PinnedMember-onlyRhapsodyPoetry — If all the days of all the years were made of wine and gold I’d roll them up into the light of intelligence in this one dog’s eyes This friendship across species — a Buddhist mantra – Rocks me like my good old boy, befriends me like the wind. Be with me when the gates fly open — love will enter in. Seek out the Majesty, the shaman-spirit that will be: Come with me to the Paiut Wovoka ghost dance Drive away every morsel of this dirty money-grabbing Respectable massacre of everything that be wild, wilful, wondrous. Artfulness creates resistance to the age of the machine To the algorithms that manipulate us behind the scenes in this stinking world of the machine There is no worth in this two-dimensional world Resurrect the unseen perspicacity and prescience that was once the common currency Of the most illiterate, boorish Saxon.Prescience1 min readPrescience1 min read
Published in The Lark·PinnedMember-onlyWaiting for NovemberHis headstone verses were writ in wineConstantinople1 min readConstantinople1 min readPhoto by Aaron Gilmore on UnsplashWaiting for November----4
PinnedMember-onlyThe unsaidWind cuts through this January night Slices like a knife through my meagre clothes. Signs on the road hidden by an iron fog The cry of the wind is all in vain Nothing is the same. I kiss you across this black hole in time. In the old be-jewelled spider-webbed…Unsaid1 min readUnsaid1 min read
PinnedMember-onlyJohn Keats 31 October 1795– 23 February 1821Melancholy’s lack of zest written all over his palimpsest: to die at twenty-five to some will hardly seem to have been alive, but for Johnny Keats and the footloose Cavaliers poetry, music, art, tears were eternal. They eschewed self-pity, untold fears. They tried their best to stay alive In a world…John Keats1 min readJohn Keats1 min read
5 hours agoMember-onlyA way a lone a last a lovedPaul Léon was murdered in 1942, For the crime of being born a Jew In Auschwitz concentration camp, Oświęcim, Poland. Paul Léon was James Aloysius Joyce’s friend, Yes, the Joyce of Dublin & Galway, Of Trieste, Zurich & Paris, And, off course, Anna L’Liffey, She who riverrun on & on, Even till the Finnegans’ wake…James Joyce1 min readJames Joyce1 min read
Published in The Howling Owl·12 hours agoMember-onlyA disturbancefor the solitary soul — Disturbance1 min readDisturbance1 min readPhoto by Freddy Kearney on UnsplashA disturbancefor the solitary soul----3
Published in The Lark·14 hours agoMember-onlyWhimsyPoetry — Whimsy1 min readWhimsy1 min readPhoto by Gary Bendig on UnsplashWhimsyPoetry----
Published in The Lark·1 day agoMember-onlyLight ShowPoetry — Light Show1 min readLight Show1 min readPhoto by Cosmin Serban on UnsplashLight ShowPoetry----1
Published in The Lark·2 days agoMember-onlyUnknown UnknownsPoetry — Unknown Unknowns1 min readUnknown Unknowns1 min readPhoto by Katie Drazdauskaite on UnsplashUnknown UnknownsPoetry----
Published in The Lark·3 days agoMember-onlyThe Emperor of MeaningPoetry — Mountains1 min readMountains1 min readPhoto by Nadine Marfurt on UnsplashThe Emperor of MeaningPoetry----
