Night is True!

Pic by William Blake

Pic by William Blake

For ‘t needs no mask.
Night abounds, surrounds,
absorbs and whispers.

Secrets bourne on silence,
or at the most,
on the rustling of the winds.

Beings leave their bodies,
useless, senseless,
for no soul to behold.

And we, its children,
revert to our truest form.
Ageless, essential, primal.

Screaming for the light,
the one that none can see,
but was there since the dawn.

(By Ralphie A Burcke)


Listen For The Silence!

The Crow by Ralphie

The Crow by Ralphie

Listen for the silence,
underlying all the noise.

Harken and listen well,
for it is there, all-knowing.

Only the silence of the mind
can bring full meaning.

Only the stillness of the heart
may encompass true love.

In the emptiness of being
lie all answers.

(by Ralphie A Burcke)


Ode to a Tree.



Whatever makes a tree
want to be a tree?
Rooted in the ground,
instead of roaming free?

To hold together the earth,
serve as home to legions,
convert poisons into air…
Be a true being of magic.

A creature of energy,
renewing itself always,
in concentric rings
of ageless power.

Next time you meet a tree,
bow your head in awe,
be very humble
and give thanks!

Summer Rain


How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

Where Have All The Trees gone?

They matter, first and foremost!
They are the serene breath,
and soulmates of us all.
They should be treasured!

The present smells so putrid,
of death for future generations.
A prison made from dreams gone sour,
of concrete, steel and ugliness.

The demigods and nymphs of old,
have been replaced by meat,
fit only for consumption,
by pigs with capital pees.

The earth is past its sell-by date.
It should be trashed and binned.
Shall we replace with another?
Where have all the trees gone?


In Search of a Chair.

“For years I said if I could only find a comfortable chair I would rival Mozart.” – Morton Feldman

Image from

Image from

From Ralphie:

I set off…

in search of a chair,

not any old thing,

but one that enveloped

my spirit and soul,

a conduit for my muse,

and above all,

a safe haven

from distraction.

In which to think

monumental thoughts,

as deep as the sea,

spanning the heavens

and the mountains below.

After eons of searching,

I found this great treasure,

and brought it home.

I admired it for weeks,

before venturing to sit

in its hallowed seat

and started to think…

or at least I tried,

but nothing would come.

I’d spent all my energy

and all my deep thoughts

on devising a way

to get at my goal,

and having found it,

saw that I’d lost.

Share in Beltane…

Image by  Sin Madison

Image by
Sin Madison

Let us prance and kiss berries,
And let’s swoon at the Moon…
Let us fart at our demons,
And drink wine with a spoon…

Let us curse all traditions,
And invite a new past…
Let us wallow in change,
and forget all we knew…

Let us brew a bright life,
and make love to a flower…
Let us braid the Moon’s beams,
and shower in stars…

Let us stare in the fire,
for many long hours…
Let us welcome the elders,
and share in Beltane…

A Farmer I Would Be!

MDG : Seed and GM in Africa : Plowing a field and sowing seeds in Ethiopia

When I grow up,
I would be a farmer,
who sows seeds of light
in pockets of sorrow.

Who cultivates smiles
in moments of distress
and listening ears
for those in need of one.

Who shares what he reaps,
with every living being
of the land, sea and air.
Will you meet me there?

The hand of Mother Nature…

Image from Andrea Velame

Image from Andrea Velame

The hand of Mother Nature
cradles her many children
in the gentlest of ways,
to keep them safe from harm.

Nimbly and sure-footed,
across intersecting tightropes,
she balances our greedy needs,
against the greater good of all.

Like all good mothers would,
she protects her flesh and blood,
who by their mindless straying
would surely come to fall.

(A-) Wake!?

Dancing under the moon

Dancing with the deaf
to an emerging loony tune,
played by a lonely angel,
in the eye of the Moon.

A heart beats the drum
of its insane longing
for the silence after death,
the release from clamour.

A soul holds still and waits,
for the shedding of matter,
a reunion with the source,
from whence it gushed forth.



Falling water,
twists around itself,
to catch every minute ray,
and stare dumb and found
at the rainbow
it creates.

Water still and mute,
entices mighty Moon,
to enter its hallowed being,
for to whisper secrets,
as foretold by the heavens,
of the weaving of time.

Water rushes onwards,
screaming mad with fury,
at the injustice of it all,
to eradicate the slate,
and start anew and wait,
limpid clear as before.

The Monthly Climax.

Image: Note di Emozioni

Image: Note di Emozioni

The blood Moon rises,
full-breasted and aglow.
She stands tall and stares,
never once blinking.

Forever bound to Earth,
in a rhythmic dance,
with mesmerizing tides,
of longing and of sharing.

Pulsing, thrusting, needing,
until the monthly climax
brings forth the miracle
of her children’s dreaming.

Turning the Tables.

From Ralphie:

My demons are back, yes… again!,
but instead of fighting them,
I hugged them instead,
thereby turning them into friends,
which surprised them no end.

Gone is the enmity, gone is the fear.
Surprising, what a change of perspective can clear.
Kindness is a way of life, a way of being,
especially gentleness granted oneself.


A thousand books my library
And all are primed, it seems to me
With brains.
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
I’ve read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
I can
With wisdom savour and digest
And scan.
Yet when afar from kin and kith
In nooks
Of quietness I’m happy with
Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
In vain,
My lack I’m wistfully aware
Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My books.


The Joke.


The harridan who holds the inn
At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,–
I’m glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it’s hard to think,
Although my pow’s like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
I courted long ago.
I wronged her, yet it’s sadly true
She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although ’tis you,
The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
And soon lost sight of me.
So now she is a paunchy dame
And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
–Glad I did not wed her.
Yet it’s so funny sitting here
To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
To more and more enjoy
The joke–that fifty years away
I was her honey boy.

Tick Tock.

From Lieven Grillaert:


How can i tell what is in your mind,
the twisting of your thoughts
has left me wandering in the dark
has left me searching for an answer

its cold and lonely in the dark
where even silence makes a sound
and danger lurks around the corner
and no answers can be found

so tell me please where do i go,
what roads i have to wander
to find that little spark of hope
to find that wanted answer

what keys are there to open up,
the hidden doors to your heart,
so that i can find some needed peace
so that i can finally sleep

For My Friend: Paul Davenport.

If you wish to know the real me,
you should see me with my friends,
my family, my brothers from the street,
those who have seen it all,
and still came out laughing!

Yes, you, you do not see me or them,
you judge, you ignore, you do not know,
what went on before.

My friend Paul, who is no more,
who planted forests in his days,
who had property in Belize,
was found dead and took away,
for stinking up the neighbourhood.

Why did he drink, you ask yourself,
as did I, who drank aswell…
Well, not until my lady died,
did I understand, what he was about.

I came told him the news,
and he hugged me, as friends do,
and told me: “It will pass!”
Then my friend, whom I thought I knew,
told me a snippet of his tale:

“It happened to me aswell, and more than once,
my friend, five times was I to be wed,
and five times they were lost,
to me, the world and their family.”

I queried: “How in the world do you endure?”
He answered: “One day at a time, me boy!”

And now, my friend, dear Paul, he is no more.
No more kind words from his smiling face,
but Paul, you still are here,
for not in a zillion years shall you be forgotten!

Words Are Not Me!

downloadWords are not me,
they detract from the value of me,
I am ‘me’, not this or maybe that,
I am ME, can you not see?

You would persist to give me form,
to conform to your norm,
but NO, I am but me, just me,
I wish you could see, just me.

To call me a poet, to call me a cad,
is an injustice to me, me old lad.
For to add an adjective to a soul
is an insult to the being.

I do not need your perspective
to exist, for I merely AM,
yours, ours , but mostly just mine.
I wish you were blind!

For to see is an illusion,
to hear is a betrayal,
I am pure energy, I ‘am’!
NOT your opinion, so sorry, but NO!

News of Great Portent!

 Lost Fairy by Pygar

Lost Fairy by Pygar

I shall spin a web of wily tales,
for spiders to ponder,
and mutter in wonder:
“A marvel ‘t falls not asunder!”

For bees to buzz around,
inquisitive-like and nosy,
and perhaps to drop some honey,
to sweeten it even more.

Fire-flies ‘ll burst into flame,
at the magic of its splendour,
asking themselves the meaning,
or the purpose of this riddle’s plot.

And the pixies, they shall come,
from far away in faery land they’ll flock,
to carry back these tales of light,
to the King that holds all secrets.

For Him to proclamate aloud to all,
and p’rhaps even to sundry,
this news of great portent,
that a true bard is born again.

Another Now.

Optical Illusion

Optical Illusion (Photo credit: micahb37)

To the memories that are no more,
that never were, that were just lies,
to illusions of the hope-drunk fool,
I raise my hat in jest, I smile forlorn.

I turn to dream instead of that sad wake,
though wakes are for those who passed,
and pass I shall, pass on to another now,
a now of one and not of two, and not of you.

(by Ralphie)

Cradle of Perfection.



Through the strands that connect the stars
flows a sense of ripeness like old wine,
a nurturing warmth that knows no harm,
that flowery feeling of budding spring.

Gathering lighted souls along the way,
it winds forth through newborn space,
and patiently, but steadfast doth create
a cradle of perfection for all living beings.

(by Ralphie)