The Importance of Being Observant. First and foremost we are here to observe, To watch and muse upon the ebb and flow And beat of the world. To gaze with wonder At flashes and sparks in the sky, at silvery Brush strokes of fire. If before the paint of Starry Night had Set and dried, man's hand ran over its glistening Surface, for no other reason than to Know its texture, then its purpose would be Forever gone. Man's fingers would bear The smears of guilty curiosity And distorted streaks of Van Gogh's mindful note. If I was born again in the darkest Crevice on the ocean floor, into confusing silence, To be beaten blind by the current and blackness, Then would I know my place having never seen The silky sheet of the Atlantic, whose Crispy surface and tempestuous core Humbles me? If the Babylonians had soared into The heart of the Zodiac, wielding Clubs and swords, or plucking Taurus From the night sky, only to shatter it And decorate their ears, would October babies Still be balanced, and would a nubile Leo Drown in pessimism? The only eventuality to Permit abstaining from observation, Is when man's hand strays, absently or otherwise, Towards Van Gogh's dewy canvass. To always observe, unless the observation Is threatened, or obscured by mindless action. To meet the activist with action yourself, Then lay back together and look at the stars.

Black On Black In his briar the blackbird stays, which rustles When she approaches. He flits through bushes, Wary of her, and brown oysters' pearls of amber Glitter and eclipse themselves in the bramble. Layers of leaves and feathers of black Make feathery leaves and leafy feathers. And rainbow words penned in black ink Stay dark in the shadow of black quills. But would she read it if was penned in red, Scribed by quills of gold? He'd shed His feathers and bare his skin, crispy parchment Pressed for freezing ink, and let her have the quill. But he stays beneath the feathers and leaves Her blue rippling in the sun and wind. He'll write black on black, while weather and leaves Keep dark what he has penned.

Cherry blossom Embers It floats away from the flames, leaving The rocks to smoulder gently away. I follow it, and I watch as it pulls cherry blossom petals from trees; They fly hand in hand. It makes dew drops Ripple as it kisses them, like the knuckles of An eagle on a Canadian lake. A crispy fragment of paper, bronzed by The flames, and singed at its sides. But it still lies back on the breeze, Staring up at the sequinned sky As blades of grass feather it's back. Why did the wind choose to sweep it From the coals, where it would have peacefully burned, Blissfully unaware into nothingness? It would Have risen, effortlessly away as smoke, Invisible against the nights sky. It comes to rest on the precipice of A mighty boulder. I sit beside it, And in the fading day, I watch The smoke rise and vanish, in the last glow From the street-light orange coals.

12 Phases Of Freedom. I I pace with haste through the labyrinth of grey, Through chilled corridors, my eyes on the floor. At my feet a spiral staircase. I pause, before Ascending faster than I can walk. The air becomes thin; I breathe. I breathe the air from here to the stars, Air that twists into a silvery hand which Eases down my throat. I swallow, and the hand Reaches into my stomach, and wriggles the knot free. At the top of The Watchtower, I look up To sequin stars and woven cloud. My searchlight eyes fall down, and below me Are scathing faces in jostling crowds. Faces like mine, with pinpricked eyes that see Only what the mind has already concluded. They strive for digression, but are of the same mould, They scorn for pride, but lose it in the fray Which comes first, the night or the day? I see it as futile, and I’m painted with shame Below I’m a convict, but a judge all the same. Why form a court to judge one another, To rule over blood, to torment your brother with Laws made afresh to punish ways of old? Here I speak freely for the inmates can’t hear me, But profess to the rest and risk cries of treason. And with a sigh, I descend from my own blue moon That lingers as long as a breath in the winter. I've left what I’ve learned in the unknowable place, I come back not with a walk, but a tumble from grace. II I'm grounded again, and the staircase has Vanished. I breath wispy silver Into the stone bricks around me. They imbibe my breath, and seem transparent. If I stopped, I'm sure I'd see the nubile Sun through the rocks fading like forgotten head stone. Forgiveness is the route to atonement; to Pardon the rest is to pardon myself. Through the labyrinth I fly 'til I'm forced to pause At the sight of a man. Unmoving in a Jumpsuit of orange, beneath a charcoal Blazer. His face just evades the moonlight. Acknowledgment alone is sufficient, but no, I can free him too. He steps forward and He snarls with his eyes and I smile; 'There is a way out, and I've seen it.' Bitterness tugs at his mouth. 'Fool,' he spits. 'Please', I implore, 'let me show you.' 'I've been where you have,' his face stirs with lava, 'All here are guilty, and that is reality.' 'No', I retort, 'what crime did you commit?' 'Everyone is guilty. Don't ever doubt that.' Concrete pours into the cracks in the bricks Which darken, obscuring day's suggestion. I see a wave of watery wind rise, Licking the walls, leaving slugs of green moss As it cascades in my direction. I shiver, and brace myself for impact. III The first grey wave breaks over me, knocking Me onto my back. I sink, and thoughts Swim around my head. I stretch for one, Seize it, examine it, and release it Back into the smoky water. A throbbing pulse in my head drives me, as I search Through distorted faces in inky bubbles And sodden memories of sepia, through fragments of thoughts and crispy ideas. Wading to find its maker. With grumbling lungs I speed up my swim. I seize shoals of shimmering memories And cast them away. My blood screams for air And my muscles are thrashing beneath my skin. I snatch a picture, and present it to my guilt. I depicts me, with the plum-like skin Of and eight year old. Even in the sepia My cheeks are rosy, and my eyes dry out The page with their brightness. He is fixated on man at least ten years His senior; its me as I appear now. The elder ignores the younger, the younger In turn is uninterested in the Dusty calculators and leather bound books Around him. But what is my crime? I am tossed ashore, but my hands are empty. My eyes flicker open to the sight of The ceiling of stone boasting a fresh Impermeability. It's seamless. A sea mist has descended, watery Smog fetching grey from the walls. I inhale the air, and its bitter with salt. It dissolves in my blood, mars the scarlet With dark blotches. My cheeks are weathered rocks Now, and my eyes forgotten stone. IV In the background of my consciousness a Scratchy vinyl drones on. I've heard all I can, But the record spins on, and I recall What I saw when I plumed my own grey past. I imagine the wrath of the others, Judicial faces watching me writhe Under the crushing weight of leaden thoughts, Indifferent with the sense of justice. But I must have it confirmed. To see clad In iron what they think of me. The eye In my mind has decided my sentence Before the gavel rings out on the block. Walk to the precipice with precedent Unyielding, to forsake this burden I bare. With wit I'll take leave of my senseless And put my faith in what I know is there. V I stand stone still outside what they call the 'common hall.' I call it The Crucible. Absurdly Designed, round at the floor straight up to eye level. From there it grows wider as the walls climb up, Crescendoing into a ceiling which Exceeds the reach of the eye. Or perhaps not. I've never looked up. My hand, glued by sweat to the cast-iron Doorknob begins to twist. I labour with the mammoth oak door, much Taller than I, it wails as it reluctantly opens. Breathing in deep I cross the threshold with care, And my thoughts are halted by a stinging silence. Like a chess game abandoned they stand, haphazard And still, facing different directions, Speckled with orange and black In the low light of a source unknown from above. At a glance they are still, but they dance around fires In the corner of my eye, chanting my name, Trading tales of my treachery, planning my Punishment right up until I look at The offending party with my full gaze. Then. They. Stop. I choose one to approach, and do so Gingerly. I must be tormenting his Periphery as his eyes tick away And tock back like a catching up clock. I must be winding his eyes as I walk And I wonder if they will ever meet mine; They do. I see they too are sanguine, But only in colour, never in truth. After the sun has twice burned itself out, And in the wake of an ice age or two, He speaks. 'What do you want?' Looking around Between his words. 'Why am I here?' I say, 'I've searched through my past, and I see no crime. I don't even remember my sentence!' 'There are laws far removed from the ones that you know.' My confusion is clear. 'You chose to be here.' His words have anger burgeoning. His voice rises with the architecture, And the others are drawn to my trial. 'You will never leave, this place is in you!' He bellows, amidst the murmurs and roars Of agreement from the tightening band Of others who enclose around me leaving Only the door. I turn and I sprint and Smash through the door, down corridors, round corners Jumping arms protruding from cells Ducking under curses and side-stepping spells. On hot coals of cold concrete I run from my jailer Until he steps with me back into my chamber. VI I fall with a gasp, my back to the door Slipping down it as I wrestle my breath. I slide to the floor, bow my head, close my eyes, While I unsheathe my fine-tooth comb. I look around at my only companions. Clusters of grey brick providing nests For the fury green moss rooted in its cracks. It looks content. I must learn from it. I run my hand through the hairy, moist moss, But with care, so I do not uproot it. A scream so real that it's almost opaque Crashes down my door and tackles the walls. VII I spring up, turn, and tear open the door. With care I lean out, as do the others, And one hundred faces are lining the walls, Like disused gas lamps on deserted streets. Pinned fast against the oak door by two more Is a man. They try to tear of his black blazer But he sheds it as though it offends him. The full face of the#moonis a spotlight. He grapples with his captors, and snatches his chance. 'There's a way out! I've seen it.' He struggles And writhes with the brutes either side. 'Fool,' one spits back, with venom so bitter. 'Please, listen!' he retorts, as pliant As the oak behind him. 'This prison's reliant On the hate that we keep! Trust me this time So we can leave here together!' One more joins the fray, and lifts up his legs. He's long out of sight but ribbons of screams Draw me and the others out of our cells. I grab hold of his screams and give chase with the rest. VIII In the gloom of the melting pot, his eyes, Sanguine in all but their colour quiver As he comprehends the severity Of his position. With the face of a colonel whose army Has fled, he is seized to be tried for the Treason he's spread. I merge with the others To judge the condemned. He collides with the wall and faces the rest. Frantic and torn by what he knows is true, And the urge to yield to the bombardment ensued. A silence descends as he's instructed to speak. 'You don't know your own crime or that of your brother, Guilt finds its home in the eyes of beholders. To feel is to be with the notion of guilt, But the same holds true for the innocence converse.' Fury rises in the wake of his speech, As his plea is met with contempt. Screams go unheard as the angered descend, His fate obscured by nebula of red. IX Unaware as to how, I'm back in my cell. My thoughts dance around in the light Of a flame. The air is still, but The tip of the wick is alive and restless. I bare the beginnings of a feeling unknown. To the untrained heart it is surplus guilt, But it feels different. It has a presence, A measurable weight which my arms can bare. Before I have snatched at gaseous guilt, Elusive and smoky to the hand and the eye. This guilt is ice; callous and brazen, But with warmth I can melt it. I know what I've done. I bore witness as words that I know to be true Were torn apart by the masses, As was their preacher. A martyr of sorts, Devoid of praise deserved. What he knows, I knew, but I gave into terror. The familiar I deemed to be safe. I sought comfort in where I have drowned for so long, Thus I embraced that which has forever bound me. My body responds to the presence of ice, Dormant nerves arise, and bob to the surface. I'm stirring once more, but I lie ever so still, Until my rippling soul tell my body to rise. X The walls seem much softer, and I breathe in the light From occasional candles on walls, And their glow paints its hue on my cheeks. The corridors could be sleeping, the bricks fall and rise. I feel that the walls themselves are alive, And in their slumber, enchantment's afoot. I realise my thoughts have followed me here, Enflamed on the walls with anticipation. They lead to a passage whose end I cannot see, So I give chase to that which my vision exceeds. A wall is my bounty, without a way through, So with patience I stare and I wonder. Why is it here if it leads to nowhere? Before the words can be seen in my mind The bricks melt into one, and a tablet appears, And a pen carves sixteen lines in the stone. XI You must stride from the mire with all your conviction, And risk stepping forward or risk moving back, Cynicism is not your only affliction, So too gullibility; the balance you lack. Can you welcome dread, and with it it's end? To expect the worst is to entice it. Hear what you've said as if you were your friend, And if you believe it, to others advise it. Get what you can from the view from the clouds, Change your view on what to you seems certain. But remember to play your part with the crowds, Before it ends at the drop of a curtain. Out of your mind you see it as whole, Confute the illusion of multiple sides. Make the distinction between brain and your soul, Behind the former the latter one hides. XII The words on the tablet vanish at once, And the stone fades away into air. At my feet a spiral staircase. I pause, before Ascending faster than I can walk The air becomes thin, I breathe. I breathe the air from here to the stars, Air that twists into a silvery hand which Eases down my throat, I swallow, and the hand Reaches into my stomach, and wriggles the knot free. At the top of The Watchtower, I look up To sequin stars and woven cloud. My searchlight eyes fall down, and below me Are scathing faces in jostling crowds. Faces like mine, with pinpricked eyes that see Only what the mind has already concluded. They strive for digression, but are of the same mould, They scorn for pride, but lose it in the fray Which comes first, the night or the day? I see it as futile, and I’m painted with shame Below I’m a convict, but a judge all the same. Why form a court to judge one another, To rule over blood, to torment your brother with Laws made afresh to punish ways of old? Here I speak freely for the inmates can’t hear me, But profess to the rest and risk cries of treason. So be it. I descend not a moment too soon, And I'm there just as long as a breath in the winter. From the clouds I have found what I could not discern, So I'll teach it to others, for that's how to learn.

Hungry Guilt The first grey wave breaks over me, knocking Me onto my back. I sink, and thoughts Swim around my head. I stretch for one, Seize it, examine it, and release it Into the smoky water. Heavy, pulsating guilt drives me, searching Through bubbly images and sodden memories of sepia, through fragments of thoughts and crispy ideas. Wading To find its maker. My lungs grumble, and I swim faster. I seize shoals of shimmering memories And cast them away. My blood screams for air And my muscles thrash beneath my skin. I snatch one, and present it to my guilt.