Art Is A Journey Of The soul

Art is a journey of the soul.
There is more to art than expression.
Expression can be instinct!
Art is the pursuit of perfection.

Somewhere Under The Rainbow.

I can see we are rapidly
approaching a time,
when thinking at all will be deemed
a hate crime.

Revaluations.

Every
thing
that may be
labelled
as divinity,
is neutralised;
check mated;
trumped,
by
infinity.

Identity theft.

Who and what are you?
Who and what am I?
We walk on a ball of mud
That spins in a churning sky.
Welcome to our convention
Wear this label on your breast
So that all may know you are categorised
And damned like all the rest.
For all must have a role to play
A purpose and a function,
From the first baptismal bathing
To the final extreme unction.
All must be deemed  a do-er,
And answer to ‘what do you do?’
Docketed dubbed, deemed and denoted
And moved to an orderly queue.
So tell me, are you a Princess?
A poet, a pleb’ or a Pope?
An aspirant apprentice,
Nothing yet; but live in hope?
Do you define yourself through others?
‘My Uncle met Obama.’
‘Lloyd George screwed my great grandmother.’
‘My Sis’ has a bar in Grenada.’
Vocations get disrupted.
That guy used to be a salesman,
But now he walks the Wolds
And writes articles for ‘The Dalesman.’
No more jobs for life now!
Just schizophrenic swapping
And we have to grin and bear it
And call it ‘career hopping’.
But the role that Nature gave us
Is one that we all still fit.
To convert carbohydrate and protein
And cover the Earth in shit.

The Ocean Of Dreams.

Into the ocean of dreams, I would willingly
sink again.
Snuggled in my cosy bed, listening
to the rain.
Each splattering splashing, droplet. Sending echoes
into the night.
Into the rustle and clatter of winds, and the star streaming rays
of light.
Deep into currents of darkness, I plunge in
purple pillows.
Down beneath, the cold surface of sense, where storms form
restless billows;
and tides of grasping existence, are thrashed upon
every shore.
But as I submerge to the depths, my mind will hold them
no more.
There in the empty darkness. There in oblivion’s
peace;
no worry demon stirs my mind, no striving
for release.
There, all is easily passing, to unreality …
drifting and gone.
However all seems? In the ocean of dreams; I know that all lives
to pass on.
No delusion of permanence lingers. No fixing of things
to endure:
No Angel or Devil; workload or revel, can rest on a foothold
that’s sure.
As every distant night noise; paints dream visions, that borrow
the sounds.
So an ambulance howling to danger, becomes a wild pack
of hounds.
The drone of distant warplanes, becomes a feasting
of bees.
And the laughter of a mermaid, is the sound of the wind
in the trees.
The bark of a dog in the farmyard, becomes the cough
of a Troll.
And the hoot of an owl in the coppice, is a
trebling Siren call.
The plaintiff lowing of cattle, is the singing of Welsh
mining men.
And the roar of a car on the moor road, is a tiger who growls
in his den.
The shrill of the first light birds, hail the dawn, as a
Seraphim choir.
And the morning milk float that rattles, is Apollo, at play
on his lyre.
Daylight comes shining, reality’s barbs, bite like a shower
of arrows.
The sounds and the visions replaced; with the mundane stuff,
of tomorrows.
As I rise and stretch, and open my ears, to a world full of engines
and screams;
willingly, would I sink again, into the ocean
of dreams.

Dropping Definition.

It is claimed the Eskimo,
has an hundred words for ‘snow’.
Whilst the British
only know
what ‘slush’ and ‘sleet’ is.
But on the Moorland roads,
snow is hailed
by many names.
Predominantly formed
of foul expletives!

Penumbra.

The darker green that swells in shade ‘neath sunlit
summer canopies,
is home to woodland creatures, of predatory need.
A battle for survival with all living things at rival,
is the state of raw existence, where concealed creatures
feed.

The brighter light that gleams and glares ‘neath lofty
city rooftops,
is home to urban spirits of a predatory side.
Where everything’s on sale, there’s the smell of something stale.
And truth is a blind stranger, where the hungry eyed
abide.

The dank occluded gnosis ‘neath the screening of
the senses,
is home to falsehood fantasy, that disseminate deception.
Ignorance and contradiction, in a constant painted fiction,
frustrate the finding of the path, and obfuscate
perception.

Mentalenvironism.

I’m told I must care
about the Polar Bear,
since the ice is melting
into the sea.
But I’m wondering if
the Polar Bear
gives as much
as a tuppeny fuck
for me?