Category: WORDS

Outside is all noise. Luibs caravan, Kilmartin, Scotland. 27th July 1997.

“Outside is all noise.
The dripping roar of rain on leaves and the top of the tin -top caravan. The flick and buzz of flies as they hit the windows panes luring, bright light.
It’s past midnight and my head hurts from premonition and the lack of ability to define.

“In this life so much magik weaving…….?
Oh muse, where have you been?”

REAL TIME……are we arriving there?

Losing the Ego……what happens if ALL people begin to evolve in this direction?

The return of Merlin to Avalon…..(recognition of our true heros/leaders that loose the ego)
Shapeshifting. Animist. Fertility.
(the Felindyrch shape-shifter that murdered the seven sons of Merlin……?)
Merlin vs Pan?
These synchronicities why are they so important and how do they fit together!?”


Restless confusion. 1997.

(2017 – Surprised by how contemporary this piece of writing feels for me now.)

‘Welcome to the restless confusion of coming into a new era.
Listen to the jangled tones of realization.
Can we evolve fast enough in this ancient new tangent?
What we have been saying for years appears to be changing the world, but not as I’d envisioned exactly.
Madness invades the integral core of my pumping brain.
Power so huge I cannot get my arms around it. Cannot grasp it.
Breathe again.
Are there other worlds outside this idyll now that are worth exploring again?
I have reached this age when I am turning and facing myself.
And I do not see anything there at all.
And when I think of who I really am, I cannot really face it, accept it or become.
Become into being

(Desperately needing purpose still.)’

June 4th 1997.

‘In the garden:-

dig and sow 4 more rows of French beans
mow back lawn
straw/mulch for strawberries (pine needles? Dunans? bags?)
weeding, watering, weediing

watering,watering, watering

cut forest paths back
build bender benches/bed
dig fire pit

sow chamomile and borage….central patch?

buy carrots/beetroot/winter/spring cabbage/swedes

What I should. 1997.

Dense, sensitive, slow hum,
Hum humming of life.
Flutter of butterfly wings
and chirrup of buzzing things.
The trickle chuckle river and the
warm, ticklish air.
I should throw myself down in the long, itchy grass.
I should walk, feel free and strong….
But I just will lay here, feeling good
for not doing.
What I should.

(If I cannot focus my energy into something soon I shall……..?)

Butterfly connections. 1997.

Butterfly connections.
Seagulls call and whirl.
Like black spots in the back of my eye.
Hieroglyphic spirals,
Picked out against the blinding sky.
Swallow tail swift,
forked slender arrow.
Dove coo, ancient, wood-wise.
A car brakes through and then away.
Bleating lambs, skimble and moan for their mothers.
African music, low and happy,
Accompanies the scene.
Breezes, breezy, blowing lightly.
Yellow poppies bow and bend.
So slow and sweet.


Frustrated Creation. 1997.

” An old friend of mine arrived back in the country. He’s laying low, reviewing life and all that. He reminded me about writing.
“Have you been writing?” he asked.
That was all he needed to say.
If only I could feel that writing was worth it……after living with the tribe, the purity of ‘life without education’, without the conscious ‘head space’ of putting pen to paper, I find it difficult to arrange myself into that mode. Yet my thinking processes are so clear, so radical, the daily revelations and inspirations crowd my head.
This frustrated creation.
Automatically when I write I seem to take on a pompous overview, it’s almost as if I have a written accent…..that is proving impossible to shake.
Whenever I seize a pen the ‘I’ syndrome takes over – gone are the loose, fluid imaginings, replaced by stoic observations and “What will I write?”
Most importantly, I do not, generally, like what I produce, largely because it does not bear any resemblance to what I know I could, if only I could loose these tensions in my thinking.
I revert back to automatic writing regularly in an attempt to free myself – but this is often vague to the other extreme!

There is a deep knowledge inside of me, that tells me what I could be worth, but fear I will never achieve, is dampening the desire to even begin fulfilling these deep, driving dreams.’

Horse. The whole process. 3 Luibs Cottages, Kilmartin, Scotland. 1997

(2017 – Apologies to my wonderful followers for the huge gap in updating this archive. To say I have had a lot going on would be an understatement! Under going a bit of a personal evolution! Some of you may have found my other blog? Rolling Om?
I often very slightly tweak my poems, as written in my notebooks, to pull them together to share here. But this time I thought it would be interesting to share the process, exactly as it is written, especially as this one was never really resolved. I often write poems, almost perfectly, straight out and then get lost in trying to better the original. This is one of those.)


Morning sun cast crystal shadow
Frosty stars fallen down from the night
The crisp crunch and stamp, stamp
Steamy purr, horse- lip whistle, damp
in the dry air.

Side on to the cresting sun
Shadowing the glinting grass
Haloed proud and tossing mane
Whose prize is he, proud beast, to train?

But he does not run as the jeep
All roar and oily snarl appears
He swings his head, pricks up his ears
And watches as the folks get out, come near,
He does not run, but insists that they
Should catch him first if they want to play!


Old Logan leaned upon the gate
Appraised his fine aquaintance
A tension electric sparked in the morning air,
And the proud beasts nostrils closed and flared.
Old Logan’s son stood by and smiled
as Thomas climbed the gate and
stumbled eager up the rise…
He throws his arms around the beast
Who leans into his young beating heart
And snorts his greeting into his palm.
Pleased to see his fine young friend…
Until Thomas wants to bring him down into the shadow
Down from his sunny, shining hill.
Thomas persisted, he resisted,
Showing all his will.


It’s an old, old game
To go out and tame
Clip clop, the same as what
the father’s father’s father did.
Father to son, to son, to son, to hold the rein,
Like blood in vein,
In sun and rain.
It’s an old, old game.
When lifestyles change, the purpose gone,
The relationship still lingers on
A love of horse.

Taking the reins.
Old wisdoms passed on
Pride in knowledge of the beast.
Equine power.
Horse-beats. Hoove prints.
Mystic and mundane.
Whispers. Horse power.
Gallop. Canter. Trot.
Feeling the true strength of friendship
Taming the wild, Seeking its calm.
Father to son.
A rightful pride is learned.


Wet breath and dusty mane.
Stamp and crunch.
Soft mutterings of velvet lips.
Coarse hair and thick matt coat.
Huge hooves. Thick horney pads.
The sky etched figure of power and natural freedom
The surge of muscle and sinew
Such grace and urgency.
The cantering image of power and natural freedom.
The shiver shake shudder and impatient toss,
Daring and challenging.
Ride me. Ride me. Teach me. Use me.
The promising image of power and natural freedom.
Teach me and I will teach you.
The patience and karma
Of true power and natural freedom.


There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Say them with your soul.
Manouver with suggestion
Draw then into the game
Otherwose they’ll never let you tame
Their mighty spirit.
There are always ways to talk to a horse.
Their teaching is sublime.
Reach in and find your ancient calm
And your respect is mine.