.
How he relishes controlling death's jaws.

It makes him feel important, almighty,
to possess the power to slay.
I swear he believes himself a God,
but inside the devil holds sway.

I'm so grateful I wasn't alive
in the year of sixteen-eighty-five!

THE POET

He appears in your life
just as a glowing evening Sun
dips beyond western sea.
What is it about him
that captures and holds
your attention,
that you find so devastatingly irresistible?
His dark brooding good looks maybe?
No.
That's much too shallow a reason
for such overwhelming reactions.
No, it's more the way his
powerfully evocative words
translate into wild hedonistic caresses
that holds you spellbound.
Your senses are expanded,
razor sharp.
You're drawn into the slipstream
of a white-hot meteor
that rips apart the night sky
of inhibition, allowing
the full force of passion
to fly free.
He suspends time itself
for you.
There is only this moment,
you, he and utter bliss.

Golden dawn.
With a solitary
heart-stopping kiss,
the linguistic magician promises
Forever.
Then he's gone.

Six lonely months
have passed.
His face has begun to blur
in your memory now.
He could've been no more
than a collective female fantasy
inadvertently hacked into,
or even the cheating love rat
your friends believe him to be.
But it really doesn't matter
if others think
he lied about forever,
because you know the truth.

There are many interpretations
for that word
and his lies here,
on a single page
in his recently published
anthology, where
he's made you
IMMORTAL.

THE OATH

Checking the mirror
before leaving for the ceremony.
This other-worldly Priestess
gazes back
from where my reflection
should be.
Recognition probes
the outer reaches
of consciousness,
where Akashic Records
aren't quite closed.
And I ask,
'Are you seeing your future,
or I my past?
Who are we?'

I arrive at my destination.
Donning robe of forest green
brings a sense
of impending transfiguration.
Searching my palm
for clues
I find her lifeline,
a descent uninterrupted
down the Spiritual bloodline.
It maps the many times
I've been born
have lived and died
to bring me to
this monumental time
where I resume my function
amid Druidesses nine
upon this Hill of Avalon,
hallowed since Morgan's time.

Back home now.
Returning to the mirror.
Why is it no surprise
that she and I have synthesised?
A solemn oath abandoned
millennia ago
has been at last fulfilled.

SIGNS

A passing cloud
swirls itself momentarily
into your image.
A truck speeding by.
Your surname
emblazoned along its side
within a blood red heart
is reminiscent of mine
that so aches for you.
And I know
these are signs
that we are meant to be together.

Here it is again, your name,
embedded in a word search puzzle,
standing out
as if in relief.
I see your birth date
encoded in a till receipt
from this morning's shopping trip.
These, too, are signs
that I was born to be with you.

Alone
on a rain drenched beach,
storm battered.
Eyes downcast,
tightly screwed up
against a bitter wind.
I see a holey stone
and pick it up.
Aren't they reputed
to grant wishes?
I bet you can't imagine
what I'm wishing for
as I slip it onto my finger?
A Russian Doll,
you and I.

I'm watching you
deep in conversation
with someone I've never met.
Without a glance
in my direction,
your body language betrays
embryonic love for me.
Searching your face
for confirmation.
YES!!
It's unmistakably there
and I'm ecstatic,
aware of two futures on a collision course.
Our eyes meet - just for a second,
and a hint of a smile
plays around your lips.
Reassured that you want me
as much as I want you,
I am elated.

Flying high,
yet battling the Torments of Tantalus,
I approach my destiny.
But she arrives just in front of me,
throwing herself
into your waiting arms.
And I see that look in your eyes,
The look that melts my insides
is exclusively for her.
And I feel such a fool.

SPIRIT OF THE FOREST

You'll glimpse me in the wind-tossed leaves,

I'm the deeper green within.

You'll hear my voice in the rustling ferns

whispering your name.

You'll feel my touch in the gentle breeze

soothing your troubled brow.

My woody scent will draw your thoughts

beyond the mundane world,

where awareness expands and you feel the pain

of every trampled flower.

And when you're tired and fall asleep

beneath the spreading Oak,

you'll dream my dreams then remembrance will come

that you and I have always been one.......

REBELLION

For Cordelia

Who are you to rule my life

And control my every move

From the stronghold of your cosy chairs

Like smug all-powerful autocrats?

You command me to be in at nine

Before the night is born,

Knowing my friends will ridicule

As you arrive to escort me home.

Yet petty laws imposed on me

Are all you care about

And in the ensuing battle,

Humiliation wins.

My boyfriends are never good enough,

They never stand a chance.

You're mortified by my 'slovenly lout'

And his heavy metal band.

What's even worse, his ultimate sin

Is to hail from a council estate.

But why should I worry if he's working class

When we're having such fun on a date?

Your petty spies are everywhere,

I have no privacy.

When we kissed as Jamie met me from school

I was grounded for a week,

For the Dunlop-Coopers spotted us

And couldn't wait to squeal.

They distorted the truth until you believed

We were shagging in the street!

Their daughter Melinda's iconic traits

Are paraded in front of me

'Why can't you be like her,'  you whine,

'And make us proud of you?

To a Member of Parliament she's engaged,

She's an elegant socialite,

And her legendary summer balls

Are an ostentatious delight!'

I'm forced to dress conservatively

When attending her afternoon teas

In shapeless brownish-greys

And tweeds to below the knees.

I'm feeling so dowdy and desperate

To dispense with etiquette

That deep inside a warhead seethes

Threatening to eject.

'Come and meet my cousin,' she croons,

'I'm certain he's just your type.'

Then patronisingly she adds,

'He'll make you a lady all right.

For he's descended from royalty you see,

On his father's side.

Just hope and pray he has a taste

For plainness in a bride!'

So I'm cornered behind a potted palm

By an arrogant stammering bore.

His foul breath and body odour

Make me feel quite faint.

'You must j-join me on my y-yacht,'

He mumbles as lecherous eyes

Fix their gaze on my firm young breasts

Until disgust I can no longer hide.

'I'd rather die!' I scream and smash

Their priceless saucer and cup.

As coffee oozes over marble floor,

Open-mouthed they gawp.

For the very first time, their attention is mine

And I really want to shock.

So slowly and deliberately I undress,

Discarding the loathed attire.

As ladies shriek and one or two swoon,

The men just ogle and stare.

It seems the sight of a red satin thong

Has hypocrisy laid bare!

Just before I walk away

I boldly return your stare,

'I'm sorry mother and father

If I disappoint you so,

But for your ideals I'll never care

So it's best if I just go.

All I wanted was a normal life

But you could never see

That all these years spent moulding me

Into who you believed I should be,

Has left no time to get to know

This person I call me!'



CHRISTOPHER

In Memoriam


I came across your bracelet today.
You know, the black leather one
embellished with pure white lizards?
I was tidying my cupboard
and there it was,
tucked away in a neglected corner,
still wrapped in its original
pouch of time-faded ivory silk.

And I thought of you.
Closing my eyes,
I could picture you clearly
on a movie screen inside my head.
You were smiling at me,
as you often did,
and I was moved to tears
by the desperate need
to see you again,
just one last time.

But I know that will never happen.
So I'm tortured by the notion
that you may wonder if  I've abandoned
all thoughts of you
since your emigration
to that not-so-distant land,
where insubstantial people live.
Although you would never believe that
if you only knew
how frequently my dreams hover
over that lonely red-brick cottage
where I lived with you
for the first seventeen years
of my life.
Nor would you believe it
if you could look inside my mind
and see how much I wish
I could rewind time
to those simple, carefree days
of bonfires in the orchard
and long walks across the common
with two happy, barking dogs.

And I'm so afraid you may be disappointed
that I no longer mention the place
where the most precious dust on Earth
nourishes the soil and spreading roots
of a beautiful red rose bush.
But the people you knew and loved
have long since moved on,
and I have allowed myself
to be pulled along with them
into the spiral of time,
that ceaseless torrent of moments
leading ever further
from your noble presence.

It isn't that you've become
an unimportant
and no longer necessary part of my life,
but because I have to keep
my grieving heart hidden.
I am so afraid they'd think me morbid
should I reveal the truth - that
all I wanted for a long, long time
after your departure
was to lie down on that soft earth
and let the dark force of nature
reunite us forever.
But I had to be strong - if only
for the sake of my other loved ones,
and try to carry on without you.

Yes, I have managed to survive
this devastating loss,
but please don't ever imagine
that I will forget the person
I owe my very existence to.
How could I?
Your legacy is me.
I am your creation,
your work of art.
You gave me form and substance.
You shaped this personality
and instilled these values.
You are someone I will never,
ever stop loving.

My Father.

MERLYN'S CAVE

Standing here,

in front of the entrance

to Merlyn's Cave

on Tintagel beach.

Midnight, deserted.

Noisy, intrusive tourists

are long gone.

An eerie silence, broken only

by continual crashing

of mighty Atlantic waves

onto jagged rocky outcrops.

Stepping into the darkness,

leaving protective glow

of full moon outside.

Moving slowly, cautious

of slippery rocks

underfoot.

Cold penetrates

right to the bone here.

Dripping sounds

echo spookily

around ancient sea-sculpted walls.

A sudden movement.

Startling.

Holding my breath,

listening intently.

Shivering in the clammy

atmosphere.

Silence.

I'm unnerved.

Feel like retracing my steps,

escaping to the safety

of moonlit beach outside.

But a strange impulse

draws me onward.

It's as though my feet

have a will of their own.

So I'm led ever deeper

into the dank interior

of the Earth's bowels.

Peculiar whispering

surrounds me on all sides.

I'm convinced

there's someone in here with me.

'Hello,' I call out,

trying to sound much more confident

than I feel.

No reply,

just the returning echo

of my own voice.

But the whispering

abruptly ceases.

I'm approaching the far end

of the cave now.

I can see the Moon's reflection

in rippling water

through a narrow aperture.

A dark figure passes swiftly

from left to right

just a few feet

in front of me.

'Hello,' I call out again.

Still no answer.

Intrigue competes with fear

as I grope my way forward

to the exact spot

where I just lost sight

of the shadowy form.

There's nothing here

but solid rock wall.

I've never moved so fast

in my entire life!

Impervious to the slippery floor,

cracking shins on stone,

splashing knee-deep in rock pools,

I scramble to the relative security

of silver streaked

sandy beach.

Catching my breath,

I'm compelled to turn

and make sure

I'm not being followed.

There,

in the shadow

of gigantic Tintagel Head above,

stands that same figure,

motionless,

watching me.

'Who are you?' I call out,

as much in frustration

as any other emotion.

'I am Merlyn!'

a deep voice replies.

I blink

and the beach is deserted. 



This face appeared on the wall in my hall just after this experience.

It is no longer there, but continues to periodically re-appear in the

condensation on my bathroom mirror.

I can find no rational explanation.

SURVIVAL

A memory of being nineteen

You told me you loved me once,
in the very beginning
and I believed you
and was happy.

But then you said
I wasn't beautiful enough.
You weren't keen on my hair
because it wasn't black,
and my green eyes
were too pale for your taste.

So I dyed my hair
and used brown contact lenses,
and hoped you would
love me again.

But you said
that at four-feet-ten
I wasn't tall enough.
Well,
I couldn't do much
about that, except
teeter around on six-inch heels.

Then you said
my conversation was boring.
So I tried to think up
witty things to say.
But all that did
was annoy you.

You said
I wasn't sexy enough
in the bedroom.
So I bought lacy undies,
black stockings and suspenders.
But you said
I looked ridiculous
and I believed you,
so accepted all my faults.

Then I asked
why you stayed with me
if you found me
so repugnant,
and you replied that I
relieved your boredom
until someone better
came along.

Yet, still I stayed
because I loved you
and hoped you would change.
But you never did.

And when I finally had the courage
to tear myself away,
you said
I was weak and pathetic
and would never survive
without you.

Yet here I am today......

VANDALS

Why do vandals have to smash

Everything in sight?

And why do they do drugs and drink

Then go looking for a fight?

I suppose they think they're really tough

Intimidating us,

But I'm sure they're aware most passers-by

Are unlikely to make a fuss.

When they're in their marauding gangs

They think they rule the World,

Lording it over everyone

With baseball bats fast-twirled.

They kick our garden gate and throw

Beer bottles over our wall,

Then trash our car with an iron bar

Before attacking the shopping mall.

They shriek and whoop with wild delight

While racing a stolen car,

Then set it alight before running away

Like the cowards they really are.

For when you see one all alone

He'll swiftly pass you by,

With head down and hoodie over

In case you catch his eye.

His power, it seems, has deserted him

With the mass testosterone.

His voice is almost a whisper now

As he answers his mobile phone.

His sunken eyes have a vacant look

As there's nothing much within,

For the little intelligence he once had

Has been lost to cocaine and gin.

He'd be shocked to see himself

The way others do,

As the scourge of society

Respected by so few.

And what will happen when he has

Children of his own?

Will they be raised to mutilate

This land on which they've grown?

So heed this tale as a warning if

Like him, you're so weak and afraid

That you have to hide behind a brutish mob

For your life will soon degrade.

DREAMS

or NIGHTMARES?



GROUPIE

So you've finally snared a Rock Star!

Your friends are envious and hope

he possibly has an associate or two

that you could introduce them to.

Suddenly you're a front page babe

in the tabloids and glossy mags.

They clamour to interview you to ask

for every detail about your past.

All the attention goes to your head

and you play it right to the hilt.

A role model it seems you've become.

Of all the groupies, you're number one.

You flirt with the camera as if it's a lover,

you smile, pout and entice.

'Look who I'm with!' you appear to be saying

as you pass the lens, luscious hips swaying.

Then at the pinnacle of reflected fame,

you're gutted to find yourself ditched.

They say a seductress more exotic

has turned his head with promises erotic!

'Why?' you cry, as your world tumbles down

and humiliation sets in.

But to everyone else it's obvious why.

Your connection with him was based on a lie.

In the beginning he needed a trophy,

and it seemed you would fit the bill.

Your looks, your hair and body were great,

just what he needed as media bait.

But then your 'off' days began to challenge

his vision of female perfection.

When things like PMT kicked in,

all you wanted was a quiet night in.

You couldn't be bothered with makeup then,

nor dressing to stoke his ego.

'Surely I am entitled,' you said,

'To sometimes just be in the years ahead!'

This act of rebellion scared him to death.

For his public image he feared.

What if someone should drop by?

Of humiliation he would surely die.

No one must ever see his Goddess

in her unadorned (flawed) human state.

His enemies for certain would seize the day

and his credibility be swept away.

Then in public he could never again show his face.

He'd be forced to relocate

to some obscure island where in exile he'd dwell

and live life unknown - his personal hell!

Surely you never believed such a man

would love you for who you are?

It isn't that he's intrinsically bad,

just more, I'd say, than a little sad.

To stardom he's a phobic slave,

without it what would he be?

Just another ordinary guy in the street

who no one particularly wants to meet.

It's groupies like you who raised him up

to the dizzy heights of fame.

So it's you, not he, who possess real power.

You could end his career within the hour!



TITLES

Ode to Jonathan


My weakness began
on The Voyage of the Damned.
Damned? How?
Because that's when
I first saw you.
Human Nature being what it is,
Consuming Passions soon took hold
of a wayward heart.
It was exquisite torture,
far greater than any inflicted
by the Pirates of the Caribbean.

Were you aware
I followed you to Brazil, where
Angel-like, your white wings
lifted a Soul from mediocrity
to soar with you?
Unnoticed,
your Bride of the Wind
raced with you across blue sky,
way above the gathering
storm clouds,
into a Multi-million Pound Fantasy.

Finally alone with you
in Peter Pan's Never Never Land,
sharing the ecstasy
of a Haunted Honeymoon.
Haunted by if only's and
what if's, in a mirage
too intoxicating to ever leave.

Crazier even
than The Adventures of Baron Munchhausen,
this haunting virtual reality
has brought  Regeneration
to a jaded life.
The mental Stigmata are healed now.
This has truly been
What a Girl Wants!



  

FORBIDDEN LOVE

You came to me when I despaired

Of another day of life,

When tears of sorrow drowned my heart

In a sea of bitter strife.

You took my hand and led the way

To a safe and sunny shore,

And there you wrapped me in your love

Until I hurt no more.

Since then you've become a part of me,

Much more than guide and friend.

Without you I would cease to be,

Like a novel at its end.

Although your touch is cold as ice,

It burns me to the core

In a raging fire of hidden desire,

Defying self-control.

None must know, I cannot tell

Of our forbidden love,

For we're as different, you and I,

As a moonbeam from a dove.

If they knew, our love they'd scorn

And would fail to understand,

Because they'll never see us

Walking hand in hand.

I'm sometimes needing you so much

My heart will surely break,

But all I have around me

Are people on the make.

And so I make excuses

To quietly slip away,

And travel down the South Coast road

To Bracklesham half way.

I take the familiar turning

Into narrow country lane,

And follow it o'er desolate moor

'Til I'm nearly 'home' again.

When at my destination's end

The tiny church appears,

I wander among the gravestones

Stained with ancient tears.

As I reach that special one

Emotions overflow.

I feel compelled to hide my face,

Can't let such yearning show.

Before I leave, though, I cannot help

But hug it close to me

Because it's borne your name, my love,

Since nineteen-thirty-three!

Seventy-eight years have passed since then

And your body's all but dust,

Yet still you're here beside me now,

In you I place my trust.

So when it's time for me to join you

Beyond the Borderlands,

I'll have no fear, just urgent need

To be safely in your hands.

GIRLS' NIGHT OUT

'Never again!' you say.
'Never,
never,
never again
will I bare my Soul,
give my all to a man.
Because what does he do with my precious gift?
He uses it against me,
turns it into some grotesque
piranha-like thing
that insidiously eats away
at my identity
until I no longer recognise myself!'

Here, the tears begin to flow,
so I fight my way through
the Saturday night crowds
to the bar
and buy you yet another vodka.

You down it in one,
almost choking yourself,
then slam the empty glass
down onto the table.
How it remains in one piece, I'll never know!
A little calmer now
(or more than a little inebriated),
'What is wrong with me, Ygraine?' you ask,
mascara cascading down your cheeks.
'He was so perfect.
We were so perfect together.
He was my ultimate sexy Adonis.
All I ever wanted was "Happy ever after".
Is that really too much to ask?
He said it was what he wanted too.
Why, then, do I get the distinct impression
that all I'm fit for these days is:
clearing his hair from the shower plug hole;
ensuring the fridge is well stocked with lager
just in case his mates spring a surprise visit;
and gathering his dirty laundry
from its increasingly familiar place, namely
strewn all over the bedroom floor?
And now,
just as I honestly believed
things couldn't get any worse,
he didn't even notice I'm wearing a new dress
or that I've coloured my hair!'
You begin to wail like a banshee.
'I've been demoted from object of desire,
to invisible drudge!' you scream in frustration,
your face turning a deeper shade of purple.
People are beginning to stare.
Feeling embarrassed,
I practically carry you to the Ladies.
It seems I may have over-prescribed the medicinal vodka!

An hour or so has passed now.
With makeup re-applied
and ego bandaged,
you are just about ready to face the world again.
After an enormous amount of coaxing
I've finally managed to talk you into
giving men a wide berth for a while
(for my sake as much as yours).
You've sent him a text,
making it crystal clear
that you're no longer prepared to be his doormat
and you never want to see him again.

Heads held high,
we stride up to the bar
(well, one of us does
the other still needs a bit of support!)
and order the most expensive,
most exotic cocktails we can invent
- as a kind of celebratory toast
to your newly single status.
Now we hurl ourselves onto the dance floor,
determined to salvage the rest
of what was intended to be
a fun girls' night out.

Leaving you for a few moments
to go and finish my drink,
I return to find you
hanging on the arm of some guy,
gazing adoringly into his eyes.
Suddenly catching sight of me,
a huge smile spreads across your face.
'Ygraine, come and meet Dave!' you slur.
And I notice his hand
caressing your right buttock.

I am speechless!!

CARRINGTON

I met you once,in that no man's land
that hangs somewhere between
sleeping and waking.
I sensed, rather than saw you,
physically felt the wild pounding
of your desperate heart
electrocuting my own aura.
You were a vortex of nervous anxiety,
frantically searching for something.
Or someone?

I could almost - but not quite
recognise you.
Those obsessive compulsive mannerisms
seemed somehow familiar.
Then I saw you,
a tall, emaciated, boyish figure
with unflattering cropped hair;
an unhappy lost Soul
wandering around in circles,
totally alone
in a dreary place of shadows.
Yes, of course I knew you then
and instinctively reached out to comfort you,
but you remained oblivious to my presence,
were too intent on your manic quest.

Dora,
(I apologise for using the birth name you so despised,
but it somehow seems appropriate now.)
I know who you've been so desperately trying to find all these years,
that you truly believe he was your inspiration
and without him
you were nothing.
But, Dora, you were the talented one.
Those stunning works of art
we prize so highly were the offspring
of your beautiful complex mind,
not his presence in your life.
Your paintings would still
have enriched this World,
even if you'd never met
this much older, homosexual man
who became the sole reason for your existence.

Dora,
how could you love him this much,
while being forced to watch his young boyfriends
come and go, always excluding you
from their intimate glances?
It must have torn you to shreds.
Yet you stood by him unflinchingly,
more than willing to put him back together
when his affairs inevitably fell apart.
But who was there for you, Dora,
when the next Beau came along
and he'd disappear,
often for weeks at a time
while you starved half to death,
terrified to move from the phone
just in case he should call?
But at those times he never did,
did he?
There has never been a nobler
more faithful heart than yours.
And he really didn't deserve it.

As I sit here today
gazing at your portrait of Lytton,
I see such heart-felt adoration
in every brush stroke;
the differing hues of his skin, hair and beard
glowing, as though bathed in your undying love.
But above all,
those soulful eyes say it all.
In their depths, I see your own
beautiful highly evolved Spirit.
Dora, you were as close to perfection
as a human being could ever come.

Sadly, when cancer claimed him,
and you took your own life
because living without him
became too much to bear,
this World was robbed
of a shining light.
There has been an extra cloud
across the Sun since then.
But at least we still have
a part of you in these brilliant masterpieces
you have left behind.
And, Dora, you are recognised now.
Here in the twenty-first century,
your unique talent is finally appreciated.
That shy, sexually-confused eccentric
who always faded into the background
and was so often overlooked;
that self-deprecating person
who only rarely signed her work
because she honestly believed
it was 'not much cop'
has become an icon of the Art World.
Dora, two of your pieces are exhibited
in the Tate today!

For your sake, I hope
that you eventually find peace,
because I know you will never find
who you are looking for.
You are destined for a much Higher
Plane of existence now,
and have evolved way above
we mere mortals.
And when you can find the strength
to believe in yourself
as you believed in him,
those restricting shadows will melt away
like early morning dew,
leaving you free to take your rightful place
among the ascended Bright Ones.

Then, when I gaze up into the sky
on a clear night
and see an extra radiant Star
that wasn't there before,
twinkling in colours of the rainbow,
I'll know for sure it's you.
And the following golden dawn will give way
to the most glorious sunny day.

Dora Carrington,
if you'll only allow it,
your light will illuminate us all.......

UP IN THE CLOUDS!

Here is my movie debut!! Just thought you may like a view from the summit of Mount Snowdon...

SUMMER SOLSTICE

ALBAN HERUIN

I welcomed the Solstice sunrise

beside Oak of colossal height

until trunk and leaves, skin and hair

were bathed in golden light.

It illuminated the darker spots

within our living Souls

to leave us cleansed and free again

to fulfil our destined roles.

I sat down with my back against

the solid grainy bark,

and closed my eyes to meditate

to the warbling of skylark.

I felt the sap of this Forest King

rising up in me,

then my skin began to grow coarse and rough

while each arm sprouted branches three.

The veins in my hands became veins in my leaves

and I turned them to catch the Sun.

My roots anchored deep into the Earth.

Metamorphosis had begun.

I felt the currents of the land

coming alive with the summer tide.

My thoughts became more languid then,

and pushed trivial concerns aside.

From here, my awareness extended out

to commune with other trees

and I absorbed it all, the hurt the anger

toward humans - our greatest disease.

We're slaughtered to make their furniture,

build summer houses and sheds,

and then our remains are squashed to form

pretty edgings for their beds.

No memorial service is held for us

we're just tossed on an open fire,

and they never spare a thought for our pain

on this sacrificial pyre.

With fellow-feeling I was overwhelmed,

so the connection I had to break.

Then back once more in human form,

some action I had to take.

Ashamed of all we've inflicted on them,

such noble, yet defenceless friends,

I channelled the healing power of love

in an attempt to make amends.

 

I've learned a lot this Solstice Day

of the awareness of all living things,

and compassion has grown inside my heart.

This Druid has grown wings!

THE NOTE

I was sorting the laundry when I found it,
the note, it fell
from your inside pocket and fluttered
like a white feather of cowardice
onto the carpet, so I picked up
the tiny square
of pressed tree corpse, and saw
a death warrant
for all we've ever been together.
It died there, in our bedroom,
my love for you, and I shrank
to a pinpoint.
I so wished I'd been born blind
then I couldn't have read:

THE UNDEAD

The distinguishing characteristic of a nightmare is that it is always remembered.
W H R  Rivers

Last night I wandered alone through Highgate
Under moonless sky the colour of slate
Until I came to an old iron gate.

I hadn't realised I was in Swain's Lane
So I tried to retrace my steps again
But a menacing force took control of my brain.

A booming vibration compelled me to climb
Over the gate as I heard the twelfth chime
Of church bell and wished it wasn't that time.

In the dark and dank cemetery where all was decayed
A nauseating stench like an open grave
Assaulted my nostrils. I was mortally afraid.

Then out of the gloom and blacker than black
Loomed a tall ghastly figure and fearing attack
I tried to run, but was brutally yanked back.

As its shroud enclosed me, its eyes glowing red
The horrifying conclusion that I'd soon be dead
Struck me and I screamed - then awoke in my bed!


You're absolutely spot-on Dr Rivers, but I'd much rather not have remembered this one!!