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I went out into the world today
with a new camera, a new outlook, a new focus-
the world felt like a light-blessed river
being sustained by a towering waterfall of rainbow rain,
sparkling mist, and beautiful lotuses.
There was something different about me,
about my surroundings, that I felt I could not ignore-
it wasn’t clear to me what had changed, at first,
but the minute that I turned everything off:
my phone, my life, my world, my hopes,
my dreams, my fears, my knowledge;
I realised that I knew nothing,
I realised that I had missed so much,
I realised that every moment of blessed silence-
when the only thing you can hear is your own heart-
is in itself an intergalactic door.

I captured and I became something new in that moment;
the windmill of life turned in the breeze- I became frozen,
I felt awestruck by a new truth that was echoing in every direction,
I was touched to tears by a new clarity
that cleared-away the cobwebs of my imagination-space
and exposed a new picture of reality to me
that felt natural, vast, free of pretense.
I looked at myself differently,
I looked at my life with new eyes through a new lens,
I became enamoured again by the faces and the memories
that I have saved my entire life of my family and my friends,
I saw the source of the divine and great muse of enlightenment
from where all thought stems.

This world, our collective meaning,
continues to amaze and inspire me.
If someone was to take a picture of everything that is happening
right now- every choice that someone made,
every thought that someone had-
what would that picture look like,
what would that picture make someone on the outside looking-in realise:
perhaps that they are in fact on the inside looking-out;
maybe such an image would change what it is about life
that means so much to you,
maybe such an image would enthral you,
maybe such an image would send you mad.

I felt like a lone lotus, bobbing up and down in a pond-
reawakened, exposed, open to the new tides of the future
and the new light of a new era;
I felt like I was beginning my life again,
with new depths to explore about the entire universe-
like the first photo of a new camera.

While walking in the woods near my house,
I came upon a lost glove-
it was just sitting there undisturbed and unmoved
on a bush at the foot of a tree;
a lone glove, which I couldn’t tell
if it was intended to be worn on the left hand or on the right;
a lone glove that for some reason had been parted from its pairing,
which lay as if it had fallen from above,
instantly intrigued me, made me smile, and made me wonder
what and who had brought it here to the middle of the forrest
only to leave it- something just didn’t seem right.

Every time I returned to my favourite place to walk,
to think, and to marvel at Mother Nature,
I always made a point to go to where I knew the multi-coloured
and multi-patterned glove continued to lie;
for weeks, months, maybe,
I returned and to my delight the glove remained where it always was-
it always brightened my day to see it, for some reason-
maybe it was the randomness of the sight of a lone glove, a lost glove,
far-away from the hand of anyone, that amused me,
and also inspired me in some way.

One day, I returned to the woods,
I took the same path that I always take-
I walked and I looked in anticipation of seeing the lost glove,
but it was nowhere to be seen-
I walked the same path again and again, over and over,
but all I saw in the place that I remembered it being
was just a multitude of growing green.
The first time I saw the glove,
I had thought that its sudden appearance
and consequent reappearances were a sign, an insight,
an easter-egg into the inner-workings of chaos,
nature, choice, subtlety, fun;
and when I realised that the glove was gone-
it had been picked up by someone else,
reclaimed by its former owner,
or it had been taken by an animal-
I felt genuinely sad;
but every time I walk passed where it was, even now,
I wonder where it came from.

The glove that was once lost was found by me.
I did not take it, I did not claim it,
but for a short-time it was a talisman to me,
a charm of life that I was always pleased to see,
a seed of joy, a flower of hope that grows in my imagination,
which I am in-awe of;
and that is why I will never forget the autumn days
of the lost glove.

I am wide-awake at 1 a.m.
and I have just awoken from a dream,
in which crows and seagulls were at war with each-other
outside my bedroom window- in the sky, on the ground,
fighting for the air, the rooftops, the food to be found;
I dreamt that the crows and the seagulls were in the throws
of aerial-combat of the speed, manoeuvrability, and ferocity,
of a World War II dogfight- darting, swooping,
and attacking like winged-warriors of black and white.

4 a.m. and I am awake again.
I decide to read a book,
then I listen to some music,
then I return to my book again.
I am restless. The sun has yet to rise.
I get out of bed and decide to make myself a cup of tea-
the rooms of my home are dark, but I know this house so well
that I no longer need to rely on my eyes
to find what I can’t at first see.
I can’t remember what I was dreaming about before I woke up this time;
if I recall correctly I felt like I was still awake,
but I was definitely still dreaming-
the world looked familiar, but it didn’t make sense;
everything around me was something I felt a connection to,
but it was as if they were not mine.

Seven o’clock in the morning. I open my eyes, I close them again,
and then I open them wide, wondering whether I am awake, dreaming,
or in-between places, and I look again at my surroundings to be my guide.
Before I awoke, I dreamed that I was walking the streets of a bustling city-
not knowing where I was going, but that I had somewhere to be.
The city was full of people that I knew well,
I felt like I was walking through a memory-
everything seemed so detailed, real, clear.
I could have been dreaming, I could have been awake-
at first, it was hard to tell.
I was walking across an open square, with people standing around talking
and people sitting on benches conferring with each-other,
and no one was looking at me.
I tried to say something, but I couldn’t make a sound;
I looked to my feet and saw a notebook and a pen lying on the ground.
I picked up the pen and started to write what I wanted to say in the book,
and I realised that the notebook was already full of words and thoughts
written in blue ink and written in what looked like my hand-writing
but scattered in all directions- as if they had been shook.
Then I looked up and everyone who was looking the other way
was now watching me;
one of the women sitting on a nearby bench stood up and approached me
and took the red notebook our of my hand, closed it,
and then gave it back to me.
I was confused, disorientated,
but I wanted to know why she had just done that-
so I approached the woman who had returned to her seat,
and then I saw that she was sitting next to and talking to someone
who looked exactly like me.
I looked down at my “other-self”
to make certain I was seeing who I was seeing,
and then my other-self turned his head to look up at me,
and with a smile and a nod of his head
my dream disappeared in a flash of light
and I was opening my eyes, closing them, and opening them again.

In the morning light, as I stare out my window at the outside world,
so bright and beautiful and cloaked for now in silence,
I feel that things are not what they seem.
I get dressed, I make myself a cup of tea,
and then I muse to myself about the things that happen in between dreams.

On an early-morning flight-
just as the sun rises in the sky
and brings alive the clouds
like a wave of fire frozen in time,
like a magical world being expressed
by someone’s incredible and inspired imagination-
a man looks out his window
and simply cannot believe what he is seeing.
He cannot think, he cannot move,
he just knows that he is here for a reason.
He is sitting in his chair on a plane flying 500mph,
in the atmosphere of a planet spinning 1000mph,
with a heart in his chest beating like an unrested drum.
The man isn’t going far,
but to him every flight is like a trip to the moon.
Even as he watches the electric blue
and serene open air above the clouds,
the man swears for a moment
that he sees shooting-stars descend and streak
from above to below in short sucession-
not a trick of the light,
or momentary bursts from the sun-
actual asteroids and meteors from another world
choosing now to reign down from the heavens,
to fall into view and end their billion-year journey
right in front of him.

As the man takes a sip of hot coffee
he wonders for a second how the cup came into his hand,
who handed it to him, how unearthly and incredible the coffee tastes,
if he looked away from the window,
because he doesn’t remember when or for how long.
As the hot coffee rests in his mouth for a second
and then rushes down his throat,
the view outside the window, outside the plane,
intensifies within the blink of an eye,
and the man feels like the plane and his fellow passengers
are suddenly flying on the airplanes wings-
fixed in position, but able to be swept on their journey
by the breeze on their face and through their hair,
and by the feeling of unbelievable freedom.
It isn’t until the plane hits a slight patch of turbulence
that the man regains his faculties and his focus
and remembers where he is.

The air is different up here.
Everything you feel, think, and experience,
while free of gravity, goes straight to your head,
in ways only an astronaut could reciprocate,
or someone who finds love and happiness
for the first time in their life.

The man sleeps.
While still believing he is still awake,
while believing that he has been awake for the entire flight,
forgetting the brief conversation that he had with a passenger
who mistook him for a celebrity
while making their way back from the bathroom.
The man wakes.
The man feels more refreshed than he has done in years.
The man feels like he has been looking out the window
for what seemed like seconds,
before the announcement rang-out
and the “fasten your seat-belts” sign became illuminated
indicating that he and the plane were descending to there destination.

What does it all mean? The man asked himself,
as they passed though the clouds.
Everything means something, he repeated to himself,
from the stirred coffee in your cup that swirls
and resembles the spiral of a galaxy,
to the beautiful shapes and colours that you discover
while you’re among the clouds.

I thought that I lost my voice, once;
I thought that I lost my muse;
I thought that I would never talk again,
and then light returned to shine amongst the dark-
words came to mind, tongue, and pen,
and inspiration found its mark.

As you get older, hours pass like seconds, months pass like days;
but you never forget your first love,
you never forget what, and who, continues to bring happiness,
hope, and meaning into your life, worthy of praise.

This year was the year when everything changed for me.
These past twelve months
sometimes feel like they have all happened at once;
but I will never forget how much
every minute, every word, every conversation, every friend,
every moment, meant to me, how much they will always mean to me.

I have been on a journey my entire life,
from crib to constellations,
looking for someone who could tell me where I was supposed to go,
what I was supposed to do;
but it wasn’t until someone reached-out their hand from afar,
and touched me on the shoulder,
that I realized my journey had only just begun,
and since then the things that have happened
have been like a dream come true.

I wake-up every morning and greet my friends,
like the lights in the dark that they are,
with a smile, and with the same belief in them
that they have always shown in me-
to have such friends as mine,
you cannot help yourself from thinking of them
as if they were family.
My friends and my family have made this year a year to remember;
my friends and my family have been with me every step of the way,
even if they may not know it;
my friends and my family are engraved into my mind and heart forever;
my friends and my family have been all that I have ever needed,
and they are who have meant the most to me in this year of fruition-
this year of the poet.

Don’t try to be someone you know you are not,
don’t fixate on the opinions of others-
when in doubt, clear your mind, take in a breath,
take a look in the mirror at your own “mugshot”,
and remember back to the days of your favourite summer.

Whether you are a writer, a DJ, a musician,
a decorator, an actor, or a doctor-
whether you have just picked up a pen, a mixer,
an instrument, a muse, or a passion-
if what you do comes naturally to you,
then there is no reason why you cannot go far.

As human beings, every one of us has this empowering,
and sometimes overpowering, need to share what we thrive at doing-
even as children, we create something
and instantly want to show everyone what we have done,
and even at such a young age
that one creation can be a sign and an indication
as to the direction that we are going.

The mind of a child is the most creative, amazing, unbounded,
paradise of freedom on Earth-
from day one, a child is learning and feeling exponentially-
every day is a brand new day, every morning is like a rebirth.

When we are struggling in our daily lives,
the best advice anyone can give you
is to simply go back to basics:
What do you want to say? What do you want to do?
How can you make your mark without any tricks?

Always follow your first thought and see where it leads,
even if what you find is a dead-end-
you can always be sure that the journey you took to get there
is what you really needed.

You can be whomever you want to be,
but when all is said and done
who you are, and who you will always be,
will forever remind you
in the memory of your favourite summer sun.

If you are craving for inspiration,
you feel like you can’t say what you want to say,
and you are thinking that your next great creative act
may be your finale-
think back to when you were a kid,
when the days seemed endless,
when there was no pretense between you and the world,
and when whatever you did
was just what came naturally.

Ever since I was a boy
I have traveled to far-away- blue-sky, red-sky,
glittering diamond-sky- distant worlds;
where Christmas trees sing Christmas songs as they sway in the wind,
and stars can be picked from a dark ocean sky as if they were pearls.

At sunrise, and at sunset,
at midday, and at midnight,
I travel at the speed of thought
to anywhere in the universe that I can imagine-
propelled only by myself, life, and light.

I have ventured through clouds of gold, to seas of crystal;
I have danced at the event-horizon of a black hole in space-
dived inside, and found myself somewhere that I can only describe
as like lying in a bed made entirely out of wool.

I have spoken languages that are so beautiful when expressed
they form thoughts and dreams of divine euphoria in your mind,
and make you feel like you have a sun burning in your chest.

I require no rocket,
I have no need for a time-machine,
an energy-source of unlimited power,
or an omnipotent visitor from an undisclosed dimension-
to go where I want to go,
I need only to believe, and to see,
everything projected from my inner-light,
free of my own apprehension,
and silently sing a memory to ascension.

Even though at one time or another in my life
I have felt adrift, unloved, blinded, and alone,
I always knew, and I know now,
that someone is always there for me to go to, to talk to,
to offer me refuge, and a home.

I know that no matter where, or when, I am, I can go anywhere, anytime,
I need only to see the place with all my sight-
fortunately that is never a problem,
because when I travel, I always travel faster than light.

The light went out,
but only for a second;
the fire turned to smoke,
but then it returned when I beckoned;
the ground fell away,
but returned when I sat;
life ended,
but came alive again
when I looked into the eyes of a black cat;
fog clouded my vision,
but evaporated when I whistled;
I was holding onto the moon by a string,
but it never carried me away,
and always came back to me when I pulled;
the heat was unbearable,
but I was shivering from cold in an instant;
one minute I was lying in bed,
but then when I reopened my eyes
I was now somewhere completely different;
time stood still,
but with the click of a finger
the minutes seemed to pass much quicker;
the sun rose in the sky,
but went out with a flicker.


The pen is not the poet,
but the poet cannot be without the pen;
the poet can have all the inspiration and insight in the universe,
but without the means and the implements to express their creativity
their words know not where they are, nor when.

The pen with which a poet writes their poetry
is one of the most powerful agents
and perpetuators of expression ever invented;
with a pen at their fingertips a poet can wield words of power
and of silent articulation the cogency of which is unprecedented.

In the hands of an artist,
a pen is like a magicians magic wand, or the sceptre of an emperor, or a king-
in the hands of someone who can understand the language of order
within an alphabet of chaos
a pen can bring paper and ink to life and make them sing.

There is something wonderfully visceral to a writer
about actually writing the literal interpretation of their imaginings;
there is something incredibly profound about the weight of a pen in your hand,
and the balance and dexterousness that you have to bring.

There is a connection that develops over time
between a writer and his pen that may perplex the thoughts of an onlooker-
sometimes that connection is the only outlet a writer has
for his potent, poetic, imagination pressure cooker.

In the 21st Century you can write on a tablet, a phone, a computer,
on a blog, a wall, or in a good old-fashioned notepad, or a book, with a pen-
I have written poetry in every way, everywhere,
and without question or hesitation a pen and piece of paper
will forever be the source of inception of every one of my poems
again and again.

Even though I get a rush from writing poetry
with the elegance, refinement, and style of ink and pen,
I still keep in my mind and never forget
that I am the poet,
and that: le stylo ne fait pas le poete.

What can I say which has not already been said,
what more can I put into words about who I am, what I feel,
the muse that connects everything in life to everything in my head.
I never understood life, nor did I see the unlimited colours of the world,
until I truly fell in love for the first time-
I thought and I believed that I had been in love before,
but all that was eclipsed when I first saw my beautiful inspiration,
when I looked into her eyes, and wrote the first word of my first poem,
and she became the code for every rhyme.
I had seen beautiful things in my life,
I had been touched by emotion
the intensity of which could sustain anyone forever,
but when the sky and my mind opened to let in the light of eternity
so that it may change, inspire, and renew me,
I felt a part of me and the destiny of the universe
combine, exchange, and come together.

Every time I see my muse now the energy that surges through my body,
which radiates from my heart and creates new wonders of memory
and possibility for me to imagine, see, experience, and convey,
it’s almost too unbelievable and incredible for words,
but I know of no other purpose in life
that I would not want to relive every single day.
Because of my muse I fell in love over and over with words,
language, cultures, music, artists, peoples, planets, galaxies,
questions without answers, dreams without an end-
hope, happiness, a life without fear of the darkness of the night,
a place within each of us we can go to, and share with a friend.

My Muse for a time was all that I could think about,
all that I wanted to think about,
all and everyone who I would ever want in my life,
and the only one who could make me happy-
even now, when I see her smiling face portraying exquisitely
and perfectly her inner joy and the joy of all life,
I cannot get over her spirit-
which extends beyond awe, attractive, and classy.

Life evolves, but impressions of inspiration, creation, intervention,
proliferate and continue to inform and inspire generations to come,
because their truth is more vast
and more beautiful an ocean than the pacific.
My muse means more to me than words,
she is more to me than inspirational,
she is more to me than beautiful-
my muse is epic.



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