Rock concerts are
our religion,
transcendent festivals
high on sound,
drugged by the beat
we search for meaning,
arms raised
to the moment,
voices joined
we praise as gods
men on stage.

Look for the sadness
in their faces,
those actors
who know that
simple ecstasy
cannot last;
who know that
to sing a song
of the masses
is to be tormented
by the transitory.

But look again,
see the spark
of something more,
see the rapture
of a whole life lived
in a single moment,
complete and present
in one note,
one triumphant sound
carried by a
hundred thousand humans.

Drink deep from the
passing stream
and live,
live for beauty
and for truth
and for love,
whatever they mean.
Live for the rhythm,
the sound,
the heartbeat of
this harmony.

Grab my hand
and jump up
as the guitar
illuminates night,
look up,
fall in love
with the mess
of a meaningless life
lived with purpose.

“The Ballad of Strange Lovers”

A voice speaks
from silences beyond,
clear unconscious,
clarity of dreams,
fully-formed it sings
from the void beneath
it rings.

The ballad of strange lovers
who left their home
for feeling
in a European night,
with lyrics by a band,
a beat and
a motley crew of fans.

The clamour of life
so great and various
it drowns out sound,
luxury of silence,
yet it peels
from mouths of babes
on dusty fields.

I know it well,
make it myself
in triumphant moments,
surrendered joys,
and I hear it now
great peeling bell!
instrument of awe!

I see before me
people I have known,
pushed by memory to
a place beyond,
yet alive right now,
their voices mixed to
form my muse’s howl:

We are one!
It is done!
All that is left is to
love it…

“Oxford Town”

Silent sandstone turrets light up,
sunset’s redemption of dull days
and my flagging spirit lifts,
blown by a gentle breeze
into the quickly-gathered night
for another conversation
on life and love and choice
amidst the privileged few
who call these castles home.

I know it’s not just merit
that has landed me in a
place of powerful knowledge
and I feel the guilt of having,
like a block of ancient stone
casting its grim shadow across
nine hundred years of history
and all the untold stories which
gather in the fading light.

They are not my stories to tell,
though they must still find a place
so I step slightly to the left,
merge my shadow with the tower’s
sunlit silhouette and strange!
the two seem joined to one
beneath the fast-setting sun
and the many-coloured light
dances playfully into night.

“Beat My Heart”

A black bird flies in grey
skies streaked by blue
above an English garden
where an old lady
and her daughter stroll
as a train passes to
the metallic music
of railway lines.

Beat my heart!
Pulse with the passing
life of strangers and
other shapes in a
world we cannot know.
Beat for the moment,
beat for time lost,
memories gained
in other lands
far from home.

Fly with the birds
through quiet skies,
float with the clouds
in a great cycle of
wet colour and life.
Flow with the stream,
always moving,
ever the same.

Beat my heart!
Pump life through me
to the melodies
of moving moments,
passing people,
pulsing trains,
flowing streams
and floating birds.

Beat my heart!
Beat and beat again
so that I may know
the bird in me,
see my face in
the moving waters
and feel my life
in passing things.

Beat until I remember
how to fly and the
beauty of flowing life.
Beat until I am ready
to join the stream again,
flow into blinding sunsets
breaking through clouds
in quiet places where
time no longer passes.