these flying islands

these flying islands


gone like a cool breeze


frisbee free

strophe propelled

canvas a range of opinion

idea thrust


pastoral comical tragical



find you here

in if you like

a conversation


that’s it

lean in with

tip till

keep a grip


let the string out

breeze take

beats tap

rarely rhyming


who will have the tiller then?

call a tug-o-war



take in and trim the cat

watch while

we let down ladders, many


sometimes it seems like a pile of islands

lift let

and there are becalmings

latitudes for donkey



a prize

for the most beastly behaviour

allowances age made

here are the ruins

and blow me down –

the annual awards!


on the carpet

or took off by rug

come from the rope

and ever enough

down for the canvas count

won’t you look up




Saturn high V


one bean for a cow and grew to this

pitch a tent skyward

fee fie on’t



not for profit

so let’s swap

I’ll show you if you’ll read mine



damn those hornball cicadas


islands are all second guessing

they are the dead flock

each go alone

above my nation


bombers have held a fete


call glissement

a capture of say eau d’imagination

or not

often as slap in the wet belly fish

come catch and toss again


time wasted!

not me off the hook


sail on!

and then the thousand years

sail of the line ride finest


little books for a world come ever smaller

pack fairytale

they’re seasonal


cast like coins two up

friends in the head

and many the tricks of presence are

wrought for the warmer world


blow me down

then a line gets out

sticks for instruction

mantra or an admonition

self to self

go go


toys and islands

in the bath once

was the whole of a harbour

storm safe

in the aeon till everything begins


you can take the machine apart

islands flutter by mechanical

wound as the heavens once must have in


a twinkle up for stars

never the same together but twice


see under them the workings

flowering all

come in a burst of cloud


propel the self as if by fart


or the how-they

pulleys sprockets

cogs rags oiled

toes grip the rung


slippery devil

then float free


ringside for angels falling


and every weather


dance up in the air like this

others clear blue

and Christmas again

the Sunday month


I’m opening a door here

part your own mists, will you, won’t?


make births as from the undersea

and who will say volcano?


from all walks

many more in mind


sunk ones too

and islands down


someone hid a sneer behind

soon outed though

and back to task


we better a world as we go

make it up as

we’re here

we’re gone

ready or not


and here we come

high as fast as who can fly


as is the leaf uplifted

a vapour trail and gone


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