As I lay in my sleepy bed With your poetic words flowing through my head Wooed by a prince I felt a queen As I sank into a sea of dreams And tho’ consummed by a fathomless flood I awoke upon a bank of love.
I woke up in an antique land Upon a bed of ochre sand With you besides me on the beach And nought but love between us each And gazing in your hazel eyes I rediscovered Paradise.
On yon horizion I saw a spark Of silver in the purpled dark And then the stars of heaven dimmed As the all-seeing sun slowly begin’d To dapple and dazzle the dewy morn And another golden day was born.
“I must depart” I hear you say, As on a Sestos beach we lay; Hand in hand to the water be both made haste And waded in up to our waists And when your lips relinquished mine You dived into the swelling brine.
I stood upon the Sestos shore And watched you for an hour or more As Hellespont you swam across To reach your home in Abydos; When you stood upon the littoral A speck you were – and I saw no more.
The dream blurred as mine eyes were weeping And I felt myself sobbing within my sleeping For my bonny prince away from me On that sky-horizon’ed isle o’er the sea.
“Thou!” spake a voice, “Thou with the natty tresses of dreadlocked hair, Why dost thou weep? Why dost thou Sigh and sob upon the shores of Sestos there?”
Opening my swollen eyes – More to my horror than my surprise, Rose-cheeked Adonis in youthful pride Stood towering o’er me at my side: That so-called beauty I must confess Compared to thee was ugliness. . .
I am a writer. I am shy. I started writing poetry in my youth. I first performed in 1987 at the Avon Poetry Festival along side Bertel Martin of the Bristol Black Writers Workshop, supporting Benjamin Zephaniah.I gave my last poetry performance in 1992 at the Arnolfini gallery Bristol, supporting Labi Siffre during Poetry month.In 1998 for a year, I became the Resident Poet at Bristol Evening Post.I haven't written much since then but in 2014 I began exercising my rusty hand writing sonnets. I hope to continue writing in the coming year.
The shrine of Madonna stood tall, The high king’s rapier fell down, not anymore was he the young prince, for he was devoid of all feelings. The shrine of Madonna stood strong, The high king’s blood washed the ivory pedestal,
A misbelief breaks into rags. Still I dream of some gods on black pages piecing together the words of light. The rains come in the cage of tears, voicelessly. Striated muscles of splintered faith go to cramps birthing the avatar
There was thunder in the hut teeth clattered under the ground. Handcuffed you walk in inequality to qualify for hanging till dead. I may not tell myself what was happening to me. Moving in opposite direction the bird was able