Short Order Grilling

Feral freight boxes on the midnight boundary;
Bugles and epaulets sink like sugar in the rain,
Heart beast flutters, roads signs and bullet holes
Pass the time.

Honey is love and the city a concrete hive,
Worker bees low and not humble
But words burn deeper than the Stanley knife tease,
When mixed with vim, a cocktail of forces
In the maverick rows of green bottled minds.

Creations heals a miden of scar tissues and knotted intentions,
Something amiss breeds hope unrequited and delectable;
Acid rain erodes the detritus and coaxes the
Grotesques asphalt to appease the soles.

Honoured ghosts you are beatific in the marble forest creeks,
Speak now for our virtues are brackish and needy,
Our Gods left us diseased on the short order grill
Where all immigrant flesh is broiled
And desensitized and tranquilized.

We are presented as a cripple
Beneath the flashing bulbs of bucolic banality.

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A Child with Dusty Feet

Deep in the mind there are oceans of empty peace,

Beyond the mind the universe is blissful and whole,

 

Within the body our senses are the merest dawning of experience,

In consciousness we are in flight and tracing the astral vapours,

 

In love we are the divine incarnate entwined in a colourful game,

On rocks we rest and stare into sheer nothing in adulation,

 

Enraptured by the wilderness fold, we are lost to the elements,

Our fate is sealed, there is one road to a glorious departure,

 

Where we may tread as a child with dusty feet, still trusting.

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Moss Banks and Fading Heather

Summers Coming!

Summers Coming!

This poem is a gift to all those still living through winter, summer is ever on the way!x

The steaming moss banks and fading heather,
The land gently sloping away;
The call of sky larks hung in morning splendour
Breaking through the new day haze.

The lightening greens of summer promise,
The aching wait for the first fair day;
The coming of the heat wave and ice creams,
The loosening of our island ways.

The startled sheep as trains pass by,
Smoke clouds cloak holiday makers and sighs,
The people clutching hold of valleys,
Carving paradise into the hills.

The quietening of the countryside,
The wind is seldom raised to a breeze;
The snoozing in meadows and riverbanks,
The laughter over a picnic tea.

The dark water marks of winter recede,
The light comes pouring through;
Stride emboldened over dip and dale,
Deep in forests along new found trails.

There is a palpable ease
When the trees sway listless under brightened leaves;
There is a sense of inner peace
When the sun kisses our milky skins.

There is a rising of our dreams
As we are ironing this crease,
Where nature is a friend not foe
And each life a legend to behold.

May we harvest the essence of these times,
Store its energy as precious seeds inside;
Mark this very day as the tidal reverse,
A chorus springing straight from the heart.

We are arm in arm enraptured
By these early summer chapters,
Devoid of precious, sullied fears,
At this blessed time of year.

P1070363

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Live It

Live it loud,
Live it free,
Live it opposed to the powers that be…….

Live it in love,
Live it in sorrow,
Live it because there is no tomorrow……..

Live it words,
Live it in song,
Live it your way, but not for long…….

Live it to enjoy,
Live it with style,
Live it with passion and well worn smiles………

Live it alone,
Live it in groups,
Live it embraced in the quest for truth………

Live it to dream,
Live it to dance,
Live it like this is your very first chance……

Live it resist,
Live it relax,
Live it in moments not tied to the past………….

Live it in celebration,
Live it in doubt,
Live it still curious, open and proud………

Live it, live it, live it………

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The Birds of Bikaner, Rajasthan – 19th January 2015

leroywatson4:

I have been writing a travel blog about my Dad and I’s trip around India named ‘The Jalebi Express’. We’ve made it all the way down to Kerala on the trains, over 3500kms so far. India is a vibrant and diverse place and such a rich place, it is difficult sometimes to find the words to convey. Here is a post that I think you may enjoy. The ‘Birds of Bikaner’ were a sight to behold…….

Originally posted on The Jalebi Express:

Here’s a ‘best of’ selection of the birds we saw on a desert safari with Jitu.  From the biggest, to the smallest, we saw a hatful of winged wonders and some very rare sightings.

A young red winged lapwing A young Red Winged Lapwing

Silver Backed Shrike Southern Grey Shrike – kills bees by impaling them on thorns 

Red Breasted Bulbull - beautiful song Red Breasted Bulbull – beautiful song

Steppe Eagle Steppe Eagle

Farmer and White Igret Farmer and White Igret

Common Babbler - bird mafia, very aggressive little guy Indian Roller – aka the bird mafia, very aggressive little guy

Cinereous (Black) Vulture - the largest vulture in the world  Cinereous (Black) Vulture – the largest vulture in the world and the Egyptian Vulture

Spotted Asian Owlet Spotted Asian Owlet

Frankolin - like a little grouse Grey Frankolins – like a little grouse

White Tailed Eagle White Tailed Eagle – very rare

Laggar Falcon Laggar Falcon

Yellow Eyed Pigeons - very rare Yellow Eyed Pigeons – very rare, Bikaner is one of the last place you can see these.

Griffin Vultures Griffin Vultures

One more of the mighty Cinerious Vulture (the largest bird I've ever seen) One more of the mighty Cinereous Vulture (the largest bird I’ve ever seen)

Steppe Eagle Steppe Eagle

Long Legged Buzzard Tawny Eagle

Cinereous Vulture landing on a tree Cinereous Vulture landing on a tree

Black Ibis Black Ibis

The carcass ground - the reason for the density of raptors and vultures The…

View original 54 more words

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All Tomorrow’s Parties

I
Give me a thick coat to keep out the howling winds;
From those eyes, blood drained hate, mortal rust never
Sleeps alone.

Melancholia knew a boy blindsided,
I’d never seen the needle of death coming,
Skipped misery as a flaw.

How strange that happy words won’t turn the
Dissolving soul.

Young dreams now darker in the corner, bodies revolving
Towards the earth and heavens.

II
The way I remember your bed, may it never change.
In that morning light when I was not grey or tinned.
Potential, in skins; in the darkest blue of night
(the ecstatic fizz)
I still find you shining and fraying, twisted at the summit,
Drowned in concoctions of beauty and sacral liquid.

Step out with me on the feathered roads,
Spreading like nerves endings into the flesh of continents,
Where the winds map our backs and whip our necks into shape;
Dancing hair and minds invoke true love games tied in writhing knots.

Weave blankets over sinning dark rivers of doubt that flush the belly
Of freedom and potential; a familiar seasick feeling en masse.
Driftwood, our damned and splintered edges,
Finds soft lake lands beneath zero, shores of smoothed vermillion stones,
Wear this weariness like fur, easing away to hibernation.

The open road is no place for a closed book.

III
How long has this ghost lived here?
The heroes overseas with their own abstract endings to burden,
Hang on the free-winged as the horizon erupts like angry volcanoes.
The road is dug shallow, we reach for real but feelings soon fade
And muddy.

Excuses for religions blot ages and revolutions topple paper idols
Whilst the culprits lie low with serpentine illness;
Smoking balls of wool, laps lined with golden tweed
And seditious cocktails of hatred.

Never found a hometown, never settle down,
Never laid down rocks or rules, never cared for those odds;

The silhouetted condor picks at stars, tears through constellations,
Across the railroad track and I’m one way headed, no back ward steps.

Toothpicks and broken glass by the lazy stones not expecting
To find a penny in the mire or hands to hold.

IV
Back in our bed, I lay with your wholeness, wrapped up against icy climes;
36 and still young, just tender. Dreaming up names on the crumbling walls
Where rats raid our sleep.

Still nothing done, no words remain, no meaning-less
Than before, no scam that elegant, no ruse unique.
Alcohol still makes me burn and ruminate.

I hear the rain lashing down, renewing Turkish soil and the roses of the garden,
Tearing the dead leaves from the gutters, falling on the wolves of the forest,
Etching natural mandalas across the wilderness plains.

Show it to me again in dawn’s first blush, perfection breaks the hallowed canopies
Of the smoking village elders.

V
Maybe I’ll start wearing hats, take a vow of some sort;
Turn the grist in the internal grind, draw the white line engrained
Too far in timelessness;
Trace these migratory routes over rolls of red tape and wire fences,
To surely witness the making of an angel without crimson needles,
Dripping mania.

You can’t read about Picasso, take one snowflake at a time.

VI
When it’s your time you won’t feel the pain and your father will fall
Silently on one knee. Freedom falls beyond deaths shadows,
Where young hearts forever roam imperious.

Old sun, richer; sweet morning quality of being,
I’m drifting still in melted mind puddle.
No thoughts in my cave, buried alive by mundanity,
This material mutiny must be crushed.

Pictures behind closed eyes tell me more,
First real talk with my inner child, first time I loved there.
There’s fighting to be done, a war at our door,
No peace to be found until the last doubt fades
And the oak groves reclaim this island paradise;

A green revival trickles steady, drawn from the truth seams,
Scrawled jagged, ancestral, blackened minerals of fossilised wisdom.

For upstairs, wild mountain; in all tomorrows parties freedom comes,
In perfumed silence over purple heather clutches,
No one can live right steeped in senses.

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Rips in Something Greater

The Hourglass

A kind of truth daubed and clung, full mind eclipse,
Rips in something greater.

Exotic glimpses into raging symmetry,
A fully conscious blink.

Emptied of immensity and feeling,
Invisible numbers inhabit boundless desires.

Vision unparalleled through the mystic lens,
All wrapped up snugly in the gifts of a cosmic mentor.

Dying Star

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