misterkaki - Jonathan O'Farrell is creating photographically illustrated poetry, anthologies, a book 'Pilgrim Decade - the dead reckoning' and a blog. More also at: misterkaki.blog

Any Day

The Second Day of January Prayer

SoundCloud audio recital

Each day, any day really,

often early or sometimes late,

a little affirmation hangs dangling.

Held safe, enshrouded warmly in colours from the heart.

It swings on a gentle breeze

of renewed knowing,

connection by dint of a woody protuberance,

from a branch, just now detached.

Affirming the love, in me

that knows of no conditions.

Even those, of others proclaimed,

waiting, for that fair sailing wind, to fill their sails.

For whilst currents and tides may get caught inThe Wash,

or The Bight over by Heligoland

the shoreline of oceanic scale will wait,

for our feet, anytime, without time.

The Queen Breathes

Your calls entrance me into that lull,

in the inky lurid blackness.

When it is all night,

nothing but


You are pulling up a satin sheet;

inhaling pure starlight

to sigh it out

over that chosen dewfield

of your body.

Secretly lustful incantations

with serial breathtaking,

towards that sacred part,

of your wrything.

Your untamed intent,

it so willingly finds a helping dreamed hand.

Torso bound,

cast downwards,

between your legs

by a freer unkempt

and unkept mind.

What I would not give

recklessly to that song

that taps deep into my root,

into abandonment.

Forfeit, of my my chamber,

any lofty kingdom,

my throne.

Countless other lands I may survey.

In favour,

of your sweeter favours

that might await my part

in your already risen


Oh to be, in that juicy carnal place

of hungrily vocalised unrest.

Present to me in one, just one

of those otherwise still hours

the you, of those calls

and I will give that hourglass

a lustful rotation, ready.


Let this be our pyre

SoundCloud Recital: https://soundcloud.com/jonathan-ofarrell-869429586/record20181128230143

Not to remain in any shape,

removing the real flesh,



of the warmth

of my exhaled breath.

Seeing to it


I cannot

and will not

now be confined

to a box

within another's life

like, let me see -

a fondly remembered

dead pet.

As you took

my breath away,

so do I


You have provided well

and amply,



dry material.

Tossed in from time

to time,

a spark,

even flame.

But how could it catch

a heart still ablaze?

I have unwillingly

and in a retardent fashion,

taken now little pieces

and so,



too long,


And the chaff

of your intent;


It rubs.

Heating yet cooling

in the reality of this,

half life,

I fatigue.

Like a light alloy metal,


something else,

darkened and tarnished



let this

be our pyre.

Let us willingly ignite all,

past, present, future,

in one last conjoined,

strong and resolved


that meets

and greets,


The source,

the truth,

of this fire

is a last loving act.

Toss it all in,

in one moment,

consumed utterly,

rising smut be us.

Heaveward acension

and free to go which way

or that,

with the four winds,

embracing something

so much greater,

than the two,

as was.


as then;


two wings strong,


The Way to Teguedite and beyond

Slick, white line defined

and very even new topped road.

Much like the passing of yesterday,

as you slept below a starry night

Except, that it weaved its way in

and out of the sleepy, vacated hills.

Those overlooked hinterlands of your mind, whisper,

almost imperceptibly.

I walk the way less travelled,

even though the flat topped tar invites my weary feet.

For another, this time familiarity, their own pilgrim way

and they also seek, their ease, year end,

Some rest, in an uncertain world.

To what certainty we must return

has its rainsoaked views

and cooling airs too.

I chose the rocky camina today.

It was encompassed from what we think we know;

pylons, technology embedded in her,

the so-called power, 'hand of man'.

But ancient way, riven by feet, hooves, wind and water, it called, 'walk, a little time, back in time, with me'.

So, this night, arose out my slumber.

Bid me part, from what little warmth I had gathered to me,

to find a pen that does not falter

and a heart, that will not stop

and that empty page from a book on magic.

For even though the blood cools fingers,

it will not deter

and I do not defer this urging task too long.

I have my way and it determined

by what in earlier days of ease was written,

in hotter blood.

Now, I am this in the still, cold night,

bard, warrior, lover,

bearer of the fire eternal,

that lights, surely, my way.

The Volunteer

There is no need

but your own.

All of you

do not need

to be here,

except that you

were bidden hence

on propriety goodwill.

A worthiness of bidding,

but still,

own you,

your part, in this

and ask always,

good questions.

Reward me,

in advance,

your servant.


my slipping,


into the night,

of my bed alone,

as the dog

or early,

dawning cat,

come home,

needs but the door,


a little water.

You have

but one

sacred life

and in that

mindfully sharing

just that part

that is real,

true, you.

Nothing more of me,

or you,

to say

and certainly nothing


The reward

is not falsity,

but the truth.

I will know

on my arrival,

in the garden,

having carried

what I can,


in the generous resident vessel,

of my breast.

So adieu, or au revoir

that bit

is unknown,


Just surrender me

to my own,

sacred fate

and blessed silence.

My happy returns,


are held, calloused,

in my strong hands

and a little wear and tear.

A tear falls,

away, gone.

Mindelo, Cabo Verde, November 2018

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