Last words from the shore by Jonathan Beale

The world saw

This apparently everyday scene

A child being held

Asleep perhaps? Unwell?

But, dead – really dead.

Looking at the scene of which I was a part.

Tomorrow: now, never comes.

And somehow the age will change

Against our canvas

Of our making

Cut in the devils playground

Somehow playgrounds

Devoid of this scene

That is our life

And his that fell short

Here the scene:

Whether landscape, portrait, or abstract

He’ll never this out

Nor kick a ball, kiss, or read a book.

For the ghosts of they who passed by the night before by Jonathan Beale

Early Sunday Morning 1930 by Edward Hopper


You don’t see us

Along life’s rails

The sleepers and paths

That veers away from

The split infinite.

Of the fire and

Passed by; under the window’s

Eyes, closed on the world.


The rats and foxes

On night maneuverers.

You cannot see them in doorways

Sanctuaries of the bum.

v. absenteeists.

Words that smooth and caress

All lovers are blind except for Echo –

A cast in these vast stone artefacts.


These places to store…

Created for building & making.

And ‘no’ not us, we’re the bums – lost, strayed.

Just the bums invisible, yet there.

There is reason. There must be. Reason!

Kant’s mind occupied him a lifetime

Sorting those colossal pieces of,

Bishop & knight …


We feel – the fork

No address: no, no, no,

Begging breeds, no ingenuity

The cream always finds

The way up – the wise will

Wield a new way.

We sit, sharing stories

So old now, they become rusted.


Stuck in time. Their cells, their D.N.A.

Become and the story: that grows differently

The scene remains the same.

Life remains until the day grows.

The light cuts the polished shop window.

They have passed away.

The eyes of the morale and the moneyed

Will not see them today.

Somewhere somewhere by Jonathan Beale

The dull dives

of the east, west, and southside:

A loud unharmonious

Noise was heard to beat, beat, beat


What monsters the TV

Breeds and in this


Swamp that needs cleaning?


Somewhere – somewhere

In streets and sidewalks

He spoke to me and will

Look after me – me – me


When breeding the though

And airing to the masses who

Want to hear – hear – hear

that they are not us. Not us.


They can fight our misguided

Wars without being part

Of out central cause. The words

short as they fall down the drain.

For every eye of the world by Jonathan Beale

There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to truth; not going all the way, and not starting. Buddha

The world is the distance trod by the passionate pilgrim
This eternal geographer
After Henri Cartier – Bresson


□ From the loneliness of the Frontier Post, □ to those

Spanish gypsies: a sharp glint in their eyes

To their endgame. □ Seeing the women of Epirus

in Greece beating their sodden washing to the rhyme

of some ancient rite, or from the very eye of Lorca’s

women. □ As do the women of Suzdal in Russian wash

in Icewater. □ A man caught between shadows (somewhere

between Debussy and Grieg’s Morning Song) striding

on into anonymity. □ St Georges Day Georgia 72 –

The Alaverdi Monastery the boy swinging in the car door

Paul Newman perhaps? The monastery unable to look away.

□ unassuming, in the Palais-Royal Paris 1959, people passing,

Philosophising, perhaps? □ the Serbian cycling cellist. □

□ Finding ends everywhere from a decomposing boat

in Co Kerry; to a Horse, a man, and dog pause before

going on to where they need to get to. □

The thread of humanity woven in culture of place and time.

The eternal geographer marks the world of émigrés

In the eye – in the moment – in the memory

Outline of a city by Jonathan Beale

…of consumption creeps in, drips from the side of the moon that doesn’t sleep. A faucet with fangs cannot be turned off. From Alligator: by A. J. Huffman.


Syria today – tomorrow


That human nebulous experience among the rubble

As everyday as the football gossip or the markets rise and fall

Empires in their being rise and fall. Not even walls hold firm


The world is fighting its own bill of rights. In every tiny corner

Once, here was a great and glorious pulsating heathing metropolis.

The city will rise again from the blood permeated in the earth


Jonathan Beale has numerous poems published over 50 journals around the world. His work can be found in such books as ‘Drowning’ and ‘The Poet as Sociopath’ (Scar publications). His first collection of poetry ‘The Destinations of Raxiera’ is published by Hammer & Anvil.

His second volume is looking for a publisher and he is currently working on his third volume. And is included in Macabristas d’Honneur. 

His work has recently been published in Anti Heroin Chic, Dissident Voices, Red Fez, Sheepshead Review, Aphelion, Linnets Wing, aaduna, Horror Sleaze Trash, et al. He studied Philosophy and lives in Surrey.

The Sunflowers by Jonathan Beale

(of Grabovo)


That still air holding no side –

just an innocent bystander:

as one with so many sightless eyes –

senseless to the deed,


railing across the sky’s simplicity

as the bloody butchers window.

The world is made-up of half-truths

and half-truths that dissolve –


Jacob’s ladder, there, just left

unattended seeming intertwined

in a moment – the toss of a coin:

the flick of a finger.


Between life and the alternative.

In a single frozen moment

sucked out from the heavens

and casted down to hell.


Not even the simple dream to stride

the heavens as pantheon.

As the sunflowers’ face of innocence

look bewildered seeing this scene.


Holding a quintillion quintillion of seed

each a single mass-of-hope

Each a universal day.

Drowned out by the bloody sky’s.


Marbled voice and shouldest destroy

them which destroy the earth.

In this corner of the world, this world,

this microcosm of the world


From some bland earthy paradise.

To an amazing stunning

Strangely appealingly hellish image.

The stench – drowning –


If Hieronymus Bosch’s eye could

have caught: that vision!

The Garden of Earthly Delights

to ‘The Seven Deadly Sins


and the Four Last Things.’

This inconceivable allegory

of what is to come or what we are

to become. And how close is perdition?

Within the painted picture’s frame by Jonathan Beale

A Triptych


For C. H. 


Panel I


ab initio*


Beneath the waves the currents strength

The mane; vast, swirling, spiralling, uncompromised

As the thought of St Sebastian and as thought as absolute

As Aquinas’   – the masses who occupy the distance

Who fall and fade into the background.

The masses make up and swim in their mediocrity

A happy sea to swim in. waters of renaissance


Panel II


Condicio sine qua non **


That song: you know the one.

That song – that stopped you DEAD!

Dead!  The nudum pactum*** of the raw –

Four – on – four that drives them on and on.

The vein of your past grows on in the garden

Of your might and magnanimity.

The cortex maps the past too much.

In the scented garden there is no need

No, no need for vision

The right path is always found always

Can become lost in the morning mist.


Panel III


leges humanae nascuntur, vivunt, moriuntur**** 


With that sense certainty: the French have a word for it.

As the air reverberates with swirling conversations

“…the polymath, one who is interested in everything

and nothing else.”  °


Expansion of self – in the ravine between the hemispheres

The waters carry fresh and brine at the same time.

Clothed in silk and in goat hair

The external world of the unexplained

The changeable world from Babel

To Père Lachaise Cemetery where Chopin’s

Nocturnes echo on into the night

As the river ripples flow on

Endlessly into the night. 


*      From the beginning

**     A condition without which it could not be

***    Naked promise

**** The laws of man are born, live, and die

°      From a conversation between Susan Sontag and Umberto Eco

°°     Expansion of the sum

The day death died by Jonathan Beale

“Pfizer makes its products to enhance and save the lives of the patients we serve.” . “Pfizer strongly objects to the use of its products as lethal injections for capital punishment.”


Morality!  Blindly strident –

Coloured by years of the moss corrupting –

Blinding all vision – until vision becomes


And is led by the cries of the crowd

Kill!  Kill!  Kill!

That unholy innocent trinity of Sodium thiopental, pancuronium bromide, and potassium chloride to stop the heart.

Incidental overtones from a chemistry class

Perhaps – who knows?

The bewildering abstract

Of a so-structured-death.

Between too much day-time TV

And The Good Book.

From the hands of lives that have

lead to preserve life

And save.

And save.

Blood Cities by Jonathan Beale

There is no past here,

only a constant ‘ever’

and only and an eternal present.

They are cemented in blood and blood

The masculine sword wielding

Struck in the blurring of bloods.

She was born and lives outside

of history’s thin vein.

In her own private universe of a sticky

past caught among the olive oiled redeeming light.

The artist understands

the city paths, in their red bloodied rich lives.

Only the pauper or poet can see through.

Here, some two vast covenants

are married under one roof

of the Copernican sky.

They are now drowned in youth’s desire

for beauty, and in beauties desire.

This consumes all.

The primary element, is as life starts;

is seeking the first fruit before the sunset.


The scapegoat by Jonathan Beale

That image; the downtrodden, punishment is innocent.

Eyes blinded by the whiteness, Caustic salt of bitter worlds, words.

Hounded by life mused to be painted by purity of they whose soul.


Echoing something past over into history.

As an unwanted child reminding

The parents of their brief moment of indiscretion

Theirs cannot be the punishment

Theirs cannot be the cross bourn

Theirs cannot be the life declined

Theirs will never be the sacrifice made.

Revisited upon them – by their act


There he stands when standing won’t do

His hair hanging like willow leaves

Even the refreshing breeze ignores this infant

And his eyes plead for –

What? He cannot resolve

He cannot know – instinct speaks

Against the crowd as he

In silence remains

His blood for the sins of other

His blood for the sacrificial alter

His blood with cover a multitude

His blood will, his blood will, his blood will.


So let us beat a path to the new Garden of Eden by Jonathan Beale

So let us beat a path to the new Garden of Eden

Let us warmly blanket our enemy’s enemy,

And where’s the friend?  Where are they to be found?


So your grandmother will sacrifice her care

Or be charged even more by those she’d worked to feed;

Who, now play another poor opening gambit.


Those who are blessed with schizophrenia, or any

Of those unrestrained un-necessities of Pandora’s

Blackest box. Stuck down while more destruction is made.


How long can we wait before we strike blindly out?

Debate has sparked some of the unholiest of fires

Into the forest’s fires to burn and turn the day black


The worlds selective venom just breeds venom – remember

Baga Nigeria? Do you?  Heraclitus would seal and heal

The wounds and wash away from the memory.


So now, the media speculate and the Politian’s

weave and spin and wheel and deal and grin

and spin and only historia will teach us the truth


if indeed there is any. The newly cut cloth in Eton

and Brasenose dogtooth to tear and tear –

as searching questions get blown away and lost


in the wind.  And so, even in the Garden of Eden there

was a serpent, and still to be found today as the newly

broken country.  So let us beat a path to the new Garden of Eden

Paris Friday November 13th 2015 by Jonathan Beale


All mankind… being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty or possessions.
John Locke

An accidental falling of spring sun light

As the afternoon fell in to darkness

In this mid-November storm.

Seas of leaves – storm and vortex – divisive

The pigeons in their chores relive.


Swirled around and around until

The afternoon fell into darkness

Life off course, and of course.

Their number, too vast

For their time – just too vast.


Their future rips at their deed

As the darkness fell into death

To exist, in a Parisian mood.

Not out of any hellish scene

From Bruegel or Bosch.


The ages crumble, as change must,

As darkness fell into death

trying to erode, the foundation

of the mountain.  The Gallic

strength not to bow; not to break.



It is clear that not in one thing alone, but in many ways equality and freedom of speech are a good thing.

Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman


A soul left covered in white canvas

A picture left incomplete

Under cover of white canvas in the street


Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman


Their Friday ready to unwind

The guard dropped

Ready to relax


Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman


Then a random demon

As hellish as the wildest fire

Melting human flesh and souls


Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman


Seeing a city ripped & torn

Apart and seeing exposed limbs

And tendons – A modern Golgotha


Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman


A soul left covered in white canvas in the street.

A picture left incomplete under cover

time moves along leaving one behind


Life and death is something

We are united by

A sole life a man a woman




“If you have two shirts in your closet, one belongs to you and the other to the man with no shirt.” 
― St. Ambrose of Milan


The rivers of fraternity

Have run red today

This plot of whys, whys, & whys

Le monde

Is covered in

Bleu – Blanc – Rouge

Pax. Paris


Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
Lord Byron

Night Radio by Jonathan Beale

‘What a drag it is
The shape I’m in
Well I go out somewhere
Then I come home again
I light a cigarette
‘Cause I can’t get no sleep
There’s nothing on the TV nothing on the radio
That means that much to
me’”                                        America Razorlight

Those life events: the stories reeling around the hours.
From acts in the ‘House’ to Afghanistan.
They who dance across the sullen spume of life’s tides elsewhere.
And pirouette across the currents hand-to-turn- to A.M.E.R.I.C.A.
The leviathan in the oceanic conscience of the world.

The night – there – here all over licking the grass and eyelids
DRAPED in this gothic mockery
Of childlike man lost in a shroud of  mankind
This darkened cloaked sandyman
Full of his darking trickery

Expresso’d voices twirling up and across the night
A single plateau – of voices where no one is alone  –  in a night café
For the lost and lonely those with time burning a hole in their night
The night as vast and new as America
The cross keys heard to gently rattle in the invisible air
The night deconstructed from the songs and lyrics of crows song
And from the nests of souls and as if Shelley and harp are outside
The men from all the cities north Finland to Russia Norway and every between
They from their spin on an axis seeing east to west from west to east
Avenues from where the deep voices are washed over by the night
Strange lyricism of fantastical place names

The Oily night slides across blood pulsing in blind lust
And conscienceless state – The night was made for loving
Guards dropped alluring alluring exploring exploring –

Weightlessness of the eye lids –
Dry as the latest crime thriller grows
Sheets cover the eye – minds breeze
Flicks them out to dull slow zone
Time to linger dully in shadows
Curled like a canine in the corner

The voices slip into Desert island discs
Flicking a light of charm
Someone’s river tide with silt and jewel
The nightmarish dogs outside bark and drool
In their silence – fighting against
Their light the place
A garden of a million unknown scents

Places on shipping
The immeasurable beasts saunter along
Canals and seas veins in some
Other mightily animal and vastly microscopic
The minds that steer them
From south east Iceland, fair Isle and Shannon
Places on the moon of earth
Until they reach Cromatry – Viking – Fitzroy

My English class as we read ‘Kes’
Kes blurts out Fisher German Bight –sir
A world of water engrained in land

Punctuated until 05.00 when having woken
Conscience au-fait with news
The words mental mongery
Thoughts given thoughts

Some comic discussing
Swedish liberalism along with English comedy
And some rerun of
Revised hourly. Hourly.  The same.

Spain 1937 by Jonathan Beale

‘Your lawful acts drink an unhealthy repose from the upturned lip of this vessel, secretly, But if it is always time for change.’  John Ashbury

Spain.  Red raw as the sun blistered skins it harboured, carrying too, too much.
A nation pumiced by, those blinding winds cutting reason down with fear.
“Today, strangely quiet”; the coffee existed in scent, that fine line broken.

Their sallow faces; emerging, raw and hard as chorizoed sculptures’
“I heard the children.”  Their voices as arrows in the wind cutting their innocent teeth in a-too- brief- unfair-youth.

Trying to find some new avenue in the same-old history play; that they never will play in. Their delicate voices blind to the clouds secret.  “We smiled at each other”
Just like the children I saw waiting for the train.  Journeys’ are invariably fickle.

“It was the high walls here; the people are so small, scuttling in fear, as mice.
My senses awoke: the blend of cooking meat, frying onions, fear struck flesh.
The stale smell of Rioja from last night’s brief escape.  The nightmare real as stone.

There was a noise heard overhead; wielding some death cry, an inevitability.
“I paused.  I saw some coffee being sold.  I took a quick slug like a bullet
Then, feeling my sweaty finger, taught, then realising it may be me having to pull the trigger…

The Vagrant Life by Jonathan Beale

Distantly tangible.
Eyes touch the view.
While inside another world.
in the heavily oily sludge he writhes
and the rat run’s under our alien sun.

In & under this alien sun.
The undefinable state of what was and is to come
Somehow indescribable.
One slight, one night, once among the neon
and the bar room noise. Leaves him punch drunk.

The chaos of this life –
Seemed to be alien & vaguely relative, somehow familiar.
The action somehow invisible – something unreal.
Although important for need of mankind
The need for, when all else has drained away.

Down! Down!  Away!  Away!  Away!
All their eyes were distracted by…
The neon, billboards, and garbage blowing about
Now forgotten as are they,
Yesterday’s wants now gone – bellies empty.

The others cut the cataract of the scene:
Strangely it shuffled by –
A stranger did something soothing
The sculpture of another life rarely felt
from another world to someone else’s life for another tomorrow.

Jonathan Beale’s work has appeared regularly in Decanto,  Penwood Review,  The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Poetic Diversity, and also; Voices of Israel in English, MiracleEzine,  Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, & (‘Drowning:’ Down in the Dirt July 13) The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Ariadne’s Thread, Bijou Poetry Review, Calvary Cross, Deadsnakes Review and The Bichin Kitsch.  He was commended in Decanto’s and Café writers Poetry Competitions 2012.  And is working on a collection for Hammer and Anvil.  He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey England.