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Thursday, 2 June 2011

HIGHBURY FIELDS AND DREAMS poems

poem on Highbury Fields

A blaze of the dying sun!
The heath of hampstead is red,
my labours are done with;
and over me arises,
as quick as night,
The moans of secretive dusk.

A hymn to winter tides!
the voices from afar come back,
From a messenger sky deep and black,
On highbury fields of days long dead,
grass cut short.
and corn merely memory

The songs they sang
'far into the lucrative night,
upon highbury fields far into the night,
And my fair one stood upon the grass
but for heaven now no more,
dying her memory in the dark and below

DREAMS

The love of dreams lies
in their music
stop one moment
and hear
hear them, speak to them
walk with God and
that garden is richer and richer,
garlanded
over the slow trembling of
great golden city
that comes down with lunar cycle,
and then slowly the oblivion moment
that then creeps into closed fortresses
breaking later by lights moment
a still growing crescendo of life.
God's great family becomes one
and labouriously imitates him
and he is heard in the being of man

highgate

The stones of Highgate shown in the moon,

Momentos of lost souls - gone too soon.

Vines of green, stream down from Heaven,

To touch my face and unite the breathen.

Along the corridors of green,

I wondered what those lying around me had seen.

Lifetimes of love and happiness flown,

memorialized by simple moss-covered stone.

Oh, there were a few here who would be remembered,

But most lived and died without time's passage ever being

hindered.

Their immortality now consists

Of a slightly leaning tombstone, obscured in mist.

Loved once in vain

Died once in pain.

Poem on rain

i made my way past that place

you lived all those times ago unremembered

now

as I found you again on a machine

and you were still you

but old and married and with kids

and you simply shred and shed all mystery

in that one moment of finding you

And I'd loved you forever even

Hampstead

There far beyond

lies Hampstead in the silky air of night

it belongs there in the fields

now given back once more

to their things, to their things

and to the immemorial time of times

Keats house is still there and his words

and his words

remain in the hedgerows

and the chiselled church

where he was

first annointed

in garlands of meaning.

The night pours down over there

and juice and favour emerge

as the heath becomes

alive and renewed

Over there far beyond

lies Hampstead in the silky air of night

it belongs there in the fields

now given back once more

to their things, to their things

and to the immemorial time of times

THE POACHER

The poacher returns in dying september light
theres bread for the bag
but no joy or jewels
for things are coming
to conclusions,
so be it
for they must
but things hang on
the hand still gripping
something
intangible
and now the cold night air
brings a message
if only we could
decode it

PARTY POLITICAL BROADCAST

at least I have understood the term
the means the wants and the needs
individual,
higher than your fun guy routine and crusading pursuits.
and those semi-religious,
patriotic to your cunt
serious pubic career work,
equal and higher plane involvement on
sexual thoughts and pursuits.
your brand of religion is mine,
your pursuit
a form of fucking government,I’ll follow.
My career mission above the valid
healthy wants and needs
of your significant pit
you cheapen the meaning of love.
you sacrifice the people closest to you
you slip away from the wants
the needs but
you know best
as ever
as always at least I have understood the terms

OLIVES
She sings of sun and Olive

and of herself for selfs sake.

The olives enrich that that grow near her

and enrich us as Socrates did

They enroach upon our night

and build low havens on earth.

You can touch them when they fall

and you can take them into your mouth

and feel her evenly.

You gather them with all their brusing

and in the garden of Eden

you are never alone.

Then hold them

and build your deepest wish

by the morning light it will

be gone

HABITAT
elm,
live to be 200 years old.
longer than me
I’m nearly over
and maybe you
.
Sometimes called red elm,
gray elm you are ,
you grow best
in moist, wet pussyfied soil,damp in
rich soils
full of longing
of lower slopes
where hands grope
and flood plains that come like a wave then are gone totally,
and although become dry hillsides
the Elm lies in
with limestone soils.
It is abundant
and associated
with wet Slippery places
the hard strong wood
is The tree
I the seeds are but now a minor source of food.
It has long been cultivated but succumbs to love.

THE GODS OF LOVE
time, culture deities dedicated ,
shy mutual
attraction, to serious fucking, god fits the bill.
petitioning the deities , offerings of incense, flowers, fruit, sacrifice
blood or by dedicating
and they don’t care , not one single fucking bit
prayer, spells, to focus the mind and will , desired goal,
ask assistance for your fuck ups
the foul breath you breathe
taken, then, savagely. between them, sin
they taught agricultural screwing once out there in the fields
and
observances of position.
they hated violence,
in his compassion
well
it nearly
brought him near success, his women were simply disarmed by the gentle strength
of his penis.
her husband away charming everyone with product talk, she fucked to....well....well.....
to perfection.
she embodied cum shots
fertility, wisdom and female magic, restored his body to life after they killed him
on a day dedicated to slaughter long before
they perfected married happiness,
they
equals in power and squirting,
devoted.
those wishing for such qualities in their own lunchtime
say a simple pray to sex
"may your love and devotion echo in my love and life"
corn, grapes and sundry veggie shit were special to them two too
while lotus, figs, myrrh and dates are appropriate for fucking buddies,
share the taste of the liquids
love feast
confirm your love,
wear the ankle chain,
the ancient symbol of slave sex
to keep it
fresh and strong.
IN THE WOODin the wood one morning,
under the ripe fruit
the brown, curling leaves,
with a pen and ink
and the dew on my knee,
pondered for a long while.
Several times dipped the pen in ink,
and then put it back
thoughts wandered over a wide territory
over many countries
and many years.
no order
or logical sequence
Pictures came and went
Faces,
rivers,
autumn days
in other vineyards far away.
I made through the Hartz Mountains
innkeeper’s
pretty daughter
lighted my smokes
the garden one summer evening
the woods
haymakers
an island in the river.
The Crow’s whistle woke me from reveries.
Ah , frowned for a moment
looked at the book on my knee.
thought of a great many appropriate things to write in it,
but suddenly rejected all of them,
opened the book,
and at the top of the much-engraved title-page wrote rapidly in ink