sketch pad

meine umwelt

avec moi, sans moi,

par moi

Ahh… and the tales I shall unfold

May blast comprehension if the truth be told

An ode to the masters, martyrs and whims

A satyr on life and sullied daydreams


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The Flowers in my Mind

A darkening moon in an ethereal sky

Where-under the hob-goblins play

There’s Pan with his flute in the wavering grass

And Satyr deep in blooms lain

The rush of the wind in the Banshee’s cry

A thundering waterfall’s crash

All to be found where the pixies prance

In the heart of the old wood gloom

I’ve found a path to a sacred place

Where never man’s foot has touched

The tepid rain to my fingertips

To the soles of my feet, velvet grass

An urchin, an elf, nay a faerie’s child

My hands to its own has taken

And we’ll dance this night to a bantering tune

‘Till the light of the morn doth waken

An eerie call and my bones the shudder

An end to the flowing music of the night

A brightening orb in a rainbow sky

Where-under the buttercups sway

I see a bird with a mission on bending limb

And starlings far overhead fly

The call of the wild in a centipede’s eye

A memory’s painful nostalgia

All to be found where a scar cuts deep

In the heart of the old man gloom

Vision within vision, time out of mind

A path that’s cut to a groove

To follow it senseless, its cushioning smile

I’ll never betray you, no never

To wander, to stumble, to blindly search out

The walls of one’s prison confine

And cold slabbed stone to stimulate one’s touch

As the bars of the sun’s beams gaze on

An eerie call and my bones they shudder

An end to the ragged beat of time

The sweet sea spray on a fabled cliff

Where gulls come in to land

And the swirling currents of vapourous airs

In a cavern known only to the tides

Are witness to the passage of change

And the torpor of life in its coil

And they see the figure by the ebbing shore

Within whom a chrysalis forms

(21-22nd Mar ‘95)

“Come Dreamer in your twilight world

Tell me what you see”

I left my youth an age ago

To follow a phantom, a will-o-the-wisp

A myth called reality

Aid I sought from all alike

Yet none could help me find

“Do faeries plant forget-me-nots

Is there blossom in the winter still?”

I’ve struggled with this taunting fiend

Bent double in my darkest hours

Hollow, haunted eyes uplifted

Would beg, Mercy

As the wearied head would lower

“Say, my friend, that glow within

Remind me, how does it feel?”

But as the rays danced again

No trace could I see nor sense

Though his wounds yearned deep within

And I’d think to leave my fruitless search

If ‘t were not all I knew

“Do sunflowers bob in the bonny breeze,

Is the night-scented stock still sweet?”

I dream in the twilight hours

Under the moon’s balmy gaze

As mem’ry wings far below

Fountains spurt from chambers deep

An echo is heard within

“Is the old man’s laugh as merry,

Do the children cry as sweetly still?”

I see them playing freely

And my tears

Drop gently as the summer rain

Festering rents within me

Heal to ugly scars

“Well, my friend, this land you seek,

I know it not at all.

But many a wanderer’s stopped me here,

And asked for wondrous place

Of which I’ve never heard.

Take it not to heart,

For we’ve all a destination

And a journey long and hard.

I’m on my way to the market-place,

With some precious wares to sell.

I must be there by daybreak

And it nought but a troublesome trip,

So, I’ll take my leave

Good Stranger

And leave you to your sorrow.

Remember well, this that I say,

We’ve each to our own

And many a traveller’s back this way

With a cheery greeting for me.

Ought else I cannot say.”