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Poetry, paintings, and stained glass work by Surrey-based artist

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Innocence Lives, Entropy Dies

The shorter the time, the less it will scare you.
Here is a split second,
with a moving into, or out of, and a rising arc.
Depicted here are things that matter.
The stars must die and so must we,
but as the second splits, time removes its scaffold.
The arc is still there, as are the pan pipes,
but the dying stars are now birds in flight.
The scaffold is hidden in a crescent moon,
orbiting a planet, back and front
split in two, just outside the lens.
Moonlight shines on innocence, she sings,
lamenting lost energy.
The cupola of her small hands, enfolding.
The faint breath of her small cheeks, kindling rebirth.
Rebirth to all the waste, ash to feathers, fluttering,
rising again to navigate somehow on the return flight.
Repositioned, building a nest in a new map of stars.
You see the music helps, it knows no fear.
There is music everywhere, all through this split in time,
background radiation, foreground radiation.
Music is outside segregation, it's also an innocence,
a nesting star, settled, sitting, waiting, listening.
Entropy is an umbilical cord, a split second;
it's a seed and a food, it's energy flying and dying,
taking for ever.

Detail from Understanding the Earth
Collage, 15" x 20"


Understanding the Earth

Birth pains, frozen, alive.

but I've got to get my balloons back.
E equals MC squared.
and where do the butterflies sleep at night?
One hundred and eighty six thousand miles a second.
i dont want to go to sleep, it's dark behind my eyes.
The mountains were under the sea once,
and will be again, eventually.
Long after I've switched off your light.
so, tomorrow?
who made the trees?
Some sort of energy.
do the butterflies sleep in the trees?
Maybe, maybe under the leaves.
we eat leaves dont we?
Where are your balloons?
tangled in a tree.
A small tree?
no, listen, the wind just took them out of my hand,
as I was whistling, blew them away, away above me.
What colour were they?
all colours, I dont remember exactly, who does?
they were free anyway, it doesn't matter.
Time to go to sleep.
i'll bet E stands for energy and M is for music.

The colours freeze, into and out of ice.
Birth pains frozen, alive.

Detail from The Artist's Wife
Collage, 12" x 16"



The Artist's Wife

Jacqueline's world has fragmented,
But I don't want to talk about sadness.
There is enough sadness,
petals on water, drifting away.
His net is no longer strong,
and in a strange way her grief is a freedom.
Because:- there are no such things as separate parts,
instead, everything is intimately related
and so bound up with each other, and so alive,
so inseparable.
The rain bounces up from Pablo's grave,
and flows under that bridge,
from Avignon back to the sea, under the dancers,
fragmented yet one.
Her grief is a pigment,
if only she had known that, her colour, not his,
separate, yet together.







To my Maker.

There is a cathedral inside,
with music ringing,
to the purple right.
Candlelights are warm silver,
in your breast,
curves in yellow.
Bells sing way up on the roof,
trumpets in green ice,
Below there is a glowing crimson,
at your altar,
where I am swept.
I float here, kissed by your energy.
I will die here,
still pulled in your wake;
My eyes opening in stained glass.







Pay respect,
respect to the dead.
The dead.
They are now living,
through you.
They are passengers
who will not instruct,
even though they know the way.
Passengers who have seen,
through orbit eyes.
They are so close,
close as the formula beyond words.






Times Eclipse

As everything flies away
it all remains the same,
and hate is hate on any lip
when we try to hide our shame.
Inside and out of times eclipse
our hopeless distance grounds us,
as we all try to connect
on those broken lines,
those lost letters
from our parents, who have left.
The raindrops fall on windows,
they are all dressed in red,
pushed down by the truth
that will pull them up again;
like my pulse, pumping, telling me;
that i love my mother and father,
telling me I must show them this,
and a million other oceans....
as everything flies away.







A free star somewhere has done me the favour,
it has flown backwards and smitten my eye.
It has pierced my mind added its colour,
turned me correctly into times dye.

Thinking of her is thinking of time,
its not her nor me, we have no right.
A star has turned and that is sublime,
hand in hand we will follow its light.

I shall not be cold, I will not stop.
Silver silver, how long will she cling?
All I can do, is never let her drop.
Her lips and eyes, love with wings.

Everything succumbs to proportion,
a bird can make nothing crumble.
Innocent souls leaving a confused nation,
passing the stars, flying straight and humble.







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