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Definitions for philosophaster
a person who has only a superficial knowledge of philosophy or who feigns a knowledge he or she does not possess.

Philosophaster what do you know?
only what you do not know,
which you wave around on blank
paper: the equivalent
of your knowledge.

Philosophaster so full of
quotes of which are meaningless
to you — unless of course you wish
to spit out words which fall
at your feet and you stumble
over when asked to walk
a line of explanation.

Philosophaster the world is full
of fools like you, and they run
for governments and such-like
misleading the people with glee.



Blank Mind

Blank mind,
eyes of a zombie’s pride stare
at the computer screen
in a vain hope automatic
writing will take place.
Early morning fog
embraces the cities
of words that populate
the subconscious continents
in conflict over tone
and structure.
The wars rage on,
simplistic armies invade
multi-syllable religious temples
demanding to be heard
despite their lack
of vowels and consonants.
A bee tests the window in front
of me, checking for weak spots in the defences
as if it worked in artillery.
A tumbleweed yawns
and rolls away towards
a more interesting part of town.


The Life of Shadows


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The shadows move within the womb
within the greatest shadow of all;
until the eyes of dawn puncture
their cave, christened ‘Nightfall’.
One-by-one they drip from the depths,
searching for a solid form;
and come the first pangs of labour pains,
each shadow is gently born.
With increasing light, as if a flower,
the dark forms slowly grow,
into shapes of more earthly forms
they proceed to flow.
As light fades they slip away,
their lives cease too soon;
but come the night more are conceived
lit by a candle moon.


Pone cor tuum ante me: an English/Latin poem


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Pone cor tuum ante me means ‘Lay thy heart before me’ in latin. The rest of the Latin (in bold)- thanks to Google translate – is followed by the words in English. Pone cor tuum ante me is later chanted after every second line. Just thought I would try something a little different.

pone cor tuum ante me
Lay thy heart before me
et benedictionem dabit i
And a blessing I shall give
pone cor tuum ante me
Lay thy heart before me
quoniam in te est i vivet
For in thee I must live

Shelter mine soul
From the dark powers of old.
(pone cor tuum ante me).
Lest his hoard possess me,
And into darkness I am sold.
(pone cor tuum ante me)
Embrace me with thy golden light,
wherefore darkness cannot survive.
(pone cor tuum ante me)
Place thy hands upon mine eyes
And restore to me my sight.
(pone cor tuum ante me)

pone cor tuum ante me
Lay thy heart before me
et benedictionem dabit i
And a blessing I shall give
pone cor tuum ante me
Lay thy heart before me
quoniam in te est i vivet
For in thee I must live

Mine soul doth tremble
With recollections of my crimes,
(Lay thy heart before me)
A prisoner of mine own devising,
Bound by another’s lies.
(Lay thy heart before me)
Thy voice issues like breeze,
scattering the remains of Autumn,
(Lay thy heart before me)
I wait patiently for your arrival,
while I listen to the parched stream run.
(Lay thy heart before me
For in thee I must live)

pone cor tuum ante me©agblythe2015



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A ghost moving through the soil,
a submarine silent running.
About face and you meet your rear,
a road train in a U-Turn.
On your journey you leave a silver path,
a plane’s vapour trail across the sky.
You epitomise calm; tranquility is your seal.
A majesty of the moment,
an exemplar to all.




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this nameless pressure
grinding my emotions
like cheese against a grater;
it crawls within the woodland
left to grow in the subconscious
plains, possessing an axe
and a raging fire.
i can hear, and cringe,
the placid animals cry
out in fear as this lumberjack with fire
searches for my tree of life.
must i consult jung to decipher
the symbolism? reach out
for a holy book and beg
mercy from some god?
or reach for those pills –
they lay napalm
as a blanket against this
natural woodland,
leaving nothing but wasteland,
and those empty plains
where nothing roams.


The Preacher and the Vagabond


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The Preacher discharged
a Vagabond, bereft
of a duplex glance;
The Preacher dams the throughfare
of an oppulent pedigree complete
with obtestations:
Give salvation a chance!

But why,
says the Vagabond,
Did the Preacher not entreat me?

says the Preacher ,
You’re already free.

How can I,
says the Vagabond,
Be free when I have nought?

Says the Preacher,
Because it’s what all beliefs
Have taught:
you are not tied to ownership,
nor bound by obligation;
they can’t remove a penny from you,
let that be your affirmation.


How is it
two people lean on
a garden fence like two
exhausted tennis players,
serving gossip,
hoping to gain
an advantage,
and never gaining love?


Restaurant of Rememberance

I feel the cold touch of Lazarus,
as Grendel stalks the hallways
of memory, searching for the bloody
remains of corpses, that the Past,
with its white-hot sword, cuts
down and leaves upon a buffet
in the restaurant
of remembrance.

Seated at a table of gold,
served with the greatest wines,
a family I barely recall chew
on the choicest vindictiveness
left raw for the juiciest pleasures.
The eldest of them watches me
as a covert agent watches their target,
chewing slowly, relishing
a reason to wave their meal
in front of me.

Beyond them, another family,
each picks at a variety course:
salads of rage and spite; foul of
lies and deceit; meats of secrecy
and condemnation; while they drink
heady cocktails of hypocrisy. They don’t see
my starving figure slump into a corner;
if they did they would most likely laugh,
until it happened to them and their would cry
and not be heard.



I laugh in the face of superstition
and dance around the curse’s fire.
One magpie doesn’t bring bad luck,
and a single raven won’t kill you.
Walking on a crack
won’t break your back,
and walking under a ladder
is much safer
than fighting ten people to walk around it.

I laugh in the face of superstition,
and dance around the curse’s fire;
I’m safe from an insecure mind,
cross fingers, touch wood.