As time adds slowly to our past
lessening our strengths and stride
and flicker of the days come fast
there's only one place we can hide.

When cold winds blow and old bones ache
and weight of aging gets too great
one comfort we can all partake
is opening our memory's gate.

In my mind I travel back
to summer time in sixty nine,
hearing a basebal bat's sharp crack!
on an evening warm and fine.

My darling boy
Everything for you
More precious in the offering
Blossom trees
A sunset
Birdsong or cloudscape for the lifting of eyes… of life
The ocean in any mood and motion
A new day or warm memory
Laughter, green eyes and corkscrew curls
All these good things
Multiplied, brighter, sweeter more complete
When shared with you
Whose being I have nurtured and cherished from a cell
In these years of bewilderment and passion
you are so commonly lit up like a bright beam
intense and animated

Never let someone hold you down
Fuck you up
Tell you you're nothing
And that you're not good enough.

Never be under someone's thumb
Or fall face downwards
Because you were drawn in
By their lies and deceit.

Be strong
Look within yourself and know
That there are those who care about you
And nothing can touch you, unless you let it.
And no harm will come of you tonight
Not under my watch....

.
time is emotion
stitched within an illusion
named separation
.

There are angels among us,
The Bible tells us so.
Keeping us save
Wherever we may go.

No one can harm us,
We have nothing to fear.
They will always protect us
When danger is near.

No one can see them.
They can’t answer if we call,
But in your case it’s different
Cause you my guardian angel….I can show to all.

Across the unseen water
shrouded in the cool embrace of night
lamps of sleep shine orange-bright
in pools of light suspended in
a swirl of darkened misted gloom
and I, perched on a concrete slab
beside eternal lap of water
that from the empty street
the cops can never see
drink of the darkness
in the silence
to pretend there are no other souls
within a hundred leagues of here.

weep little sweet
the poisons in the treat
that ol junkdogs in heat
cause shes the bitch
that bites the witchs
thats serves the snitchs

and in her soiled knuckel locked
holster
is the courage feist that bolsters
slick eyed race
that cuts a trace

babycakes
gurl
you done gone
and set this town
awhirl

the heart sways the branches
but I am more shadow than you
the rub is silk in silence
between the moments of morning
so that thin birds slip through

this is the limit of the light
mushroom and clover things
shaping their form in dry leaves
with every nothing of the world
into spring

At What Cost a Christian Chequebook …

Doesn’t anyone find it disgustingly odd?
that a book meant for a saintly tomb.
Written by men who’re said to be of god,
is worth more than the fruit of the womb.

They say negotiations went incredibly well,
purchasing this book for nine million pounds.
I say they and the book should burn in hell,
I mean this is as stupid, as it bloody sounds.

Free these city streets
beneath her feet
burden by concrete
sky tower, tenements, pigeons perched
gutter rats dwindle from the light
there's something kinda beautiful here
to early rise
a yellow ball east of China town
off broadway and the bridge buckling down
the city illusive . . .
with no ninjas just chaotic chinese
chopped into Bruce Lee videos and wind chimes
continue to ring in dingy take outs
doorway standing nursing a plastic container
rice noodles, baby bok choy