Tuesday 29 May 2012


Bluebells and forget-me-not's surround
our log cabin in shades of spring sky;
while creepers slide, snake-like, around
weathered pine walls; their tendrils
straining to reach the golden evening Sun.

An ordinary summer house
in a typical country garden.
Appearances can sometimes be deceptive.
Because this is a place of extraordinary
inspiration, where hypnotic birdsong
lulls the mind into altered states
of consciousness; where
the heart opens to Soul language,
translating it effortlessly
into simple everyday words.

Here, I am the blank page that awaits
our collective life story:
am a humble transmission device
for Universal communication.
I think they call me "poet",
although the privilege is a fleeting one.
I cannot hold on to such ethereal impressions,
nor ever call them mine.
The best I can do is catch them as they pass
and record them here on this screen,
before they're lost forever
to the spiralling of time.

Today, I've been trapped in a creative void.
Yet as I now lean on the frame
of open window, watching
the lengthening shadows
trace crazy patterns across the lawn;
the sweet scent of honeysuckle
permeates a garden suddenly filled
with the most delightful birdsong...

Friday 25 May 2012


We had a major power cut
at 20:50 yesterday evening,
and the entire town is still
running on emergency generator.
Some time during that
black, black night,
your thirty-two years on Earth
abruptly ended.
And I lost my best friend.

It's almost as if
the power grid shut itself down
in honour of the passing
of so noble a Spirit:
just as my mind has shut down
into numbness today.

Sara, this will probably
come across as selfish, but
a future without you
scares me.
How will I survive
without my trusted confidante?
Who will I share my joys with?
And who will patiently listen
and offer comfort when life hurts?
Your mischievous sense of fun
has always been my lifeline.
Remember the lid?
How you made me laugh,
my woes instantly forgotten.
We've been inseparable for so long.
Now there's only me.

Sara, I lost a part of my Soul last night.
I had no time to thank you
for being so selfless and giving,
nor even to say 'Goodbye.'
And that troubles me deeply.

Oh I know you would smile
inside yourself and think
'You're a medium. You speak
to 'dead' people all the time.
You know there is no death!'
But, Sara, I'm only human,
and the loss of your physical being
has broken my heart.

I apologise, but
I am going to have to end here.
It is too painful to continue.

Goodbye dear friend.
I love you.
I always have.
I always will.

In Loving Memory of Sara 1980-2012

Saturday 19 May 2012


The transitional seventies: a time to be young,
Of radical innovation: hair dyed pink and green, spiked.
Dancing to Glam Rock on six-inch platforms.

Bolan, Bowie, John, Slade: quintessentially seventies.
Visionary individualists; lifestyle icons, hero worshipped;
Their faces on young girls' tee shirts, a generation inspired.

Gaudy tank-tops, striped; clashing bell bottoms
Copied from catwalk. Candles continually sold out:
Scargill induced strikes, you see; a time of three day weeks.

Gender revolution: equal pay, role reversal.
Girls in men's suits, hair cropped. Flowing curls and makeup for boys.
Sexual free expression - the rise of Whitehouse nemesis.

Of those long-lost seventies, often I find
Legacies disguised in creative newness:
Like in this season's boot-cut, echoes of bells.

Sunday 13 May 2012


A courtyard in an ancient castle: heavy
English drizzle falling from leaden sky;
soaked ground releasing scents of leaf mould and
rotting wood. The only sounds: mournful
birdsong and rhythmic dripping of accumulated
rainwater from ivy-strangled ruins onto thick
undergrowth, and my umbrella.
I am alone.
No other fool would would be tempted to stray this
far from the beaten track on a day like today;
and certainly not just to wander among these
crumbling walls, where time's relentless assault
on all things physical is so depressingly
I have to confess, the strange brooding
atmosphere of this lonely and isolated place almost
put me off too. But I desperately needed
time out from life's many complications, a
chance to recharge my batteries and recover
some emotional equilibrium; and this seemed
the ideal location.

Ssh, listen!
The birds just stopped singing.
The ensuing silence feels unnatural - and crowded.
Turning a corner of the Seymour Manor, the entire
left side of my body is plunged into icy coldness
as I'm passed by a tiny, slender figure, no
taller than I am. Her features are obscured by
the hood of a deep azure cloak that reaches
to the ground.
A few metres ahead she halts abruptly, turns,
and retraces her steps, approaching me in
slow motion.
My heart pounding, I break out in goosebumps.
She's standing right in front of me now, and
staring straight into my eyes. Never before
have I seen such anguish and utter hopelessness
contort so young a face.
'My baby! My baby!'
She's crying, her tears mingling with this
miserable endless rain. Her anxiety affects
me deeply and I long to reach out to her,
to offer what comfort I can. But she darts
away, still whimpering; her movements
becoming rapid and jerky now, like an old
silent movie.
Something impels me to follow her as she
ascends well-worn stone steps, then hurries along
the rampart walk to it's far end. She pauses
here, and still sobbing, begins wringing her
hands; her deeply troubled eyes darting back and
forth. I have the distinct impression that she's
trying to escape from someone (or something)
that terrifies her.
To her right, a flight of steps spirals down
into the gloom of a dungeon beneath St.
Margaret's Tower; and for a moment she
hesitates, seems about to descend them.
But instead, she turns and begins climbing
the remains of another staircase to her left.
These steps, having fallen away, come to
an abrupt end just above the level of my
head; but she continues to climb stairs no
longer there!
It's incredibly surreal - like I'm caught up in
an absurd dream that I'm unable to awake
Near the top of the curtain wall, she ceases
climbing and crosses the floor of a room that has
long since vanished. However, it's fireplace,
complete with chimney, still remains in the
now sheer wall; and on reaching it, she
throws herself down onto thin air and
begins clawing at the space where the hearth
would have once been.
It is the weirdest spectacle!
She is totally defying gravity - is suspended
some twenty metres above the ground.
As I watch, she dissolves into a blue-grey
mist that disappears up the chimney.

A powerful sensation of falling hits me. My
head spinning, I grip a stone jutting out
from the wall in order to steady myself.
(Not a good idea for a sensitive like me!)
I'm witnessing it all simultaneously:
the frequent incestuous rape of this
thirteen-year-old girl by her father;
the unbearable isolation of seven
months' incarceration in an upper chamber;
a newborn baby girl, smothered, then
incinerated in the fire while the distraught
mother's screams are lost in the joyful
sounds of a grand banquet being held downstairs;
and finally, the tragic suicide of a young girl
so cruelly wronged.

Sickened by all I've just witnessed, my
immediate impulse is to escape from this
unholy sepulchre and put as much distance
between it and myself as I possibly can.
But as I leave, I make a solemn pledge
that as soon as I feel mentally and spiritually
strong enough, I will return here and try my
utmost to help this unhappy trapped Soul
move on  into the Light.

As I pass the ticket office on my way out, I
catch sight of the custodian.
He's lounging there in his comfortable chair,
reading a newspaper and sipping a steaming
cup of tea or coffee.
Everything looks so deceptively normal, as
though nothing untoward has ever happened
And I can almost convince myself that my
imagination has been running in overdrive;
that this place is tranquil...

Friday 4 May 2012


The curse of white coats,
name badges and overshoes.
Shiny needle: sharp, spiteful bliss-killer.

Memory stolen: how I got here.
Why? When? With whom? Relevance fading
with anti psychotic blood-count rise.

Reflective mirror-like floor, an alternative world.
Compelled to dance there, see that other me
inverted; whirling, whirling, into ecstasy.

Instead: sectioned, strapped to bed. Nodding heads,
discussing that other time, recent, I saw
that world - from a high bridge over the Severn.