Wild places

The old gods did not die, nor do they sleep,

in man made glass and stone, or live,

in cold carved statues void of life, instead,

they bloom in grass and flower, or rage,

in wind bent trees, or brood, 

in peat dark lakes, or slumber,

in sun baked stone, their presence felt,

in subtle ways, their magic wrought,

in natures wild places,

The old gods did not die, they live,

in life itself!


"Sylvan Gods"

The marble slabbed city of the dead,

where verdant life holds sway,

in brown limbed giants,

whose fingers scratch the sky,

Sylvan Gods, rooted in ancient bones,

sucking life,

from a billion thoughts and dreams,

and the irony?

none notice this rebirth,

amongst carved exhortations for life,

or hear the whispering of souls,

in the wind stirred leaves.



For long years i have slept,

The waking sleep of the lotus eater,

Awake yet sleeping, aware yet unaware,

Deep in the dream of life,

Until my poems woke me,

Springing out from the depth of my being,

Woke me with words,

To gather the wind.