Friday 21 December 2012


A Solstice meditation, 2012.

Guarding the Book of Karma
Hunches a red Dragon,
Wings partly unfurled as if
Anticipating interlopers
Who would steal my essence away.
Scales glowing with inner fire
That imbues eyes and mind with truth
Of the life few but I can see.
It reaches full power on the midnight hour
At this Winter Solstice time.
Upon my Guardian's back I fly
Through dimensions by science uncharted
To the Druid's retreat where the Prophet's words,
Uttered in a time of madness divine,
Are as yet in granite unset.
And on the summit of His sacred Hill,
Dwarfed by mountains above,
I gaze over wintry landscape below
Where the Dragon Master, withdrawn, observes
From Annwn* beneath the ground.
He's alert and stands in readiness
As Clas Myrddin's* direst need
Draws ever closer with latter-day man's
Greed, selfishness and disregard
For all life but his own.
Now a nearby Hawthorn Tree emits
Golden unearthly light.
Then from within, Emrys steps out.
He increases my auric vibrational speed,
Aligning it with his.
In awe, I'm filled with abject fear
That my brain will overload
If it mediates One from the Fifth Dimension.
But his soothing voice cuts in,
"Just relax and I'll do the rest!"
Before me I see the entire population
All at once - it seems that I
Have acquired spontaneous cosmic vision.
And I'm no longer me - it appears I've become
A channel for His wisdom.
Now, mind-to-mind He's linked us together,
Like a Spiritual Internet.
So I beg of you please open your heart
To the Spirit of Alban Arthuan tonight
And allow his words inside:
"I, Emrys, can see beyond
The mirror of your Soul.
I've been observing your progress through
Your many lives on Earth.
But this present one is all-important,
With free-will you wield great power:
You have the choice to love, not hate,
To calmly accept and tolerate
Those who differ from you...
Choose wisely from your Higher Self -
Only then can your World be saved..."
*Annwn - The Celtic Underworld.
*Clas Myrddin - Merlyn's Enclosure (The British Isles).
Solstice Blessings


Friday 14 December 2012


You must have been born
under a mathematical sign,
because everything
has to add up
reduce down
divide into
or multiply by:
or nine.

I once lived in a six-roomed apartment,
and no amount of cajoling could induce you
to set foot over the threshold;
not even when I swore on my life
that your world really wouldn't implode
if you did.
You just sat there on my doorstep,
sipping your coffee and shivering
in the dead of winter, saying
you'd much rather freeze to death
than dare risk tempting fate!

I expect you remember, too, that time
when five letters landed on your doormat?
How you had a major panic attack?
You simply couldn't get your head around
the audacity of these
little white squares of paper
to challenge you to such a degree.
You screamed at me to 'GET RID OF THEM!'
I refused, 'because,' I said,
'they may be important.'
So you sat on the floor in the hall,
dumbly staring at them; clearly
in some kind of trauma.
In the end,
you had to tear two of them in half - to
make up seven, of course.
But even then you couldn't rest:
had to go back and tear
another two to make nine,
it being the higher and, therefore,
most important of the
three numbers.

And as for crossing the road - a
simple enough task, one would think.
Not for you!
Seven vehicles have to pass
before you dare step onto the highway.
It has to be seven precisely,
even if the eighth is following
perilously close behind it.
How many times has an enraged
number eight threatened to kill you,
after screeching to a halt
with number nine firmly embedded
up his backside?
I'm more than convinced you really do
have eight more lives in reserve!

Another big ordeal for you
is eating a packet of crisps.
You have to open them,
count them out,
and if the contents inside aren't divisible
by one of your three numbers
then they're consigned to the nearest bin.
Another pack is then opened
and the process begins again.
Needless to say, you
have to buy your crisps
by the truckload.

And as for your love-life, well,
that has always been 'troubled'
to put it mildly.
The phrase 'one-to-one' just isn't
in your vocabulary.
You're nothing if not predictable.
There have to be three, seven,
or nine on the go at any one time
(now there's a surprise!).
The black eyes, broken noses
and lost teeth must surely
earn you an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
as 'Most Fought-Over Woman!'

These days,
I often sit and wonder
how it will eventually end - your
life, I mean.
Knowing you as I do, it
certainly won't be peacefully
in bed, of old age.
You'd loath that.
No. It would have to be
in some way numerical and dramatic,
such as the Celtic Triple Death.
Yes, that's it!
then drowning.
And, naturally, you'd accept no less
than a pyramid
as your final resting place -
guarded, of course, by
a triumvirate of Goddess statues.
Only then would you rest in peace:
the unorthodox mathematician
numerically lulled to sleep.


Friday 7 December 2012

LOT 22

 Catalogue page: British Car Auctions
An auction hall filled with cars.
Vintage, classic, collector's vehicles; all
shapes, sizes, colours and marques
on display here today - all
for some reason no longer wanted.
A discordant cacophony
of excited voices conjure images
of a cattle market with all
the anxiety and suffering that implies
for those poor wretched animals - like these
with their four wheels and polished bonnets
instead of legs and fur coats.
Unbidden emotions begin to stir
in my solar plexus. My eyes
prickle with embryonic tears and I wish
to be a million miles away - or just
at home sipping coffee from my favourite mug
on an ordinary, nothing special day.
But this is an horrendous day, an
'I wish I could re-write history' day; when
grief and remorse are simultaneously
devouring me from the inside out.
All I want is to be sitting inside her
on Portsdown Hill admiring the view.
I need one last day with her.
Checking my watch. There's still
twenty minutes of ownership left.
So my attention focuses on the other entries.
And it strikes me that each one of these
beauties has a story to tell - about us,
and that brings me full circle
back to UNK. I've loved in her,
laughed in her, cried and screamed
words of anger - all this raw emotion
recorded in the fabric of her being
will exist for as long as she does.
But, soon, a new layer will bury mine.
At the appointed hour, the auctioneer's voice
is carried through the Tannoy into each corner
of the packed hall. Instant silence.
Anticipation is almost palpable.
Most of the first twenty-one entries
fail to reach their reserve prices, and
I can't help but hope it will be the same
with UNK, can't bear the idea
of a stranger's hands on her steering wheel.
Then those words like a sword through the heart:
'Lot 22!' Please don't let anyone bid
I pray silently inside my head.
But attack comes from every direction
like a conquering army, even through
the airways from France and elsewhere.
Figures rise, up, up. Spirits sink proportionately
It's as if I'm losing a love. No, worse,
a part of myself for twenty-one years.
Eventually it stops. The hammer falls.
Death sentence on ownership is passed.
All hope is lost. She's almost quadrupled
her reserve price, but how can mere money
compensate for the empty space I'll have to face
in the garage and in my heart?
'Well, we had a result there!' our agent
smiles, shaking hands with us and mistaking
these now falling tears for those of joy.
For how he know we'd let her go
not out of choice, but that increasing needs
for maintenance overwhelmed us?
Now, as we leave this fateful building
there are trailers everywhere
with happy buyers celebrating
their latest pride and joys.
And how it cuts me up inside
to walk away from mine.

Saturday 1 December 2012


crushing sensations.
narrow tunnel
dark as death,
turning red
like hell.
Primal fear
of change,
of Utopia

Blinding lights,
deafening roar
of sounds
Air pressure,
brain and tissue.
Sinking feeling
of vulnerability,
as fingers prod
and poke.
Lifeline severed.
Habitat stolen,
then destroyed
with afterbirth.

Plastic tube
tiny airway.
Agony of lungs
unaccustomed to air
over inflating.
of giants'
alien faces
hovering above.
I don't
like it here.
I want
to go home!

Water cold
on tender skin
washing away
last comfort
of amniotic mucus:
final caress
of maternal medium

Heart filling
with grief
Piteous yells:
Please please
just hold me?
Comfort me?
I am
so helpless,
so alone;
so lost;
so afraid.