The Lord of all Proud Beasts…

rs-332*

His skin is hard as rock.

His heart huge as a boulder.

His belly thick with spikes.

*

His eyes glow like dawn.

He sneezes and lightnings flash.

Flames leap from his mouth.

*

Smoke pours from his nostrils

like steam from a boiling pot.

His breath sets coals ablaze.

*

He looks down on the highest

and watches terror dance before him.

Is nothing on earth his equal?

*

Carnival…

*

…Face of moving water

Breathing in water

The water a breathing face…

*

Today I will speak to you

For, today, we hold a race

A sprint to the death

Whose spirit yields to the swiftest

The fleetest of foot…

*

He, who with the most fateful

Imagination of mind

Can picture the year

Bearing fruit

through a carnival of fear…

*

It is he whom we call great

He, who grants freedom to stars.

Egg of the Id…

*

A story should be taken to heart

And incubated

Brooded upon

Mulled over

Savoured.

*

The subject of a good story is always you.

Every one of you.

Not you as you are.

You as you could be.

And, perhaps, really ought to be.

*

Good stories are a part of that science of the soul

which insists that your world cannot be changed

without first changing yourself.

*

Even the most seemingly insignificant story

can pick up your soul and shake it like a leaf in the wind.

Where then is the world

you thought you lived in?

*

Only after the incubation

The brooding and mulling

The savouring…

Should the story be left

To fly free

In the world.

– Count Jack Black

Old Stones…

*

Built by the sea

But not of the sea

These enclosing walls…

*

It is a ‘Celtic’ thing

The Spirit tied-to-tide

And it is still understood

By today’s Old Bones…

*

There they sit

Lining the sea-front

Huddled together

Under-sun

Within ear-shot

Of the waves

Which lap the shore

And withdraw

On the out-breath

In ceaseless rhythm

Which hints at beyond…

*

Built by the sea

But not of the sea

These enclosing walls.

*

Siesta…

rs-587*

Sweating hours.

Quiescence lies like a crime.

*

The crack of dry twigs underfoot…

startles!

A tumultuous green-flash

of thumping rampage.

Dog legs.

Baboon haunches.

A luminous ankh arrows away.

A way out to tree-stump.

To crook torso and tail.

And splay dripping

limbs akimbo.

*

A panting swastika

pulses suspended.

*

Mimicking leaf.

Balanced in bark.

Night  flecked.

*

Slowly stretching…

it twists

an ancient neck

to glare.

*

Eon empty eyes

Blink in

the sun.