Every year at this time the purple michaelmas daisies are in flower, and we have St Michael’s day dedicated to Archangel Michael. I am re-posting my poem ‘Daisies’ which used to be at the front of the blog:

Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over the street
Let it grow over my house
Let it grow over my head
Don’t kill the daisies by cutting the grass
Let it grow over my life
Let it grow over the world
Let it grow over the real


Ecology Biology (Channelled from Ino)


The otters did not learn

How to build the dam the beavers built,

Yet otters and beavers were often lumped together.

The wren did not learn

How she could be a bigger bird,

Yet the people made no distinction whatsoever

Between one songbird and another,

Tiny birds or pheasant-sized;

All of them were lumped into one pot:

One pot for cooking, or recording

On old-fashioned tape recorders,

Whether the song was a tuneful one or not.


If I take an animal form

I know that they will take for granted

Everything that most expresses me.

They will not heed my contributions;

Will not deem that my advice

Is something to be taken seriously.

So I stand in the farmyard lane,

Where meet the feudal world of fields

And modern days of information trails.

I’ll have to look more like a scarecrow:

Frighten miscreants into sense

Before they die, and blame me for their fails.




Deep Sofa

I lost something in the sofa.

Not a remote control:

Something abstract, part of my mind,

Long ago I was writing about

How I lost it in the sofa.

Why did I never finish the poem?

Did I ever feel I’d found it?

What was that precious part of myself

That was lost in the deep sofa?


for Valentine’s Day, here’s a love song I wrote a long time ago:


The blades of grass cut me so hard

As I look at you, my love.

The forces of nature are sharp as your wits

As we track up the hillsides

And fall into pits.

Nature’s a garment, and oh, how it fits

As I look at you, my love.


The river rushes down to the sea;

It will take us along, my love.

If we must move let me travel with you.

The sun blazes down watching all that we do.

Promptings and messages drop with the dew

And we must reply, my love.


Blades of the reeds are piercing my heart

Down here by the lake, my love.

Cupid is aiming; he catches my eye.

I want to be with him because he is high.

But he shakes his head and returns to the sky

And leaves me with you, my love.


The blades fight a duel to split us in two

And make us a pair, my love.

Reedbed and pasture are shelter and food,

River moves slowly while lake waters brood.

Your answer all over the sky will be strewed,

So what will it be, my love?






I beat ya

I punched ya

I lunched there;

Beer paunch here

Yacht launch here


Branched clear

Into sand.

Holes in dreams cast

Like a net fast,

White ship mast

Take me back to land.



I thought her,

She slid here

Through grid clear

Dust to dust

Perpetual holiday.

I loved her,

You dubbed her

On your CD

On a black sea.

We’ve been there, see.

So experienced!

Feel the realm of sense

Like an angel in a play.




The helpline has closed.

The blackberry bush has been cut down,

From which we used to gather

Sweet berries every year.

Is this leafy grove

Sufficient distance from the road

To loiter and pretend my town

Just does not exist?

I lie back and close my eyes.

The berries here are poisonous:

Bloody red like little bullets

Growing in this grove.

There’s no phone signal;

You cannot phone for help from here.

I’m dozing here, escapist,

My head upon the leaves.



We Made It True


We made it true! – like Nezach:

You could make it green, Venusian,

With tapestries of silken cloth

And flowers in profusion.

We made it true, but our truth

Is coffins and the tomb,

The skull and worm that follow me,

The concrete mortuary room.

Now that we’ve made the charnel real

It’s time for us to part;

But now we cling like poisoned ivy,

Freedom cries, “You wouldn’t try me.”

I sink through blackened sludge and slime

Fall to depths I never guessed at.

Cannot reach the light from here-

Sacrificed for trash I’m best at.


Spirit Birds

Looking after spirit birds is now my full-time job.

A chance to show I care for birds

Who fell out of their nest in spring,

And birds that spent their life in cages

pecking what they’re given,

And birds spat out by hunting cats,

and birds that float on top of ponds,

Birds alive a minute ago

And baby birds with open mouths

That starve so easily.




Sitting here in the wood;

I see a little ruffled, angry bird

And she doesn’t mean that other bird any good.

The air is heavy with threats and breath of life

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather, I’m down like you.


A cup-shaped nest, hidden well,

Lined with feathers from her own breast

And she’d die to protect them, I can tell.

The flowers close. They breathe in and hold till dawn

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m down like you.


Soft they float down, shed in pain.

The peacock postures, flaunting his,

But each one gets washed away by rain.

A feather- light caress breathes upon my memory

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m down like you.


Yet there is hope for beast and man.

We soar into the mystical states:

Our feathers bear us up, for what else can?

And in my mind I rest on feathers, breathing calm,

And I’m here, I’m here with you.

Feather, feather I’m warm like you.




Honeycomb: gold, crumbly, crunchy,

Powdered ochre hexagons.

Is this my beehive?

I came here on a bus.

This is a change!

Lost in a maze of nectar cells,

Where’s the terminus?

Looking for the hardstanding.

All I see is waxy caves

Forming golden honeyed walls,

Two rows of honeycomb home.