Sunday, 18 August 2013


I sometimes feel I am a ghost
walking inside the bones
of one who is long dead.

Shuffling through white supermarkets
only in body,
my spirit above me
on a higher plane,
or resting quietly
in some pristine glade
where children go to play
with dragonflies,
and lovers laugh,
their eyes tied.

But I am not Keats;
I face twenty-first century feats.
I shall not die
before I am twenty-six,
and there's no time
to live out in the sticks
when the world's encroaching
like a lion's maw
and every wave
of every shore
is pounding roundly at my door.

Yes, I sometimes feel
I am living a posthumous existence.
But there's no time for silence.

We must fight for peace and not accept death:
that's how to stop this endless violence.


But maybe I am
      Han Shan
just looking for a doorway
              into the mountain,

or maybe I am Blake
              Heaven’s bubbling fountains.

More likely I’m me
         looking for a way
                into myself
          a way into the world,
                 a way into
         the heart of love,
   whose symbol
                 is a marble dove.

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