I see the book which has the Heart Sutra.
The centrepiece of a Buddhist Puja.
Relevant from the past to the future.
Illusions of the ahead, reducer.

A superb discourse on the nothingness
of non-existence, and its connection
with form and entity now. Emptiness
in everything, with introspection.

Our form of form, here now, but will not last.
Simply the case that are not born to last.
Delusions to let go of, not held fast.
My form, even my thoughts, be of the past.

Any sense of belonging, attachment,
not matter beyond the end detachment.


What is it, I still feel the need to say?
Expressing my voice in a clear-cut way.
What I mean, there, when heard on any day.
Fearlessly spoken, and put on display.

Find myself singing it, subconsciously
Early Beatles song, sung by McCartney.
From my memory, autonomously.
This could be it, then. These the words, maybe.

It’s not too bad, it seems, a sentiment.
Romantic, I suppose, as would expect.
Might well be regarded as excellent.
Great first line. The rest, perhaps, to perfect.

Borrowed, but in this poem form, it’s new.
“I give you all my love, that’s all I do”.


You are the one, every day and night.
You are the one who makes me feel alright.
It’s you. My guiding star. My guiding light.
It’s you I love, every day and night.

Every day with you feels good alright.
Every night, it’s you who makes it right.
That’s you. There to delight. There to excite.
You are the one, every day and night.

Yes, you I love, every night and day.
It reaches me, every word you say.
Am with you every step of the way.
Golden and special, for me, night and day.

It’s you I love, every day and night.
For all of the day and all of the night.

SOME WORDS UNBOUND. (from Dirty Blonde at the Cash Machine.)

Only the very slightest of re-form
to a rhyming couplet, from a book torn.
“The woman is soft. The woman is warm.
She will keep you safe. A port in a storm.”

A bit more than slightest, but to resume
Before reach her, it is clearly inferred,
been to a place, one can only assume,
“where salvation is a forgotten word.”

“Eyes full of wonder.” “Beautiful they are.”
“Every single response is cherished.”
A slither of moon for a falling star.
A saviour, alright. Otherwise, perish.

“She is scent. She is sound.” Luckily, ‘found’.
And taken. From the book, some words unbound.


Came the response of “Vogon Poetry”,
after hearing one of my better ones.
Ironic, not malicious, meant to be.
Freudian thought, to comment it becomes.

In Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy
it is the third worst in the universe.
Azgoths of Kria did worse poetry
And a woman’s* verse lost when the earth burst.

Gut wrenching. Physically damaging.
Vogon poems utilised for torture.
Debilitating to everything.
Can make one truly sick as a porker.

Thought, is this what my sonnets have become.
After all, was one of my better ones.

*Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings wrote the worst.


In awe of W.B., S. Heaney.
From the Irish soil to the Irish soul
Performed a Yeats play once, Purgatory.
Just recall that strong passion did unfold.

But, then, I am not an Irish poet.
Understand for them he is mothers-milk.
Their history. What he wrote, don’t forget.
About the blood of Irish martyrs spilt.

Necks stretched. Breaths’ stopped. The hangings, reprising.
Their just cause met with such brutality.
Named, each one killed for the Easter Rising.
For free Ireland, paid, their mortality.

Yeats wrote “A terrible beauty was born.”
From peat and bog, came, legacy’s new morn.

PRIVATE BABY DRAMA. (After hearing song by Grace Jones.)

It’s your private baby drama, baby.
You are responsible for another.
And the role you play is pretty weighty.
You’re gonna have to act like a mother.

You had it better being a lover,
but now there’s your private baby drama.
You want your glory days, to recover,
but told, must live your life a lot calmer.

Your private baby drama, includes who?
Is it coping, baby, mostly alone.
This phase of life gonna be new to you.
Much of the time, with baby, stuck at home.

Do you want me to join, and take a share
in your private baby drama, and care?


Put me in a video with Pitbull.
And, of course, lots and lots of lovely girls.
A catchy rhythm easy to recall.
And a driving beat that ensures it sells.

Wouldn’t matter if both wore a white suit.
I could have a black hat and touch the rim.
The female pack would think that kinda cute,
along with pocket loot we’re fingering.

But have to show a serious intent
so the film, in its way, appears arty.
Not, though, in any way, malevolent,
just the prospect of love from the party.

The singing, of course. I’d give it my all,
as we strutted around, me and Pitbull.


It seems that the man who wrote this sonnet
has particular bee in his bonnet.
Pitbull video; to appear on it
and, thereby, contribute to a song hit.

But, must be good to deliver the rap.
Once started on it, there’s no going back.
It’s got to excite. Have a certain snap.
Pitbull’s got what others may simply lack.

And all those girls, well, you’ve got to look cool.
Don’t want laughter because look like a fool.
The girls mishandled can be mighty cruel.
The last thing that want is kicked in the balls.

So, only if certain that can hack it,
Appear with Pitbull in that white jacket.


“How can I fall in love the next time, when,
I’m still so very much in love with you.”
Cliff Richard’s best song, in my head again.
How much I care, in those lyrics the clue.

“Many a tear has to fall, but it’s all
in the game. All in the wonderful game
that we know as love.” Words, as I recall,
to another of his. I feel the same.

Astonishing I cannot remember
any more tender ballads which he did
that rival Elvis’s “Love Me Tender”.
Other love songs mere shadows when ended.

Yet, think of you as I reprise the song.
The next time? I’ve wanted you all along.


A poem from death’s perspective is this.
Cutting down; felling; uproot; fields burnt black.
I’ll be there for everything that exists.
Hovering wherever armies attack.

Ted Hughes’s poem, Crow, you will recall.
“ … stronger than death? I am evidently!”
Will find, not so, as individual.
Brave words, but then like Ted must bow to me.

There are frustrations, though. There’s resistance.
Am made to wait by best care and treatment.
At the end, though, will be my insistence.

The life-force … some species … thwart my intent.

But, ambitious. Will crown my distinction
When mad Humans cause their kinds extinction.


“The hand that whirls the water in the pool,
stirs the quicksand”. Menacing metaphor.
A young Dylan Thomas feeling the pull
of the life-force with dragback at its core

Responsibility for being born,
from subterranean source emerges
to be in own guardianship, re-born,
and the force that drives the flower surges.

Yet the turbulence from that waving hand
is small in the whole swim of existence.
Each one of us, though, will tread the quicksand
and be sucked down at its forced insistence.

From making waves, to blocking of airway.
As sink below, stirring, then, does not save.