Hampstead Howl

Hope is so hard

That even the great bard

Delightful in word

Only occasionally heard

The breeze within the trees

Softly cooing comfort

Like doves in Cotswold copses

Or Birdsong Alley near

The dank, organic wood scent

Upon rustling breeze

Sweeping leaves and cares

Easing the way, peaceful

Sitting aloft, softly

Dreaming, like branches

Swaying, in accepting motion

Embrace the weather's mood

As she welcomes her brood saying

Come home, stay a while

While you can, invited

Like Orwell dwelling nearby

Escaping to the transcendent

Call of a world of green

Foliage and earth, grounded

Not a psychedelic high

This time, out there

Where we become one

Elements embracing

On a playful perch

Nested perfectly above

Secure, comforting

 High, open, delightful

Breezy branches blown

Plane trees reaching for the sky

And the stag oak's tumbled crown

Lying down, broken, rotting

Death in life's cycle

As I surrender my fear

Breathing in the wind

Flying, falling, failing

Held by some miracle

To find joy again

In the natural world

Conveyed against dismay

Like the Heath's bench plaques

Tuesday's child speaks to Wednesday's woe

For a shared Sabbath, blithe and gay

Good news bringing a bonny countenance

All week long, always urging

That we might love one another

Because of common humanity

And a shared earth, yet corrupted

In death will arise every tomorrow

For in defeat hope still dreams

Insomnia: Part 3

Halfway between hopelessness and dawn

Too tired to yawn, sleep is nowhere close

While nearby the contented dream, confident

Appearances deceptive take flight to fantasy

I’ve seen enough of this night to last a lifetime

Late on the city streets we saw him

A final gig before returning to Ireland

Banjo and guitar, two kids and a wife

Sometimes we get what we came desiring

His story different, happy I hope

Before the light of dawn I am wearisome

Inside the tight hems of my blanketed mind 

Forlornly longing for a never-waking slumber

Simple rest, not a sweet-dreaming caress

Or lamentations for love unknown

Insomnia: Part 2

Something died inside

During those long years

Of humanitarian exile

Taking their toll, heavy

Now for pulse checking

A reckoning

Silently, breathing in

Then out, a vital exhaling

And quiet exclaiming

I’m alive, alive

Still, alive

These heartbeats deceive

Motions mimic me, mon ami

Not fully here in the present

This death a solitary thing

Yet the remains linger

The thud-thudding of rotors

Remind me of Goma’s flight paths

The clattering above and in my head

Insomnia has returned with me

Conflict’s clamour clings

Displaced others have come to London

Fleeing war in search of a better life

In our post-humanitarian imaginings

Lies a future dreaming, screaming

Hoping for a different reality

In the bustle of births and busyness

All this striving to survive, maybe thrive

It’s the fight that dominates after the flight

Not the happy breathing and contented sighing

But memories of homes that once we loved

London’s tenements cower by the Thames

Inshallahs mixed with desperate amens

Making amends for the parts left behind

No missiles scud along the clouds anymore

Just a streaky light in a lamenting sky

Hopeful yesterdays die like autumn turning

Everything tastes out of place now, remember 

The skinny goat we shared with kin and kith-folk

In the dirt, better than a greasy feast alone

What good is a homeless heart?

Insomnia: Part 1

Your disinterest deflates me

As upon insomniac tower I gaze

Unsleeping, the view too wide

And my lofty lunatic perch

All I have left to stand on

How do you un-feel and bind

Making blind the inner eyes

That survey the soul’s dismay

At a world of wonder and woe

This heart can no longer embrace

Coldly indifferent and calm

The sober realities of morning

Dawn on exhaustion again

Too many times we tried

Too many times we failed

A feeble faith perseveres

With apparent participation

We all have our best foot forward

Darkest thoughts mostly masked

Ready to bravely face the day

Maybe this one will be better

But history’s chart tracks our arc

Profit, poverty, progress, pain

And suffering’s sentimentality

Whispers: It is all in vain

Thought for the Day