I’m trapped in the wrong dream.
A nightmare that somebody’s having.
And every day my strength dies away; the giver and the given.

No one sees my pain.
No one knows my sorrow.
Nobody hears the dread that I feel, at every new tomorrow.

It’s a lonely road.
Not quite sure where I’m going.
And the weight of the rain that is falling is stopping me knowing.

When is it my time to crumble?
When is it my turn to fall?
When will I get the chance, to be so incredibly small?

Crushed like a snail underfoot.
Lost like a drunken night’s promise.
Tired of the climbing this hill all alone, if I’m honest.
~

But I carry on. Yes, I carry on
Because I have to. I need to.
There’s no other way; there’s another day.
Can I carry on? Can I be that strong? Forever.

(A work in progress)

All hell released this raging night
Brought forth from slumber; nature’s blight.
The shrieking wind lashed timbers bare
And thrashed the land without a care.
The rain, as if at sea did lash
The hedgerows with a thunder clash
But there! a lamp, The dark to cheat
And shadows followed little feet.

As through the tempest, fast she ran
And with each step, the dream began.
Not once was felt the sting of fear
A bleach white courser did appear.
Upon its back there was a man.
Along his forehead; dark blood ran.
His breath was short, his eyes half closed.
The bones beneath his skin exposed.

The charger pounded through the night
With mane of fire, burning bright.
She hid at once, in case that he
Might vent his spur on such as she.
But in that dark it was her flame
Revealed conceit, not casting blame.
He hauled the beast into a halt
With snorting breath, and ne’r a fault.

He looked upon her, hiding there
And called aloud: ‘Pray, have a care!’
From deathly skies - a lightening bolt.
The frightened steed recoiled a jolt.
And in the flash of light, he saw
The maiden, frightened to the core.
“You’ve naught to fear,” he said and reached.
Her plaintive cries, his trust beseeched.

His arm was strong, a smile he gave.
Her safety and a heart to save.
“Come here,” he urged and up she crept.
From hiding hole and prison leapt.
She gave her hand with firm belief,
Releasing her from fear and grief.
As through the fetid night they tore,
The demons hunted her, no more.
____________________________________________________________
(From “Turgidity and Tragedy”, dedicated to Bella (ref unknown).
By Bartholomew Brinkley (1806 - 1864)
Essayist, romanticist and gothic poet.

White Heat
(Dec 1997)

White heat is the light that exposes from within.
Not from sun nor moon nor lamp.
But a white heat from the heart.
Like Jane Porter’s description of beauty,
it is: “The soul shining through its crystal-line covering.”
It is us. It is you.

Running, but unable to hide,
we’re caught by our own incandescence.
Our thoughts, emotions, attitudes: flash-frozen for all to see.
The utter duplicity of our own image, we think it guards us,
enlarges us, paints us on a canvas that nobody can see through.
But it is simply a magnifying lens for the white heat glowing inside.

We can’t define it, because it defines us.
Reflecting, refracting, re-telling our stories in a constant stream.
Like phosphorus- we ‘beam’.
Only a camera comes near to capturing us-
each frame a blur of what we were at that fraction of a second.
A lifetime compressed into a heartbeat.

So fear not the white heat.
Rather, respect the sanctity and purity of its glow.
Feel its warmth.
Admire the beauty of its source.
It is us- it is you. In the thin rays of white heat, dissolved
and rolled onto a piece of paper, we find ourselves and we find each other.

For in the undeniable truth of our flaws,
fragility, goodness, and strengths lies our beauty.
What meets the page and then the eye is sheer ‘expression’.
How can we see so much from so little?
Perhaps the power of a single glance, to divulge all secrets
is a mystery better appreciated than understood.

All that vastness of our beings recorded in a layer,
only a few microns deep.
THIS is our fiery luminescence- laid out in cold fragments of light and dark.

The Pebble Skimmers.
(1997)

—-

I stand at the edge of this great divide
And skim pebbles clean over the ocean.

I hear the first splash and see the stones path
as it travels with all my emotion.

But where it shall land and how it will sound
I cannot begin to imagine

I’m trying to learn, as ripples return
the depth and effect of each casting.

What value these stones, these imitation bones
these dreams made of feelings and laughter

Still I stand on this beach skimming stones from a peach
and I wonder, I wonder

I wonder.

The Ringing of the Mission Bells.
(1997)

—-

In meadows green, flower’d fields unseen,
where a lifetime once was if in dream.
I’d lie me down with eyes of brown,
and make a simple daisy crown.

The song of birds; lowing cattle herds,
the ripple of some gentle words.
Your hand in mine- a lovers sign,
the speaking of two hearts entwine.

We’d laugh and play all summers day,
like children in their simple way.
You’d catch my eye and give a sigh,
see both our spirits soaring high

The roaring winds, a distant star,
Higher than the mountains far.
The ocean wide, could never hide
a truth that’s buried deep inside.

A pounding beat, like thunder’s feet,
with each new dawning day shall greet.
The pages torn, laid in the corn,
told stories of the Little Fawn.

The river deep, as if in sleep,
once all its earthly secrets keep.
Now a story tells, of hearts and shells,
-the ringing of the Mission Bells.