PHOTONS

We are the invisible, the ones you feel

rather than see; no shimmering forms

in the darkness, just pure energy

spiralling around itself within consciousness:

the source of white noise interferences

that send shivers down the spine

and cause such excitement

among paranormal investigators and the curious;

intriguing, destabilising scientific theorem

and established religious dogma.

Until we can prove our existence to you

beyond all shadow of doubt, that we

have survived the transition that you call "death",

we will remain in the shadows - silent

and just beyond your comprehension.

STARDUST

Last night I dreamt of Woodstock:

riding in on Matthew's lyrics 

or, perhaps, their time-honoured echo -

an ecstasy of incense and mud

beneath bare feet;

hunger, thirst; sense of belonging

with half a million minds

united in peace and love;

bodies swaying out of time

to Hippie bands, stoned and elated;

golden flecks of stardust

beneath the blue infinity.

An ocean of tents, souls entwined

within canvas on stony ground

of Yasgur's Farm.

Invisible time traveller

from fifty-one years

in the future - here, but

etheric, ghost-like,

trying hard to push through

time's forbidden barrier.

Born too late, yet

desperate to be part

of the legendary Summer of Love,

where there is no hatred, no greed,

nor any Reaper's curse

of grim pandemic...

Oh God! No!!

Paradise is fading fast

as I'm yanked back into the waking hell

of twenty-first century isolation

and my lockdown prison cell.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qIHfuihoz70    Please skip ads to watch!

WINTER BLUES

The trees are stripped bare now

like naked bones picked clean

by the sharp beak of ravenous crow

in winter grown too lean.

Hill and dale are brown and dead

and birds no longer sing.

Of the coming months I'm full of dread,

winter's really not my thing.

North winds shapeshift leaves into devils,

while high above dark clouds

are banking up in rippling levels

as if sombre burial shrouds.

Each blade of grass is turning white

and solid as miniature swords.

Jack Frost's spell with stinging bite

brings a vision of frozen fiords.

What counter-magic can I devise

to banish him far away?

For he's the cause of summer's demise

and I'll make him pay some way.

Those days of bathing in the sun

on sandy beaches are gone,

and staying indoors is much less fun -

oh I feel so put upon!

But in my heart last summer's bees

still hum through the vibrant hues

of bluebells, poppies, roses and peonies...

to ward off these winter blues.

BROKEN

By some miracle I still live,

breathe, and my heart beats out

it's crazy tattoo into the silence

of the midnight street. No

living soul is here to see

my bloody, gaping wound

that reeks of love's battlefield;

or the guts that hang out,

mangled and totally screwed up

by a renegade amoroso.

Never. For my agony

is well concealed by the darkness

and it's dreamlike distortion

of sidewalk and shuttered terrace -

all of which in daylight mocked

the enormity of my fractured world

by their complacent ordinariness:

everything is not alright!

Don't they know I'm inwardly dying

from a mortally injured heart?

Even as my shattered trust

silently screams out it's hurt

into the deserted ether,

so, perhaps, this dreadful void

you've left me in

will in time become the impetus

to grow past you and put aside

my broken dreams

so that, more foolish than any clown,

I can dare to love again.