Tag Archives: contemplative

Tomorrow and tomorrow..

Tomorrow will be broken

and all its voices spent,

the gathering of knowledge dispersed

colours rendered blank

words voided of meaning

and hope bartered in the market

for cheap reassurance;

when tides fail and

time runs out of itself,

what excruciating silence will follow?

what timbre,

what depth

reverberating down

the centuries, millenia, aeons

To end here at this point,

insignificant and dismissed

without ceremony

from its own presence.

The Bridge On The River Aire

marks to be read
lines in a story
in tongues
we once knew;
and threads
in movement
thro’ stilness,
alive in the noise
of silence,
flow flowing
ebb ebbing,
a corpus of whom,
of when ,of how,
of where we are,
were,will be,
remaining remembered
renewed thro’ riving
purposed writhing,
reaching a not
purposed slipping
into camouflage
in its own setting;
of a particular
space and time,
now caught,
now released,
animate intense
passively resisting
our questions,

Metal Shavings

Each one individual
different from the last,
still spiral in shape
and glowing with colour,
but different
as if each seperate one
has its own vocation,
growing and glowing to
the peak of its form,
or jumping lemming-like
to an inevitable end,
before it has lived
nipped in the bud and then
crushed underfoot again and again;
Then the rebel piece
causes maximum disturbance
sticks to its creator
for another lease of life,
then lies on its back
backlash and then,
the tool hits the jump
and me jumping back,
to panic for a handle,
yet another false mistake
while the rebel fits to
its own metallic waste,
and I know he’s gone for good;
I wonder should I tell them
the science of their lives?
their ductile strength,
their malleability
or how less longer
they live in the heat,
or should I keep them
young in my own imagination,
where boredom is
the furthest place away?

(Martin Nicholson has asserted his authorial rights in this work)


To everyone you’re no-one,
with your face blotched with warts
and an eye that throbs red
in a planet of wrinkles;
they call you names
but they know you’re just old,
Ninety or ninety-five perhaps
you can never tell in
this young people’s world,
let’s just stop and pause awhile
we could break down the
elements of this worn out frame
there’s calcium,phosphorous
iron and carbon perhaps,
is there also an element of youth?
doesn’t your body determine your age?
or is it controlled
by that blank senile skull
which was tidily covered
in flesh,skin and hair,
then wickedly rotted with time?

(The author’s rights in this work have been asserted)

Night Listener

Listening to faltering surreal broadcasts

serenading another Summer equinox,

the composition’s title eludes him,

Miles;haunting contemplative succinct

flags down thoughts mimicking melancholy,

Gil Goggins’ circumspect piano

embedded in the spent day’s residue

receding like the listener’s reverie

broken by random sniper-shots of glass,

endemic tension flowing,

burst-veined onto midnight alleys

of this midnight City,

frantic frazzled red ‘n’ blue

taking some more cold meat

away to the coroner’s slab,

away from midnight streets

haunted by ” Yesterdays”,

that title hunted down and

captured by a desire to

have words for that spell

cast on a night long ago

in a faraway City where

another night-listener

heard the night

with its surreal,faltering..

Picture in the Gallery

The Picture in the gallery

the painting no-one else

ever seems to look at;

That street scene from another century,

with its muted colours of a

long lost summer afternoon;

the carriages,the hats,the uniforms,

street urchins,shopkeepers and

at the railway station entrance

a newspaper vendor and stood next to him

reading the headline,” Archduke Ferdinand assassinated!”

a man without a face.


When I stop telling the truth to you

and you stop telling the truth to me,

there’ll be no more truth spoken;

what loss would that be?

When I stop lying to you

and you stop lying to me,

we shall find our world devoid of lies

leaving it emptier than before;

what loss would that be?

Where do I belong?

I belong to the place where
the lark doesn’t sing because the sun is rising,
but the sun rises to hear the lark sing.

Where the sea doesn’t roar because the moon shines,
but the moon shines to see the waves soar.

Where it doesn’t rain because the earth is parched,
it rains because the sky yearns to kiss its beloved.

Where the wind doesn’t carry the fragrance because the rose bears it,
but air wraps the rose to unwrap the fragrant gift.

Take me to that place where
I can see but I need no eyes,
I can hear but I need no ears,
I can walk but I need no limbs,
I can fly but I need no wings.

Take me to that place where
I can listen to the light
and watch the sound,
where I can taste the fragrance
and drink the wind.

Take me to that place,
for that is where I belong.

Of Time and Futility

Seconds and Minutes hurry and scurry
about in numbers too great to count ,

Hours fritter and waste all our
expectations in an off-hand way ,

Days left alone whisper amongst themselves
and in the end we incur their displeasure ,

Weeks harbour thoughts in secret
and keep them hidden from us ,

Months wreak their petty vengeance
whilst our backs are turned ,

Years dream and scheme and slowly and
surely draw their plans against us.

Les larmes de l’automne

What do you say

when there is nothing left to be said ?

who do you turn to

when everyone else is gone ?

where do you run

when there is nowhere left to run to ?

how do you commemorate this loss

when there have been so many before ?

how shall we shed tears

when there are no more tears left to be shed ?