Iliterate Poet

A dumping ground for my works in progress.

26 Dec 2011

The Blue Bird's Maiden Flight








The following Poem and Animation is part of my Experimental Video Art Series. The Bird was created using a digital eraser and a digital smudge feature. The whole thing has been created using rudimentary Software, freely available on the net.



The Title is: Bluebird singing in the East.





23 Dec 2011

Nonlinear Scream



The following Experimental Photography, is from a series of digital images that I'm currently  working on, exploring repetition and colour. Like many of my other artworks, this set is rich in metaphor and symbolism. I will be writing a full description when I have completed the whole series, so for now, you'll have to use your artistic knowledge to conduct your own examination (The clue is in the title...or is it?) Thanks for viewing and would be interested to hear your thoughts regarding the piece. 


The finished images will be separate Museum quality fine art GiclĂ©e prints on black coloured block board.


(Click on image to enlarge)






8 Nov 2011








Our latest project for POINT-less Art Group's Co-labs, is a poem/ art/ music/ video. IHONO Arts group and POINT-less Arts group combined their efforts to produce the following tribute to Japan and to promote awareness in the aftermath of the devastating Tsunami that struck in March 2011.


In addition to these two Art groups; over 50 Artists, Poets, Writers and other creative people from around the World, provided images for this project. OXOXO Arts group has kindly offered to announce the project in Japan. A big thank you to all of you that helped make this project a reality. Images and contributor details are listed on POINT-less' blog: 

http://plcolabs.blogspot.com/2011/11/nihon-rising_07.html?showComment=1320776558083

After a lengthy discussion between Kaoru Fukushima of IHONO Arts Group and myself, we decided that we should create something to help raise awareness of the Japanese peoples plight. I then wrote a poem and recorded it. Kaoru then started creating the music to match the rhythm of the poem, which he did very successfully indeed. I then went about the task of asking my creative friends and associates to contribute an image with a few words from the poem, overlaid onto the image. I compiled it and the rest, as they say, is History.


We hope that you enjoy the video and that it raises awareness that this disaster is far from over, but there is hope! 


I would appreciate it, if you would share this video with your friends, thanks.

15 Oct 2011

Crass Class and Pluto too.



Bastions of hopeful dreams roam.
March in costumes of skin and bone.
No longer begging Mercy; nor alone.

Scores, scales steeped in pain.
No wheat, just hail in stormy rain.
Think of you crying: we're the same.

Sharing warmth, kindly cuddling kin.
Constructing strength from within. 
Stand by me, as I stand by you: Win.

Hands athwart many seas and lands.
Our swaying voices, suave, heard echoing.
Echoing in corridors of power, verbatim.

Don your stubborn brow, head and heart fixed well.
United in that prisoners' dilemma: no cell, no cell!
Pushing, peacefully pursuing an end to plutocracy.

A hand full of tears, minds full of fears.
The game is real, the gloves are off.
Fair rules before freedom falls; and humanity is washed away.

26 Sep 2011

Markets and Mountains

Held the Kingdom's keys; still relinquished a nettle.
Scribbled copiously: unknown untruths, unsettled:
When Man discovered fire, he knew not of furnaces;
In shadow and vane, blindness, beneath lids lay;
Weak Hand intentionally shown - Ghosts die hard. 

Magic in black on white papers and torn graphs.
With myth preceding: pride of place were short;
Tent pegs, tables and tarps: love-sick, will follow.
In winter north with the wind flies the savvy swallow. 
Creator, imperturbable in thermals hot and cold.

Human mind in Rescission; capturing every decision, 
Creating the vision; find inspiration in lost inspiration.
Hold tight this existential nettle - The dream is yours!
Though even in ownership, dreams can fade.
Though even in ownership, nightmares be made.
Though even in ownership, can all go awry.

I'll tell you this: Owning a truth is just owning a lie!
But owning your mind, your life and your dreams.
That's as real as the peaks, the trees and the streams.
Now go, master the mountains, my kings and queens.

29 Jul 2011

Tears, Tantrums and Terraces

Sparse and bare on wasted sun baked fields of despair.
She cried and wailed for her green washed home.
Queen of a rainless forest, where nature's beauty doesn't care.
Lady barren, her happiness harassed;  put out to loan.
Surrounded by golden pillars and exotic jewels so rare. 
Sitting, slumped, slavishly, surveying from her thrown.
Emeralds failed to mimic the great green fountains of air.

Sighing, he heard her crying, crowned head, hung in shame.
"What can I do to heal her pain?", his mind did pace.
Then into his head, the idea came: "I shall mimic the rain!"
Gathered his wisest engineers, laid his plans on silk and lace.
Building fields of fountains green, to gently blow; dissipate her pain.
Promised to fill her empty space, head and heart, smile and face.
The king, he did proclaim: "For you my queen, nature, I will tame!"

With mud and force; wood and screw; slowly, dreams made true.
Shaped an exquisite, mountainous menagerie of floral jewels, out of stone.
Queen Amyitis wiped her eyes with the delightful hues in her view.
Nebuchadnezzar bought back the loan by building memories of her home.
Two dynasties entwined by love conquering design, imbued with glue.
For every emerald that was sewn, Amyitis' happiness had overflown.
Beauty spawned in Babylon, on hanging Gardens, sprinkling dew.

27 Jun 2011

Mount Top Harp

Inspired by Mythical Irish folklore, with a smidgeon of Italian Renaissance for good measure.


Harp, of the mountain top;
Harp from beyond the dell.
Two harps to choose,
And cast that spell.

From treacherous ground,
To a mound so round.
Harmony to the din,
And realisation it's within.

Follow now your chartered brook.
Make thine eyes become unstuck.
From harboured walls; set free;
Ventured far into sea.

Choose tranquil waves - onward pale.
Avoid the torrent of the Gail.
Sail toward that luminescent,
Far off distance shore.

United by that one particular law!
Nature at the core;
So choose that door,
Upon which your future rests.

And listen to the harps at their best.
Be the guest and the host;
Lift thy tankered for the toast;
Now drink the wine of your good liking.

Feel the lightening striking,
Hitting the spring of wisdom's well;
Scented with a vibrant smell:
Harp from beyond the dell.
With cords from hell,
We bid you farewell.

Mount top Harp of harmony;
Spanning notes of the journey;
Bound by every sound that is worthy.
And onward bound the quest will be,
From Gene to Gene and tree to tree;
Until that treasure is begot.
And man remembers what it forgot.

Sages down the line;
Seers throughout time;
Subtly sublime in their masterful rhyme,
Directed through mine.
For future signs in peoples minds.

Guardian of the great toil,
Where buried treasure lay in soil.
Excavated by unfading lights gone by;
Showed the path with lantern high;
Showed the ground a one with sky.

Taishatrin folk did tell the tale,
Intent was on the vision bent,
Future lent before its sent.
Tale of the merriment,
Of the angels harp.
Cheering on all good hearts.

Now remember, when you cast your spell,
For the future to tell,
Avoid using harps from beyond the dell.
That's Dante's hell, avoided well.
Use this omen to quench your fire.
Ferment intent, so strong and pure.
Desire'th of a final cure.

No number two to divide and conquer.
One whole is greater than its parts
It's where it ends and where it starts
Creation and its Buona parts.
Guiding lost hearts on its way
Souls so light and free from pain.
The mount top harp plays again.

20 Jun 2011

Dying Artist








Epic performance of a dying artist.
Too sensitive for this cruel world.
She stumbles, from pain to rage,
Screaming and destroyed on her stage.
Talent leaking through puncture holes;
Star dust fades before the eclipse.
People still pulling the purse,
Milking every last breathless verse.
Maybe it's time to reverse that curse?
Cats have eight, you have one;
Reserve that hearse!
Survive to see a clear setting sun.
Let the performance go on and on;
Without a premature interlude.
This Entr'acte is not the end!
You've earned the love,
Now it's time to spend.
And the haters just need a bone;
Their chests puffed up with every moan.
Borrowed time, we're all on loan.
Time alone will send you home.
Live a hundred times or more.
Leave Tragedy behind the door.
Drag the self from the pit.
Make that score your final hit.

17 Jun 2011

The fool And The Master

I write poetry with the spontaneity and movement of a silken gown, falling slowly from the perfect form of a beautiful lady. I sculpt clay and carve my vision with simple strokes, that invokes, for a moment at least, the power that Art possesses; This of course is not good enough and so on I go to the next creative pursuit, in the name of struggle, perfection and mastery.

So, next I turn my hand, head and heart to painting. Painting so far, has me beaten and it is painting which most intrigues me; maybe for this reason alone. I wish to master painting with such grace, that it could be likened to a silken gloved hand, as it clasps delicately, but tightly, around a feather handled brush, without crushing its tender and original form [...or whatever, for those of you that dislike verboseness :) ]. Inadequacy can be hard to deal with, though I do also believe that inadequacy is a worthy state of affairs, because it is the required state, within the process of mastery. To master anything, one must first master oneself, including ones own inadequacies; to realise or acknowledge these short-comings, is to start the long journey toward mastery.

The next step is to conquer any fears that might be lurking in ones subconscious mind, these tend to rise to the surface like the slag in a smelter's pot, as the heat and pressure are turned up in the furnace of life; one must face these fears and they are plenty, let us not make any bones about that here.

Then comes determination, to fly in the face of adversity and not let one raindrop fall upon your shoulder, not one tear, not one morning dew drop. To take a running jump at that obstacle in your path; you will either clear it or fall flat on your face. Take solace when lying crumpled on the floor, face down; solace in the fact that you tried. You ran as fast as you could and you committed to the jump, as far as is humanly possible. When you get up and try that 'running jump', again and again, you will have mastered (no not running) determination. Success starts with and finishes with conquering/liberating your own mind and maybe as a consequence of that liberation, helping others to take that very same journey for themselves.

Forgiveness and understanding are also a part of mastery. When you are on this journey, it is like a crystallise changing into a butterfly, and just as the crystallise changes, so does the person making the journey; when one realises that this change is necessary and path of the course, then it becomes easier to understand others' mistakes or shifts in their nature/ attitudes etc. which are necessary, even in oneself. When undertaking to master something, this understanding grows and leads ultimately to forgiveness. So, it may be easy to judge a person based on a snapshot fragment of their life, but it is rarely a realistic picture of events. All of those that are trying to master something are trying to master themselves and this can be quite a task to complete. Anyone who undertakes such a task deserves a little bit of leeway.

Show me a self proclaimed master and I will show you someone who has given up on mastery and settled for being good at something.

Show me a fool who thinks that he/she is master of all that he/she purveys and I will show you a genius who knows that he/she is, but just a fool.

Allow the fool who tries, the grace to get up from their falls, so that they may continue their journey and reach their own elusive destination.

16 Jun 2011

The G Neuron

Mixed Media Art

An exploration into the emotional nature of fluorescent colours on the human psyche. 

Four thousand segments of cut and stripped Willow Branches (Plus one blister), Hand painted and adhered to titanium white laminated board.

 These pictures don't do this piece any justice, in real life however, the multiple Two Photon absorption of the multiple electrons, inducing the shorter wave radiation emission, is stunning, mesmerising and simply energising. Turn down the lights and it actually hums ;)))




























9 Jun 2011

The Sculptor's Regret

She was almost nearly there;
Her pursed lips and rye smile;
Her grace and slender style.
She was almost nearly there;
Her prominent cheeks;
Her sensual frown;
She was almost nearly there.
Her soft gentle eyes;
Her lids hiding lies;
And she was;
oh so nearly there.
It was her chin, that failed to win, me over;
And as I tried to slice her guise;
Her form was forever lost.
She was almost nearly here.

28 May 2011

Decay

Box shaped hearts and bloody roses.
Fast lane, life's marching onto death;
With coffins richly lined in silk and satin.
 
Manicured iron claws clasping;
At a World that forgot its tears;
Killing love, heightening fears.
 
Many machines marred by a machine;
Wheels grinding in shallow souls;
Sights set on selfish dreams.
 
And all will waste and decay.

20 May 2011

Mise en abyme

The video below shows the workings out that I quickly scribbled down after waking from an intuitive dream. The Poem was inspired by the dream, so thought I'd include it here for you to view.  




This poem made it into a Physics Journal in America, which I was delighted about. The arts and sciences are inextricably linked and although they are often at odds with each other, in our enlightened [?] time; it may surprise you to know that many major scientific breakthroughs and discoveries have been made by Artists. In my opinion it is about time we bridged the gap between Art and Science and encourage Human exploration and creativity in any of its many forms. As an aside: My friend Robert Root-Bernstein, Ph. D. has some interesting information regarding this topic, you can find it here: https://www.msu.edu/~rootbern/ 

The poem spans subjects, such as: Quantum physics, Neurology and Fractals in mathematics, Nature and Time,  these are brought together to form a microscopic and macroscopic overview of how the Human mind thinks. That's not a great explanation, its difficult to explain, which is why I wrote the poem. Enjoy.



1.
Purposefully playing with Plato's peculiar solid shapes.
Meditating about the mysteriously, miraculous form.
Space-time continuum: a veil wrapped in many capes.
Landscapes of Superpositional particle waves, are the norm;
Right up until, of course, the viewer viewed and forcefully forced;
The transitory wave to collapse, at the point between synapse.

2.
Infinity unwrapped; potentials tangled, finitely trapped.
Multiple dimensions collide, implode inside of finite minds.
Rational brains chasing signs; trying to adapt, cells sapped!
Elusive point between two petals opposed on parallel bars.
Tracing thin lines around poppies and portals blind, never defined.
The ever shrinking dot goes way beyond A microscopic topic.

0.





3.
A quantum level quandary; halls full of crazy mirrors: black.
Wooded place on two spiral paths, within a maze of maths;
And I too, travelled roads less taken and wondered if I'd get back;
But for now, at least, I'll cease to cease and walk on multiple paths.
One day, I might be sitting and sighing in a morning Frost;
With friends from the past, to see a clear pass, between shadows cast.

4.
Creating inter-dimensional maps for irrational traps.
Prince of amateurs, resides within, from time to time, through my rhyme.
New discoveries, in every line and sign posts on desert tracks.
I stumbled on a place sublime; within my mind, outside of time;
Where the trees bristled and whispered great truths, in a foreign tongue.
Phenomena increased before thrice:  A non-material trice.

5.
Falling head over heels, for a Matryoshka model's figure;
Probing her core, to view beautifully hidden depths, once more.
Fractal Queen knocked on my door, set the tone, created the allure;
And what is more, my friends, I cracked the code and deciphered the law;
So now I chase her all day long and sometimes, between heartbeats;
She sings her song in silent verse and I, can hear, every sweet word.

5 May 2011

The Weaver


Young Arachne: Lady, low she lay;
She heard a voice on one fine day;
When Goddess Athena started to say:
"I do take pity on your lowly lot.
I'd like to help you, believe or not.
I want to teach you how to sow.
A priceless gift I will bestow."

Arachne agreed to play her part.
Took the gift of a God given art.
Master weaver she quickly became;
Dreams in seams, none were the same!
Nymphs from far and wide they came;
But she mistook the rules of the game;
Head swollen, in measure with her fame.

They hoped in droves, to derive the prime;
Of how Arachne could spin weaves so fine.
They asked her again, time after time:
"Where did you learn to beautifully design"
Arachne replied, self conceit in her eye:
"Not one taught me to cast my spell;
It was all down me, that is all I shall tell!"

The Nymphs knew Arachne had deceived.
Only one other, which could have so weaved:
Goddess Athena! the nymphs perceived;
And as she sat sadly watching them all;
Athena decided to pay Arachne a call.
Dressed as an old lady; in rickety robes.
Depressed at the path, Arachne had chose.

Athena now in her old woman's disguise;
Tried in vain, to open Arachne's eyes:
"Respect the Gods for they are wise,
Skill and wisdom come with age, not lies."
Arachne angered, was not amused;
Challenged Athena with a mocking shrill:
"Goddess! I propose we pit skill to skill!"

Beneath Athena's old raggedy guise;
Goddess of wisdom and war did rise.
Those that could see, those that were near;
Trembled in fear, bowed down to the skies.
Proud Arachne, stood firm her ground.
Athena picked up the gauntlet and vowed:
"I'll teach you a lesson in front of this crowd!"

Both wanted to win - the spin started in haste.
They worked and weaved at a furious pace.
Beautiful weaves, they both conceived one.
Athena wove about her contest with Poseidon;
In the conquest to name the great City: Athens.
Arachne wove about the Cruelty of the Gods;
Depicting them compromised and at odds.

Athena told the Nymphs to adjudicate;
But not one of them could decide their fate.
Two tapestries so fine, impossible to define;
In their minds, no final winner could be assigned.
It mattered not, how they tried to deliberate;
There was just no way for them to equate;
Even when Athena was becoming irate.

Athena struck Arachne between the eyes!
Arachne immediately cried as she realised:
She should have listened not to her pride.
The newly felt, self-awareness of her arrogance;
Was in an instant flash, all too much to bare.
She tied a knotted rope fast around her neck;
To end of her despair, she swung without a care.

Goddess Athena now high on vengeance;
Sprinkled magic dust upon the dead weaver.
Mighty Athena with pure spite inside her;
Quickly turned Arachne into a spider;
For depicting Gods in a compromised guise.
Poor Arachne dropped a stitch in nine;
When she threaded tapestries beyond the line.

Arachne should have known to be wise;
Her head shrank, no ears nor visible eyes.
Her young slender arms, shrank in size.
She suddenly sprouted legs two by two;
It wasn't very long before eight of them grew!
The very first spider, Arachne became;
Her descendants still weave webs the same.

Beautiful webs that inspire the World;
But never a tapestry to rival the Gods.
Never again will they weave in that way;
Goddess Athena taught them how to play.
Play nicely if you don't wish to pay!
They'll always remember that fateful day;
When Arachne let her arrogance stray.

23 Apr 2011

Defensive Stance - Art/ Poetry/ Music (Collaboration)

I am pleased to share with you; my most recent collaboration with abstract Artist: Sophia.
Sophia is a fine Arts graduate, independent studies in Florence, Italy. Awarded student in Literature and Drama. Art shows in solo expositions, selling Art in America and overseas. Speaks English, French, Italian, and working on German. Sophia is also a great friend and one with whom, I have enjoyed many in-depth conversations on topics such as: Art; Quantum Physics; AI Technologies and many other interesting and varied subjects. Take a look at Sophia's other work here: http://sophiafine.com/main/

I have used Sophia's painting (below), as inspiration to write the poem. I have also decided to use Eva Cassidy's song: True colours, as I think, it fits very well with both the painting and the poem. Performing his beautiful rendition of the song on Keyboard/Piano is: Simon from Malaysia. Simon shows such grace and refinement when he plays, he is a joy to watch, as well as, to listen too. I believe that Simon has a tutorial about how to play this magnificent Song - Here's his Channel:  http://www.youtube.com/user/malaysiansimon

 Press play; scroll down to the Painting and Poem - Read; view; listen and enjoy!






Title: Defensive Stance
Hidden depths trying to surface
Intention resides, always a purpose
Feelings outed, become surplus
So we take the stance: Guarded safe
Hidden colours, for a defensive sake.
Bright deep hue, as colours seep through
A thin wash of white, keeps it all inside;
But no matter, how hard you try
True colours will always rise;
Through a thin white guise.
Defensive stance, but truth never lies.
True colours mark the cries
bleeding through: veneered white eyes.
Passion, fear, love and hate
All enclosed, within a pearly state.
As we contemplate: "defensive stances"
Able now, to give others chances;
Beyond that, which we might;
If we don't see past, the initial sight!
Hidden depths, brought into the light.
Defensive stance: examined; released;
Sitting now, in attitudes of peace.

20 Apr 2011

To Forgive Or Not To Forgive? That Is The Question.





Hear them shudder; see them shake, as they contemplate their fate; on long lonely moonlit nights.

Blackened Stone begets blackened stone; hearts set to roam alone; thine self fulfilling and forlorn prophecy.

Demand life's coloured claret, in vengeful hate and thine own certain peril is marked in graves.

Debt and fines, created in minds; purposefully executed warrants; besieged thine quacking enemy; relieved of breath!




Instantaneously, a dark wish fulfilled; a slaughtered enemy lays down killed, payment forced upon their soul.

No redemption came; no offer to change; no mercy to give; no compassion shown - love flown.

Family scribed with tears on tomb, friends pay respect and life is missing an important part.

Fallout: families crumble from the pain, killed more than one heart, when the enemy was slain.




Now, we reach the latter part, I'll endeavour to show you; Hell, on a round rock:

To swim In a sea of vengeance; without getting wet; can never be a sure bet!

Bathed in thine charge of honour; Splashed with waves of thine bitterness,  undercurrents dragging; washed up!

Karmic harmonics align; manifests thoughout lifetime; dreams ceased, plans awry, blackened hearts bound to die, sigh!




Forgiveness and forget is your only debt, hard to manage, but mastered; will leave no regret!

Forsake: to take a pink stone and make it black, for the sake of striking back.

For your own redemption, your own peace of mind, refuse to live in shadowy moonlit nights.

Understand these words if none other: Forgiveness is a selfless act; forgiveness is a selfish act.

11 Apr 2011

In A Heart Beat

A blip; A beat; A gust of wind
Come and gone in rapid haste
Life starts its end, when it began
So quickly stopped, a heart's clock
A blip; A beat; A gust of wind
A shallow grave, in sands of time
A pointless dream? or a ride sublime?
The blip, beat and gust are mine!
Choosing fun as my guide
If only for the shortest of time
A blip; A beat; A gust of wind.

8 Apr 2011

Yaz The Doghead



6 Apr 2011

Choices

I write about the light, in our world
the troubles too, I find
and out of my mind, they sometimes slip
The negative viewpoint, that no good
pinprick!
I vowed that light should win the day.
Darkness there, but hidden away.
There's too much darkness having its say
I'll not let my demons out
like Bukowski so often did.
The pain lives on eternally.
So make a choice and set yourself free
I'll face the journey with joyess gratitude,
my choice being mine
choice not allowed to control my mind.
If i were to spue, from my mouth ,
that which i really knew.
Hank would down a bottle or two.
Half a dozen or more than a few.
Because, yeah . . . . . . . . . .
It can get really dark at times.
So what do you have left?
Just an empty bottle, baccy: empty sack?
Or did you journey on,
through all the pointless pain?
With a smile in your heart
and a careless regard.
You'll have left, this fulfilling Facade.
And that, is what you'll have left
instead of a dry bottle, baccy: empty sack.

Hast Thou?


Souls dancing against the din
Hast thou seen them in the night?
Cast out demons with a howling fright
Souls trampling, minds scrambling
Hast thou seen them crying in the night?
and in the day walking tall,
all lion like their looks and proud growls
Souls doing the jive just to stay alive
Hast thou seen them never feared.
Hast thou seen them and seen their tears
Alone, in a mind they are still dancing
Dancing on and dancing with death
Hast thou seen them on a lonely road?
Will you see them? will you choose to see them
They are there and waiting to be seen.
Hast thou seen them, art thee one of them?
Souls dancing against the din.

5 Apr 2011

Artless World

How Deeply black that World without Art
How truly awful that beating Heart
Minds exploding voluntarily to escape
The war of Monotony taking place
on landscapes of level and plain fields
No relief from the pains and strains
No fleeting moment, nor respite, at ones door
No escaping that persistent condition
No remedy in grasp or in vision
No beauty in the cell, grey matter
Where grey only does dwell
Dark and dank, miserable and Hostile
Broken souls with no will, of their own.
We couldn't endure, survive, live-on
With a vacuous primary there can be no other.
Desperately clinging to any form with potential
And hoping just hoping that it might
One day shine bright in this World without Art.
I'd smuggle some in, if it were possible
And damn the consequences, for a worthwhile cause.
I'd import a small part of art into this rotting core
Then I'd stand back in Macroscopic view
And watch that tiny piece spread and grow
I'd watch the faces nurture smiles wider and wider
As art engulfs, rather than passes them by
Journeying throughout this blank palette:  the planet.
Art, into a big black hole, and the new World is filled
With abundance, radiating, reverberating, throughout the globe.
 The old primary removed and reform taken place
Art replaced, that outdated game, once standing so high.
Now that old primary, makes no more and does die.
Art for the masses, art for the few, Art in the World, it's for me and for you.

31 Mar 2011

Words Travelling

Words travelling, an intriguing path
Can make you cry, or even laugh
Set the future; record the past.
Words tossed; words designed to last.
To design a World that's good for all
To inspire the young, to provide a cure
All the while, creating: aspirations abound.
Did you know, words are double crowned?
Take a look at what can be found!
It may not delight, but it will certainly astound.
Watch! Don't be a rabbit lost in the round.
Have a look but come back to solid ground.
Keep the best and disregard the rest;
In circular illusions and square memes
Words: the translator of a mind's dreams
The inventors I think, did like their laugh:
If you ask me, this is what, they had to saith
"Now get off your resting place, read my epitaph"
Left their lines of lights, in darkened minds
Words travelling on intriguing paths
Words are bound to us and bound to last .
Because I am you and you are me
We read or write, we lead the fight,
We light the night and embrace the day.
We clasp in joy, everyone, from day one, on.
From the very first time, that the sun shone
Words are mighty, in sword form.
They sometimes mimic, a bird of a feather
Tickling, the nether, nether. . .nether.  .erm?. . .nether :)
A shelter, in a stormy port.
A port in a stormy, weather storm.
Words are oceans, filled with drawn out notions
Words are the potions, that guide our emotions
Words travelling on intriguing paths.
Words can change hearts, do the maths.

It's Not Ideal

Belief in a stream, above all others,
equals, equal eyes; covered!
"It", is only that we aspire to, "it"
An ideology and ideally WE;
Should diverge the direction;
Use inutition, not a rigid goal.
Never one solution, to the whole.
Don't throw your lot, into a hole.
"It", is only that we use a guide;
An ideal chased, then put aside!
For an ideal equal, every side.
Negotiation, skill and intelligence
Empathy; friendship; souls entwined.
No need for weapons, just brilliant minds.
Now walk with me, as we write these lines:
"Humans are humans, so where's the divide."
And where ever lines intersect
We should always, engage our intellect.
Not based in fear, nor in regret
Minds can change, they're not rigid set.

29 Mar 2011

Today We Party

Tired of writing about: Duality; Politics; Science; Mythology; Philosophy; Human emotions; Natural disasters; bankers and all of the other dross. Give me a party today, for I may not live to see tomorrow - Carpe diem. Today will be a fine celebration, of the here and now. We'll drink and frolic, cast off the stolid, let us dance, give me your hand, let's dance i implore you, today we hold the World in our hands. We shall close our eyes - We, will! look towards the starry sky and we will! call this day ours. Let us dress now, in glimmering gowns; shining colours that match the sounds. Bass beats arithmetical, accompanies our wonderfully wilful bliss. Today, my friends: will be a haughty jaunt, of the Ecstasy sort. We'll forget our troubles and sing instead, we'll celebrate that we're living and not zombie dead. Today, the knocks, will not knock us, the pain, will be pleasure and our minds will be treasure. Shall we dance some more? Shall we forget what we saw; what we know; what we were - Hold my hand then and I'll shake your bones. Today we don't do boxes, cages or pens; today, is about, you and me friends. On this glorious love filled day, we shall, be clock kings and queens; able to ignore the dawn: an intrusive moon and the setting sun. Bass keeps on beating when the music's gone, there's only one thing left to do: Party on!

23 Mar 2011

Bubble Pop





Lend me your eyes and I will help you to see.
I come not to shelter, but burst a brutish bubble.
And destroy the stagnant Oxygen, encased within.
Purified by the abundance, of free and fresh air.
Perforated perfection, restores a balance lost.
A mere micro bubble within the Macro bubble - Micro-pop!
And Jim's "Tears of wine", will soon depart.
Surface tension is reversed, subversion dispersed.
Flimsy film with golden hues, in a spherical cap collapses,
Golden bows of droplets, rain down on all around,
That bigger bubble gets to shine, down on hallowed ground.
With Zero curvature mean design, golden hues, travel the line
Equally endowed and all allowed, to taste, a morsel, of freedom.




Empress

I swear to your face, I swear in your face
and I swear that you still don't care.
I swear, I swear and I swear, it gets me nowhere.
I swore I wouldn't swear, but it just isn't fair.
I swore I'd try to square your eye, fie upon that lie.
I swear that's how I started out;
Circumference surrounding, have ye no doubt.
I swear by the great unknown, that; by which I stand.
Outside of logic, there's another land.
A place unknown, the enlightenment missed.
Shadow cast, darkened moon; lots of doubt.
Obfuscated, obscured; erased; cast out.
I see a darkened corner, in a room full of light
I see a spark of pre-conscious creation: complex.
Empress, clothed in a dusky dress.
She offers up the answers, through the mess.
No force, no stress; she's less than less.
She's the exquisite tune, in nothingness.

22 Mar 2011

Writer's Curse.

The paradox of a writer's curse
With spacious purse, empty
and a requirement to be reimbursed
for every verse; blood spattered sweat!
An urge for recognition wraps tentacles;
of boa's; tightly grasped onto neck.
Begging opinion: the positive sort at first
and when that doesn't show
Any kind will suffice.
Someone hating, enough to care
Writer's curse laid bare.
And even if it comes, the curse will appear.
Successfully filled that spacious purse
but now I sold that piece of me
and received that recognition
I wish I could go back
And reverse that awful decision.
The curse of networking to prove
Your life's work; your life.
To prove the words weren't
a complete and utter waste.
And then you realise.
What the hell am I doing.
Why am I perpetuating, multiple dream states
upon the biggest dream of all.

Language of Form


Sculpting is the cure: of the requirement to indulge in poetic savagery - A word filled tragedy, of truths that are fantasy. The language of kings can no more say, what it is that I want to portray; than a mouse could convince a feline to relinquish its grip. That thing, that the king; professes the right: born disjointed into the light. King logos arms his troops in a readying rage of war and what for? To protect a division, in the hope of a unifying whole. Language can never deliver this goal, in king logos' realm; it ceases to exist; if it doesn't come complete with an accomplice.

The Sculptor speaks the language of form, in this realm; the whole is the norm, The form speaks a thousand words; in simultaneous harmonious bursts; of poetry; that can cause ones capillaries to explode into a thousand pieces, one for each word of form's, language bursts. The beauty can be likened to musical notes inducing a tear of wonderment; to roll in slow motion, down your blood flushed face. A sense of beauty captured or created by a loving hand. An unexplained flow, that fixates an eye in a semi permanent gaze, awe struck and truly amazed. Polite postures and cheeky curves, sorrowed faces and ones full of glee, this is the language, I can see. The innocence of sleep; the dignity of choice; the power to grow beyond mere existence.

Form, that peasantry queen: I love her language and I create her dream. She begs me to let go; of all that I know, saying things like: "it's all in the flow." So I take her heed and make good speed in leaving king logos' land. I know I'll never find her there, never taste her sweet mysterious charms; her hope inside a gated Kingdom. Become the bird my Prince, she beckoned my call; fly to me on wings of love and faith; in a fragile humanity; outside of a fabled reality, switch from the mind of polarity; to encompass her land with clarity.

Consciousness awakening, free from restraints; but tempered by good will. There you will find me in a land, that speaks a language; that lay deep in my heart. I do my best with words, to shine a torch on this place, but even in form, there has to be space. Oh my wonder, at a glimpse of her; for just one fleeting moment; that seemed to last; for all of time; present and past. The signs are there and all around, but experience is the beast to tame, its hard to explain. It's in the moment, then its gone; replaced by another, perpetually.


Below is one of my sculpture videos; enjoy.

21 Mar 2011

The Attraction of Action

A life weary with a World at odds
Seeks out a sense of familiarity
Yearns it, to divisive destruction
And builds a temple upon quicksand
Next to a boundary, o’er yonder, quicksand
Runs for shelter in a rickety shack
Call it home, a club, a Rome, a dome or a sphere
Its primary cause, is usually fear
Always backed up by a spear, a jagged end
A dagger of death for the other side of a line
A fear that one could think and free their mind
Fear disabling, manifests hate, makes you blind
Don’t be resigned to your blind fate,
Free your mind its never too late, use it to contemplate.
Control the place that feels irate, replace it with action.

If
Fear breeds fear
Hatred breeds hatred
Mistrust breeds mistrust
Jealousy breeds jealousy
 Contempt breeds contempt

Then
Why aren’t we manifesting:
Love breeds love
Peace breeds peace
Trust breeds trust
Self esteem breeds self esteem
Forgiveness breeds forgiveness

So
That we may replace:
Fear with love
Hatred with peace
Mistrust with trust
Jealousy with self esteem
Contempt with forgiveness

In action we manifest, in inaction we fester.
We must concentrate on what it is we desire
Then it is guaranteed to manifest in nature
This is the divine law of the cosmos.
The power lies squarely in our hands
Reading the manual however, isn’t enough.
To know a divine law and not participate
In the action of its manifestation
Is to lose control over ones circumstances
When it was entirely unavoidable.

Eastern Promise Sculpture

Twelve

Twelve gallons of pain
Twelve gallons of petrol,
light the flame
Twelve doves burning
Twelve types of hope yearning
Twelve faces turning
Twelve lost spirits discerning
Twelve grey faced fools
Twelve destructive tools
Twelve purple hearts guiding
Twelve evil souls hiding
Twelve minds blind
Twelve hearts side lined.

The Boy Who Grew

The boy who grew and grew,
he traveled through, an alternate view
And as this little fellow plodded on and on
He grew a little more and every bit of it he shone
Always thought he knew it all
He got so tall, then came the fall,
on one fine day he realised
He knew not one thing, but two to say.
And in knowing not one thing, but two
He realised that he didn't have a clue.
And now that boy, turned into a man.
And how that man still would grow and grow.
Even though, he walked on circular paths.
And spirals were the only maps and a mind that risked
complete collapse, like Cantor, or Nash
Though he found his way back, before the shocks
Avoided the jagged forms of washed up rocks
The boy liked to go into a secret Garden
and pick golden cherries from the tree tops
To come back and communicate what was found
Lay foundations for a future ground,
that are sturdy, safe and sound
Planting seeds in heads and hearts
Organising the core and every ring
Growing leaves and branching out
Don't forget the roots, lying underground.
The boy became a forester in his adulthood
But the man, still longs to connect forest to forest.
Tree to tree is good to see
Tree to tree, is all well and good,
but its still not as sturdy, as solid wood.
So he has a dream daily,
that the forests of the world will become,
one mass of Jungle and a whole lot of fun.
The boy and the man traveled so far
without treading one step or using cars
Reached out and grabbed the stars
He went up and down, round and around
Left and right, planting seeds in open fields
Encouraging them to grow,
feeding the seedlings, 'Nurturing Tales'.
Putting back, on the tracks, fixing broken rails.
The forever growing boy, the forever growing man.
 Traveled where he liked,
disregarding the Status Quo
Like a chef pinches salt: Taking or leaving duality
The garden is a fine principality, it grows a new reality.
One where charity is a byword of sanity, not pedantry.
Not persecution, nor profit pollution, that's hardly a solution.
The boy is a man and the man is the boy
They both treat the World in a united fashion.
See behind the division with complete passion.

20 Mar 2011

Unicorn

19 Mar 2011

Summer Bloom

Laurel

Life's Gamble

17 Mar 2011

Japan

For sorrow born another day;
On sweet meadow torn, set to stay.

Undefined words, cannot say;
Hearts breached, souls washed away.

A dead dog lays beneath his dead master's feet;
Loyal through, right to the end, friends.

A decaying love on bitterly nights.
Children lost in a final frost.

Frozen salted beads; Snow capped hair;
Survivors left out in the cold air.

Homeless in a flash of a retched tidal splash;
Loss beyond compare, A life just isn't fair.

The love lost is the same we share;
Compassion and charity, send it over there.

Triangular burns from invisible flames;
Fifty fearless fighters in Fukushima.

Humanity is prevailing in a World full of tears.

15 Mar 2011

Graham Vivian Sutherland OM




I see a light purple colour
in a fire of pastel flames
Orange flecks of dull hues
O'er head, above the flame
way up high, A bright sky lay
All licked in colour of sun ray beams
now it bursts from the seams
Sutherland's Shadowy friends,
wrapped around forms of a surrealist lens
Where valleys deep and on they roam
Winding, coiling, spiraling, turning 
On paths lighted in the haze
Capturing fields before the war
Owning a landscape in the mind he saw.
Dressing Green blades, in powdery blues,
of fine Pembrokeshire sunny views
Wiped away when peace resigned
A light became a darkened heart.
Though, it did regain, found inspiration
Through all of the pain.
In habitats of nature, it was laying there
on coastal shores, a love was restored.



12 Mar 2011

Its Only A Hand

How a human spirit can be set free, by a kind hand up
To offer up a chance for someone to grow.
And a treasured gift you did bestow, for if you hadn't
Then all of that potential was squashed and repressed
And the World once again was stabbed in the chest
So know that your gift lives on, in a perpetual spin
You made a world well again, you helped with a hand
To heal the pain, so don't ever think that it's all in vein
Circuits of hands, currents of love, powering humanity.

8 Mar 2011

How Why Who


How can I be this strong and yet, be washing my feet
In a basin of my own blood?
Why does a stranger run into a burning house?
And why can't the innocence of a child's eyes,
Continue to view, right through, to adulthood?
Like we somehow, we misunderstood.
Who is brave enough to walk away?
To understand what the others say?
To find common ground in the affray?
How does a difference, Affect a rising sun?
Does it change anything, except killing all the fun?
Why are we still in chains? change C & H for brains,
Reborn from the flames.
Who will take us kicking and screaming;
To a land of broken promises?
And who will lead themselves;
In their own dominion, of temporal kings?

Equinox Dreams

Political strife is critically rife
At what cost is freedom right?
Human life, humanities fight
Forgiveness can heal!
Mercy protector: a bullet reflector.

Global elite drumming their beat.
Propaganda's tune,
The music of a loon.
We will feel the effects, very soon.

One world, one love,
not one world and sell the dove.
Profit last, Humanity first
Corporations driving the Hearse
On faux golden Highways, of the perverse.

Time to reverse or turn around, change direction.
Rid ourselves of this viral infection.
Pay Bridget, with the milk from ewes
Spring festivals and heady revelry
Art, poetry and music, creating carrier waves
to modulate the minds and set us free.

Fun and frolic should be penciled in
Absorbing - feel the love this spring
Bathe in falls of harmony and unity
Rid the World of its perpetual lunacy.
For you and me, I hope you see
What life could really, potentially be.




Lonely Street

White doves with mud on their wings
No bird song sings
Complicity in the silence stings
Peoples worn out slings
Blood red rose buds
Blown to bits with missile scuds
Brave slave
Child's despair
As bodies lay strewn 
on streets that don’t care.