A worder knows how to work with letters,
Letters let matter happen;
matters expect words to happen.
A worder husbands words for Love,
They are his sheep.
The worder knows the double you order,
Knows the ebb and flow of light ….
When there is no worder working,
Words can empty, break and fail.
I am a worder …. I am in Hull ….
Come to Hull ….
A conversation in my taxi,
Simply pay as you go,
An hour or a day, whatever you say
Move your mountain,
Come to Hull
One, two or three at a time ….
While there is still time ….
The delicate work of Muse rendition
When that word
Has been usurped by the torture business
Is as difficult now
As it has always been.
Making the invisible, visible.
Sentenced by words that are
She says write …. I write
The double You rite that is poetry
Where there is no double You.
“I am who am”, a Master said
Modulated in poetry that somehow spawned
now blinded by the Tantric fury
of burgeoning misunderstanding.
The poet priest returns
Knocking at the locked doors
of a heart forever open.
Letters dance through the light,
Ducts of love that join periodically
tabling the valent cauldron of