Author: poetryfest

“Towering tall, above land and all
I see the animals and kindred folk
Hunting gathering and toiling beneath.

Towards the sky, the sun is high
And in neighbouring fields I see
Horses, hares and an odd magpie.

At dusk comes chanting, firelight and song
The tales told are merry and long.

It’s a joy to be a tree, wise and strong
Keeping watch o’er all beneath the canopy.”

In the stillness where words lie dormant,
a radiant light emerges with each deep breath.
Gentleness strides forth unarmored—
for it does not defend; it embraces with quiet solace.

Every loving gaze remains free of judgment.
Every forgiving heart ascends to greater heights.
And within each soothing silence,
spreading through the spirit like a gentle breeze,
a world is formed—more enduring than any wall.

With hands that do not grasp but support,
with words that do not wound but heal,
love takes shape as a haven without barriers,
where truth serves as the roof,
and kindness paves the floor.

True strength resides not in conflict,
but in the quiet that calls you by name.
The heart does not beat to be noticed—
but to remind you that it still loves,
still believes, and still breathes…
in the breath of light.

Lucia & I traveled to Habana for the weekend, to spend some time alone & for the first time, we went to brunch. On a three-quarter-mile stretch, her freshly washed & conditioned curls stood their ground against the breeze brushing against the nape of her neck. I admired the way her hips moved in unison with her breath, each step drifting me closer into her magnetic field. You’re a drifter, you know that? Playfully, I nodded my head, hands barely touching her & the wind, a bridge between our fingers. I hear they have blueberry crepes at this place, filled with ricotta & lemon. Her face lit up like Habana nightlife. I hope you’re right! as she winked herself through the open door. Later that night, sitting on the porch swing of our casa particular, listening to the waves wrestle with God, I kissed her forehead. I want a blueberry crepe kind of love: one where the blueberries can actually all fit inside the thin layer of pancake batter—but just barely—because when I sink my teeth into the first bite, I want to taste everything. Sweet & subtle ricotta, airy batter & warm juices from blueberries fresh off the bush. The type of love that spills down my beard as I playfully wipe it away, never really wanting it to leave. I want to love you the way our server should’ve taken good care of your crepe — with gentleness & a roughness that serves only to hold your beautiful parts together. Jesus, I loved your hair today.

Once I spent an entire night
Dancing my soul away
In the light-pierced darkness
Of an Anglian forest
Between the fractal branches
Of looming trees
The silver-smiling full moon
Peered in silent, looming observation
Flames smouldered
Music swelled and waned like ocean waves
In Bacchic rite souls joined and split
And once the sun rose
Over fallow fields
The lost disciples dispersed
And made their pilgrimages home.

Here I was
At the side of a road
Running from nowhere to nowhere
The priestly robe and breastplate
Slowly fading with the lightening world
With my companions by my side
We set out on our return.

And here I called a taxi
A familiar rite of summoning
For that vehicle of liminality
That takes your from unknown to unknown
In mechanical anticipation

After eternal minutes
Upon that infinite highway of the soul
It arrives
Like the Divine chariot of Ezekiel’s vision
To deliver us from our wakefulness
Into transcendental sleep
Where the Neshamah can wander freely
Through astral worlds beyond consciousness
And prostrate before the Throne itself
Guarded by legions of warrior angels
And many-eyes seraphim.

In such expectation we board
Our humble transportation
An unassuming man in a night-black cap
Steady at the wheel.

After boarding, some soft-spoken Russian words
Pronounced by our party
Awaken a bright inquisitiveness in his eyes
And hesitantly he asks, in our own language
“Where are you from?
A grin crawled across my exhausted face
As I replied

“Dagestan.
But I’ve spent most my life here.
The mountains of my home
Are but a distant dream to me
Like memories from another life unlived
But my soul lies there, peacefully, waiting.”

And flame-haired Wisdom’s daughter
Riding behind me says
“Latvia is my home that is not home.
O those frost-covered forests
Stretching far beyond sight
Amongst lakes and fenlands
I long for it but there is no place for me there.”

And pointing with his thumb behind him, he asks
“What about them?”

“The volcanic isles of the Atlantic ocean are my home.
Where alien plants bloom amongst cragged rocks
The endless sea swelling up against them.
I have left that place, to pursue the study
Of nature’s most hidden secrets”
Said the Canarian.

“The Mediterranean is my mother.
Under sun-soaked skies where music blares
And ancient history wanders leisurely
Through the storied streets, in company of philosophers
The orange trees of Athens are but a memory to me now
Toiling in Cantabrian rains.”
Said the Hellene

“From the twin rivers I was born
Whence traces itself all civilisation
Of Babylon and Sumer and Akkad is my blood
Which flows deep, deep into fertile Earth
But not I find myself here
Longing for the river valleys”
Said the Mesopotamian

“The North is my home.
Where I was born and raised
A land of chimney stacks and furnaces, forgotten
And silenced by power’s oppressive hand
I will fight for it til my dying breath
In dream of a better future”
Said the Lion of Yorkshire.

The driver sat some time in thought.
“What makes a home?”
He asked at last.

“For fifteen years I have toiled
In this foreign land far from all I know
For Moldova was my home
Where vineyards line the horizon
And trees are bountiful in fruit
I left that life behind
And went wandering for meaning”

The sun’s crown now appeared before us
Flooding his face with gentle light
Whereupon the lines of years could be seen
Spreading like countless roots across a field.

“First I ventured to the church
To seek their wisdom
And the mercy of Christ the Saviours
It opened my heart to compassion’s love
In sin’s redemption, I searched for deep truths
But found the bishop’s answers lacking.
So I ventured further to learn the mysteries of my faith.”

Surprised at his monologue, I smiled
And looked back at my companions
The Canarian was explaining the intricacies of mathematics
To the noble son of the Tigris and Euphrates
As a Hellen struggled to stay awake and perceive
The simultaneous esoteric conversations
His head bobbing back and forth
Oscillating
Between consciousness and dream.

“So what did you do next?” I queried

“Barefoot and penniless, South I journeyed
And amongst the monasteries of Mount Athos
I made my humble home
I rejected all the pleasures of life
And swore death to the world
Countless hours I spent in prayer
Much came to me but more I craved
The pearl for which I dove layer deeper still
In cool, clear waters.”

The Hellene’s attention was sparked by this
Momentarily released from his fluctuating slumber
With bright awareness flashing across his crystal eyes
He asked

“I have heard much of the monks of Athos
Those that reject the material world
And all its boundless pleasures
I thought one day I would join them on their mountain
As theirs is the pinnacle of our craft
What could lay even deeper?”

Happy with the increased engagement,
The driver smiled, and replied:

“I realised that true joy did not lie in its rejection
And a peaceful home could not be made
By eliminating its comforts
How could love be found if one is closed to all the love that manifests itself,
By Divine Will,
As a warm blanket comforting the world.

So I sought those that welcomed love into their hearts
And danced and whirled through the maelstrom of existence.
To the Queen of Cities my path lay
And the Mevlevi order that spun
And twirled through its cobbled streets
Amongst them I would find my place.”

At the dervishes’ mention
The Mesopotamnian, hereto uninvolved in our conversation
Perked up and was pulled away
From the decipherment of nature’s base laws
And pushed to fury by the mention
Of those humble mystics’ nme, he retorted
“Those twirling dervishes are a disgrace
To all those that Submit to God!
Their perverse heresies are a far cry
From the true, eternal path
Revealed by the beloved Prophet
May peace forever dwell upon his name
I have seen their decadent rituals
Full of heathen indulgence
I will not stand to listen to those
Who preach such degeneracy.”

Humoured by this, the driver smiled,
And in calm riposte, responded:

“You have been fed lies by those
Who would take advantage of your soul’s ascent
To attain more power for themselves
They fear the freedom of the Seeker’s path
And its rejection of all authority but that of the Almighty’s
Within that gentle Remembrance
Amongst my brothers and sisters of the Way
I freed myself from the chains of self
And flew like a bird of paradise
Towards the throne of the Simurgh, our king
But in forgetting my self I would forget too my place
And even though I felt at peace
With these all-loving Sufis
The higher soul’s home was found in God
But the lower’s resting place was lost
With all ties to the land of my ancestors long severed by ascetic years

I learned that this world was the Divine’s too
For they fashioned it for our enjoyment and development
I would need to find my place amongst it once again
But from whom to learn?
Only from those for whom to love God is to embrace the world
And further East I ventured.”

The Canarian, deprived of this conversational companions
Too, joined the discussion

“Having found community, why would you leave it?
Why abandon that which you already have
To pursue a mere potential
Like hearing whispers of a dream
Would it not be better to stay and build
Elaborate upon existing foundations
And strengthen the ties that bind
Than to cast it all aside and venture forth once more
Upon the endless road?”

Glancing over his shoulder, the driver spoke:

“You know that when you set out upon that searching road
There is no return
And I would not be satisfied in possessing
Only a fraction
Of the Truth allotted to me.
So I found myself in Jerusalem
The holiest of cities
Where gold-lined domes shine
Under the unrelenting sun
And wandering amongst the sacred spaces
I found my way down a narrow, rough-cobbled alley
To the home of a well respected Rabbi
With curling peyot and wide-brimmed hat
Learned and knowledgeable in the teachings of the Law
And long wandering within the Garden of the received art.

One such as he would not often meet
With a wanderer of the nations such as me
But the sincerity of my quest, and respect for his faith
Convinced him of my good intentions
And he agreed to meet
Amongst the towering bookshelves
Lined with incomprehensible Hebrew tomes
Within the shelter of his study
Accompanied by cardamom-spiced tea.

We talked deep into the night
(Switched to whisky at some point)
He told me about the true way to find community
And connection to the world around
Whilst meandering upon the Way
About our duty to the universe
And the reparation of it that we must attain.
Making a quick telephone call
To Safed he would send me
In the high Galilee
To live with those that new Illumination
Like their native tongue.”

The sun, now high in the sky
Filled Charon’s ferry with is unconquerable light
And its chthonic passengers
Bathed in the sweet rays.

“So I wandered amongst ancient gravestones
Under the shade of olive trees
And sat by Cordovero, and witnessed his pillar of flame
And saw the tenfold tree
Life itself emanating forth
From that Without End

And from Luria’s silence I learned
Of the primordial contraction and shattering
But also of the Divine presence in feminine guise
And the great work of rectification and redemption.

On Sabbath’s even I sung and welcomed in
The Sabbath Bride
So she may dwell in our homes and hearts.

And after Havdalah’s candle burned
I toiled and laboured to build a better world
One seen only in deepest contemplation.

And I knew where my path would lead
The work that I would have to do
And that place that I would call home
Until my penultimate breath.

To Albion’s mist-strewn, rain-washed shores
My sacred path led me.
And now you find me here.”

Hereto silent, the Lion of Yorkshire
Arisen from his torpor
By the shock of this revelation
And spurred on by confusion and curiosity
Questioned

“Why would you venture to this God-forsaken isle?
Where the forces of greed have trampled out
All beauty, meaning and wonder
Where we are slaves to a machine we barely understand
And the act of resistance is but a joke.
You found a place that you belonged
And worked to improve the lives of your community
You threw that all away
To come here and drive
Inebriated youngsters from the forest to their homes?”

At this, the driver laughed
A deep, hearty, ancient laugh
From within his very soul

“You see, when I was in Safed
Our circle was joined by a lady
Much on the same search as me
From an equally distant land
In her gentle smile, perfumed fragrance
And inquisitive eyes craving mystery
I saw God’s whole design
In her wise words I heard Their commandments
In her noble actions I saw Their righteous deeds
And in her compassion I saw Their adoration for all creation.
And so I fell in love.
Deeply, as I had never loved before
For true, earthly love mirrors the transcendental love in the Divine.

And as we lay asleep together once
A common dream came to us
Wherein the Almighty revealed to us our mission
And instructed us to go
And spread love to where it was most lacking
Amongst those with strengthened minds but closed off hearts.

So 15 years I have now worked
Doing simple good for goodness’ sake
And in doing so i have moved the world
Bit by bit
To its promised form.

I have built a home, raised a family
And found peace within the humblest of pursuits
I talk to those that need someone to listen
And guide to those who are lost but willing to be found
And most importantly, I take all there to where they want to go
And in my little, gentle way
I have done my part.
But now my children are grown and I am growing old
And I know that my time some day soon will come at last
And I have no fear
For soon I will return, I long to return, to that home beyond all homes.

There, where trees are bountiful in fruit
And grapevines line the horizon
I will lay down amongst the boughs
And close my eyes in peaceful sleep
Dreaming until I am called to duty once again.”

With that, his tale ended
And in stunned silence we spent the short remainder
Of our journey home
Soon the familiar outline of my house appeared around the corner in the morning fog
Warmly we bid farewell to the humble driver
One who has found his place within the chaos
And ourselves drifted off into nocturnal realms
And dreamed of that which was to come.

There is a new train at the station. It was installed a long time ago. It runs late when you are late, and early if you can’t wait.

It always has the same people in it. A young lady carrying heavy shopping bags. An old man sitting down and breathing heavily. A young kid just acting up, because his strict mother won’t let him roam around.A worried student, repeating over and over the formulas for his exam. An ambitious young fellow with a happy grin and expensive clothes. A factory worker with an odd name tag. A secretary that won’t stop fiddling with her hair.

I have talked to all of them, but rarely do you get a name at all. It’s just a train, after all, no need to learn that. A space in between, and no time at all.

Every now and then one works up the courage to press that red button by the door. The train stops and they get off.

A second later, they come back. Sometimes a little different, sometimes a little sad.

Sometimes a little shorter, sometimes taller than before. Always a little older, sometimes a little glad. Sometimes they don’t come back

Every now and then I get off too. I walk off at the right place, at the right time. If I’m late, it’s early. If I’m early, it’s time. I take it slow and enjoy the sights. Sometimes I grow, sometimes I cry. The train always arrives.

It’s all the same, not a hair out of place. Maybe I catch a smile, or a relieved sigh. I’m not sure if they are yours or mine. The train just continues the ride.

It is the same people every time. I’ve made Mabelle laugh, I’ve fought with Frank. Joanne and her son are both very, very kind. He is in college now, and has bought a new car.

That other rich kid was famous once. The nervous student is a nervous worker now. That foreman still has a weird name tag, that secretary is now a happy wife.

When it grows silent, one of us walks to the door. I have seen some of us step off a million times. Frank has never left his spot. Not even once. He is waiting there, for someone.

Then they come back to tell us about their time outside. Mabelle just became forty-four. Joanne’s kid now rides alone. That foreman became a grumpy old soul. There is no wife, no rich man, no nervous man.

When someone is gone for good, somebody else joins the tracks. A silent child. A wise looking woman. A small adult man. This time again I see a frowning Frank. So I walk up to the door. I bring him food when I come back. He smiles when I sneak in a beer or a cognac.

Sometimes I bring a feast for everyone. Drinks, meat, snacks. Joanne was clear: little James can’t drink until he is twenty five. He now brings a labrador, we still debate whether to call it Jim or Jam.

There is a new train at the station. It is always on time. I have yet to miss it even once. But the day i do, i have made sure. Mabelle, or James, Courtney or Juan, They will bring Frank Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner and Snacks. I leave the train.

A bit nervous every time.

—And You were not the first of Creation
Twins fell from my hands lined only in
Palm, they were named Time and Change of same blood
They ran
River without sight of sun, Time—in her
Youth—he tossed her match and maker the sun
To Time in turn was passed the moon and dirt
Of earth
A crescent beneath the fingernail dragged
Into the shadow, ev’ry runaround
Stumble of theirs grew another sliver
Of star
Another splinter of seedling dripping
As clippings from long hair shorn and torn nails
And Time in doubt came one day to the End
Of All
Things—he asked Why was I ever borne at
All? —For Time must go, now—If only
To be borne away? Change has caught up and
To that
Shared and split, and she unravels that string
Infinite, he stitches self separate
Into the Heart—which set that breathless clay
Of Yours—
Schlepped and slick from the seasoned soil hard
To all the weathers and whethers of the world
Whirling to chase the sun slipping by the
Track of
Children’s wandering—Change knit of her twin
A Heart looming to You was Heart given
Purpose, ticking trick time, and to the back
To Change
I gave my hand, and I saw in its back
The tracks of Time again sown on skin not
Stars, I pushed him down, and she sketched in chest
The Soul
You remember the bloom of beat to fill
The Deeper and Down. Time gives you feeling—
She throws it as He did the sun across,
A way
For Change to catch, and He slips it into
Soled shadows so She can watch You crescent
Into coin, They have met as one in You
For change
Unwound Time to find it again, scattered
As seeds still smarting, They grow for You and—
You of two made from loose strings, and swirling
Into steps
Swept on a path to split scythed fields grown over
The edge not End, we are here once again
Between moon and sun, to why You run far
From me—

In the family room Aunt Betty devoured the dry toast,
I watched on, repulsed, as the crumbs clung to her beige cardigan.
She shoved a foam cup of sugary tea into my hand, almost burning me,
I took a sip to shut her up and felt the bile rise to my throat.
One by one they filed in,
Like cows trudging to the milking parlour.
The tattered sofa squeaked painfully,
Knowing what was to come.
Four white coats, one set of eyes.
Staring at his name badge,
I wondered how many times he had done this,
And how he expected me to react.
Aunt Betty plámásed him,
And whimpered like a puppy.
With her eyes, she begged me to cry.
I withheld my tears to spite her.
(I still don’t know why I do things like that)
Waves lapped gently in my ears,
While the others wept and wailed.
I tried to fight the urge to drift,
But couldn’t find my voice.
Aunt Betty’s sticky hand woke me up
(Another reason to loathe her)
A blue pillow had been placed under my head
And my legs were upward against the wall.
One of the white coats had returned,
The one with the soft face.
He knelt beside me,
As if to confess his sins,
Behind him, Aunt Betty sniffled theatrically,
The ceiling tiles absorbed the news, without even flinching.

grey walls
scratched until white
the bars are black
and blacker —
minatory the
long descent —
ill air exhaled

the nothing in the
still
stares at me and i
stare back

do not look at the red light
at the bottom
do not look at it or
it will find you
the
eyes?

All that remains of this hollowed church,
in the Sonoran Desert,
are two bas-relief angels
plastered to the wall above the sacristy door:
wings spread, arms lofted
heavenward,
eyes focused on the redemption
written across banners they hold
above their heads.

The collapsing roof isn’t pierced
by a divine beam
come to lift them
from these ruins.

Will they lower their eyes, one day,
to the emptiness at their feet
and weep?

Where is my home?
My home is in the mountains
Reaching ever deeper, every higher
Caressing the heavens with their wizened fingers and
Dipping their calloused toes in underground rivers
That rush fervently to aeons passed.

Where is my heart?
My heart is lost amongst the waves
Thrown overboard by the rolling of the sea
And across the oceans, freely it wanders
Finding a place to rest
On distant beaches and lagoons.

Where is my soul?
My soul cascades with the current
Ever flowing downstream, searching
And like Moshe’s cradle
It is tossed to and from, looking for its palace
In which to settle and exalt.

Where is my mind?
My mind wanders amongst the highest clouds
And tries to peer at the Earth
Revolving far below
To trace the movements of migrating birds, to fly with them
And the shift of wandering continents, to crawl with them.

Where is my place?
My place is sought for but never found
It eludes like dawn’s shadows
Retreating from the rising sun
And it rests for a moment behind a looming poplar
And is gone
Leaving a speck of gold as reminder
And encouragement.

Where is my love?
My love is like a raging wildfire
Contained within an earthenware vessel
Simple clay, raised to consciousness
And driven ever onwards, by Divine decree:
“To love the other, as you love yourself”
And then to dust return.