Wa{l}king Beyond The{se} Wor{l}lds

For Nomads to Remember...

Remember nomads when it’s done

how the beautiful, toothless beggar smiles
at India’s carry-more friends,
running rings of rupees
in their frenzied forms
of ignoble existences:
until wildly through the hostels, markets
and then over the mountains again...

Remember when boarding
another oversold flight to Thailand
the rhythms of the fire-sticks,
rippling light across dark
in lonely, momentary sparks
where the echoes gasp
at their shudders
and are gone back to stark,
to be marooned on the infinity
of the humid seas…

Remember the pitching Pacific
paralysing with her great swells,
swallowing her fire and ephemeral isles,
be they sun white shores
or black beached cliffs;
all sinks
into her deep
volcanic grins.

Remember the brave
Cambodian rainforest treks,
seeking temples lost beneath
the heads and bodies
of a generation
kissed by bullet riddled deaths,
where veiled in the mists
is genocide,
whispered only by
the blood-stained
hides of the leaves.

Remember the boats sweating
through the mangrove streets,
where we clung like orchids
in the forks of trees, and where,
under a heavy sky, with opium breaths we cried
and emptied our thoughts or hopelessly sighed.

But with our memories blown out
like great towers of cloud,
do we remember the bamboo villages
that once sufficed with the nourishing
of tiny, perfect, simple life?

Where on shimmering steps
of paddy green, the harmless
humans being were left
with draining plots,
fatally traded in for our seedless
cash crops…

in the post holocaust silences
an anguish tightens
throttling the throats
of those who remember them shivering
beneath the scorching napalm rains,
delivered faithfully by our fighter planes,
driving flocks of missiles like flies
beneath a tidal moon.

Remember how
our Freudian-styled dreams
of desired success
seemed so

and our ideas of the compassionate disintegrated
as farmers were forced to scatter with their cattle
like breathing rattles in the jungles, fleeing their nations
where the children choked on the chemical gases
that coughed from political talks,

while pitilessly master-minding,
the white house hawks
still plundered with a tender claw…

This is for nomads to remember,
that we, without borders or country,
must not be blind to that which we find,
and that as seeds of conscience
we are living petitions, that can join all mankind,
to make worthy choices and help re-find
one future for one people:

So let us then see one earth
of different struggling
searches in the dirt.


The Ring of War.

The sadness of battle unravels
As fast as the hooded,
Cuffed and beaten man
Forced to talk chattering confessions
To appease the immediate rages
That stoke the fires of war:
And all this only lights
Another torch, another fight:
But shining the flames
into the corners what can we see?

In the corner of the box is man,
Knees up arms wrapped about himself,
Man is weeping, drop after drop,
Into the cold metal pan,

Through interrogations and manipulations
Poor man is lost in the circles,

And the ring of war
Closes ever more sure
About his blistering ankles,
Bound by icy steel shackles.


Shifting Desert Sands...

the mad happy woman
on finding some food
amongst the dry ashes of famine,

stuffs the precious dew
into the mouth of the {last} child,
whose teeth are clenched,
stiff with death…

the endurance of her suffering
softly slid a silk worm’s thread,
till the talons embedded
in her head

emptied all out


she fell back in a role to {the} earth

to lay, eyes fixed into the sun,
awaiting that which had her undone.


Re-births in the air...

you taste the s{t}inging chill
of night in the air - it's fresh faced
wa{l}king onto the plains of day;
By noon its just a hot slow
contemplation, with the world
retreated into the cooler
speculations of the shadows.
And by afternoon's end, when the
autumn coloured sunset
is going down behind blossom
padded trees - serenity descends
and the buddha-wise-smile
comes down, and rolling softly
{feeling without eyes} it places
its head carefully into the flushed
collar-bone of night, and again
that s{t}inging chill is there,
thick and pregnant as
the rebirths in the air.