Idle in Wait.

It rained while I stood idle in my darkness,

Receiving pellets in torrents from up high

As I listened to the verbal bullying of the storm.

I stood still, ever calm to face this wretched tempest,

To watch it Keel over foundations, break down relations

And drown souls in a river of individual damnations.

I stood, restraining the urge to duck for cover, denying

Myself the warmth of another, and I watched this rain that

Was not natural.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness,

Mastering the bitter cold for a sign from my master.

I longed for my release from my binding.

I waited for the command that would free me, 

For the order that would send me back to my post.

I waited, for the voice that would praise my output.

I waited, I stood idle and waited for the sky to clear,

For the chance to perform my duty as the sun

To light the darkness that blinded my master, to

Ignore the darkness of my hollow sustenance.

It rained and I stood idle in my darkness;

I stood in wait with a calming duress, 

Waiting for that time of calming showers and

The passing of the numbing clouds.

I stood idle in wait for my master,

During the time when her soul was in longing.

This rain was not normal.

It was never from the gods of nature.

It was my master weeping for warmth.


10 lines of life and symmetry

Life rolls out in a circular motion

And the ball plodding the path knows; 

No volition alien to its making calms it. 

No conscience begs its progress, unless; it stops where destiny need it. 

In a wonderful twist of symmetry it comes to a halt,

Where we meet at a stream of dreams.

It links our consciousness to cravings,

an endless cycle of life and being,

Made easier when we finally meet; and live like there’s nothing

That stops us from breathing and living, while loving this motion of being:

Life in it’s perfect motion; its own direction of meaning.

The Library

This silence. This sombre silence defines this large 

Room. The shelves hide the emptiness. The books 

Flood in the loneliness. The book covers; they hide 

The loud words behind the large stacks that deafen 

This room’s sentiments. Filed, recorded, piled in long

Rows of material firmness, to display each stack as 

Editions of experience that could help rule the world;

If only they were opened. If only they were read and 

Understood the room would be a marketplace. 

The lighting would be better, the shelves would feel 

Warmer and the words would scream louder and clearer.

This room. It has the sombre ambience of a cemetery;

The shelves lined like tombstones reading last rights 

And elegies. The long piles give off the imaginary white

Glow of clean skeletons and the words in there are the

Muck and puss of the earth. If only the soul of the room 

Were not drawn to seek out patronage. If only this soul

Gave life to this room. All it wants is space on a shelf.


The Rest House

On a lonely hill, where no one makes home, is a 

Rest house. On that hill, where crickets take ease 

And lay their tune, where brothers aim never to go, yet 

Their sisters try to rest their heads, is that rest house.

With foundations foreign and strong yet weak to the 

Muddy terrain, sturdy and yet, so frail to the seasons there;

This rest house was made to ease the weary and travelling in

pain, yet

Welcomes those who use it for a wicked aim, and then leave.

The caretaker has no complaints; it gets so lonesome on that hill;

When the rest house is his mind.
                      ||THE REST HOUSE||


A Speech To The Living

​The spirits be damned 

While I scream what is on my mind.

May they grant me eloquence and ignore

My disobedience. Grant me the words

That scholars struggle to command. And in

My address you, who observe, will be servant to these lines 

That Will your duress; force you to demand

Intellect and attention, force your dear mind to be mine.
I speak of matters at hand, love that denies and knowing

That cries. History in tatters and fame that blinds. I speak of

Time in earthly limbo, no saviour comes to the jungle,

No jungle exists, merely metal and smoke that jumble

And confuse the able from their road to freedom. 

The rumble has passed, crumbled to leave only bare living. 

The struggle has denied and replaced the tethering mumbo as living

A dance in the dance lost because steps are a hand guide away.

Experience is a long way away and the truth is; 

Knowledge and truth are not the same.
Steady the beating hearts that rock the frames,

The one’s with hatred of pasts too old to blame. To them I say; aim your spears, 

Your immortal moral vengeance, at mortals long dead. Aboriginals,

Long gone bid you Allo, greeting and adieu from graves long since 

Scarred by dew. 

To those weighed by yesterday’s mistakes I kiss your cheeks,

I weep and then I leave. I grieve but then I leave, so

You long for my absent nature, and leave behind the day 

You hate, for days with me.

To those who live by scripture; by the testimonies

Of Jesus man and The Man of the Eid,

Or by men who reached the end and left dairies as aide,

To you I bid safe journey. For the man who lives by prescribed standard 

Has courage and valour, to chase the image of man who lived his own

Standard, to live by sold standard. 
I end my shouts with no standard, no moral from my stand up.

I see you, give hope, and now I leave you.

For structure,

For an ending,

I say: “Good luck to you.”

The Midnight Man

The man of the hour, he came to town, when the hand 

Sang his name in rhyme. And Slowly did he move, from door, to door.

For choices and a score too bleak, just to knock. And did he find the

Home he sought as he made his stride on the chimes of twelve? 

Yes, yes; He found the knob, he made his stop, where he steadied, then knocked. 

Then he banged and banged to Jesus man’s hearing, he roughed the hardwood,

He tilted the hinges, he kept his pounding till hounds were sobbing. 

When the door bolted a man was scurrying, light in hand to stop this man handling.

Then he saw the face, the face of this man, he saw, then made to say, he saw then went white in haste:

“The midnight man. The midnight man. 

You’ve come to your future, so we start the race.” 

The man said nothing, made to enter, he strode through and saw, his future is this, while faces and lights

Peeked through snooping curtains and hissed:

 “The man is back, the man of the night. 

He’s come to claim his future at last.”

The Midnight Man“, they call him. 

 And When the hands meet and night is up.

The midnight man make his choice, while the town sleeps, while they live the night.


                          || LEBRECHT ||

                || THE METAPHYSICAL ||

A moment on the road to the way

​Slow and steady, in dark fumes stuck

between hot wheels making mirrors on the ground.

There’s movement, then none at all, just 

A constant snail’s pace of heavy metal bodies, 

Trudging towards some place we all need to be.

Where are we heading? What are we doing?

Where is this road leading us in single file? 

Why are we in our dreary speed machines, 

Windows open, blasting out Jesus man tune’s and 

Audio “how to be’s…” offering concise, overstuffed

Grunts of assurance and guarantee’s of the destination?

 My own talking black box is stuck in a loop all music verse,

 “Sympathy for The Devil” drawing stares and there are eye rolls after,

While I help Queen scream his lines; “He’s lost his mind”, they say. 

Oh yes;“I want to break free from your lies. You’re self satisfied,

I don’t need you. I’ve got to break free!” I sing and I want this.

Oh God knows too, he knows I want to leave this endless stretch

Of deep black going miles, for days in unendingly blinding sun.

I want off this road that never twists or turns while the sun plants burns my

Face as kisses. But we’re going, and stopping, metal going and stopping.

We go then stop like waves caught between other wave motions, 

Mechanical kick backs with no going back; Feeling boxed in, repeating scenery, 

Living in slow motion. Moving then not moving until someone is pushed of the road 

By the devious Devil’ antics, sometimes to pick up next stage prizes to stuff already boxed

Metal spaces with, or to blow tired coughs from exhausts that mainly confuse those behind,

Leading them to a madness that they need to break free from, just so they park 

Now that they don’t need this; maybe they will become Jesus man’s guide to his way after. Maybe he’ll end his drive to the way.

But what is the way? What is this way we should know? Someone please tell

Me now ‘cause I need it. I just need to know.
                          || LEBRECHT ||  

               || THE METAPHYSICAL||