Category: Journal
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15 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
A Stream of Consciousness We are a small village on the edge of a larger one, with an ancient forest standing mute as moss between the city-folk and us, and an Anglo-Saxon church whose bells fill Sunday with a provincial air beside a field thick with bracken that sheep chew to the root every winter…
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13 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
This poem is in response to Friedrich’s article entitled Terra Dystopia, which I recommend — it is an excellent read. He asks: What kind of time are we living in today? I find myself living in a Kairotic Interregnum — an age between ages, when the old dissolves, the new has no name, and choice…
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10 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
This poem is inspired by an article written by Spira: “Fear of Art” The Brush is a Blade They tell us freedom trickles down,a ribbon untied by royal hands,a parchment pressed with seals.But freedom does not fall like rain. It rises —from the ground,from the spray-can hiss on stone,from the ink that refuses to dry,from the…
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9 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
The Absent Ink (a companion to an upcoming Six: The Shadowed Door) It is like finding a shadowwhere a door used to be —a threshold you crossed a thousand timeswithout ever seeing the hinges. Or like the neighbour you waved toacross the wire and glass of years — who’s now gone, and no casseroles arrive,no…
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4 Sept: August Porch (rewritten)
August Porch (near-rhyme version) August —the air hangs thick as syrup,a dry spell stitched with thunder,heat spilling from the skylike velvet, pulled under. On her shoulder,the baby shifts and sighs,a song on her lipslike a hymn half-wise … …soft as sugar,barely sung,the taste of somethingon the tongue. That slow smile —Memphis-summer kind —rises like steamfrom…
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4 Sept: Journal of Thoughts
Play it low — let the heat sing first, and let the porch remember. August Porch August —the air sits thick as syrup,a dry spell stitched with thunder,heat tumbling from the sky,pressing down like velvet. On her shoulder, the babystirs and fusses,a song spilling from her lipslike a half-remembered hymn,gentle as rocking chair creak. That…
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23 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
The Hunger Policy Fury is too small a word. This is a grief that scorches the throat. A silent, screaming void where bread should be. This is not nature’s neglect — it is a calculated, man-made hunger. A policy written in empty bowls and skeletal frames. A scream with no echo. I will always give…
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16 Aug: Journal of Thoughts
Why Were the Protesters Mostly 55 and Older? Last weekend’s UK marches were filled not with students or twenty-somethings, but with people aged 55 and up. Why? It’s a question that cuts to the marrow of generational difference. Those raised in the 1950s and ’60s carry protest in their bones — rebellion was the air…
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10 Aug: Departure’s Own Language
a journal The last turning: Through pine and barley, poppy and mustard, this final poem in the series carries the road home. Landscape’s Own Language Pine. Beech. Birch.Wildflowers in the verge.Barley. Rye.Steel-brushed sky. We drive south —cut Denmark’s cornerwhere war once ragedand poppies bloomedfrom hell’s ledger —their red a reckoning. Tyres tear through Germany.The flat-six…
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9 Aug: Departure’s Own Language
a journal Departure’s Own Language The crows here wear hoods —wear their judgments inside-outblack hoods, white silence,like old decisions. He says they’re gentlerthan the ones at home,less eager for the eyes of the dead. He laughs.I don’t. Seagulls scream like mothersand steal like gods.The one that took my rabbit,Grandmother named Fenrir. It wasn’t mine,just dinner…
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