Friday 27 November 2020


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.

Thursday 19 November 2020


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.    Please skip ads to watch!

Friday 13 November 2020


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.

Thursday 5 November 2020


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.