An Unusual Day


When a world turns rainbow

and walls melt, and faces shine

with auras vibrating and gyrating,

it's time to take a break and sit

for your brain is taking off

on another awe inspiring trip.


When the carpet starts to rise,

and you fly out of the room

on wings of music to land

on a scarlet magic mushroom,

then it's time to take a break

and sit still to contemplate.


When dragons roam the skies,

and wild animals prowl with you

amidst garden paths and flowers,

while an ant greets you with a smile,

it's time to take a break and sit

very still lest you fall off the wall.


When the breezes kiss your cheeks,

and the leaves around you curl

while your hands have got tattoos

you never dreamed you had before,

it's time to take a break and sit

before you fly up, up and away.


When the day comes to an end

with you lying staring at the stars,

know that you've learnt a lot new,

which will change you subtly in time.

Now, though, it's time to take a break

and go indoors before you catch a chill.






Sifting through memories

like flour through a sieve.

They fall as dust sprinkling

powder through brains,

coating long dormant cells

with recollections of loves,

of traumas, of joys, of hopes

and hints of lost dreams.


A speck sparks a laugh,

another a tear, one recalls

pain while another passion,

a life time's collection

in an album saved

with involuntary care

for proof of existence

in the private world of a mind.


Dipping in and out

like a swimmer in the sea,

oceans flowing in tides

lapping on shores

of consciousness for a while

to retreat to oblivion

when touched and recalled

memories conserved for all time.






Chinoiserie renowned for its asymmetry.

Sincopation for its innovation.

Distillation for its evaporation.

Abstraction for its impenetrability.


Logic renowned for its classification.

Intelligence for its rationality.

Imagination for its perceptivity.

Acuity for its sensitivity.


Justice renowned for its equity.

Goodness for its generosity.

Wickedness for its iniquity.

Punishment for its severity.


Life renowned for its multiplicity.

Death for its finality.

Love for its impartiality.

Hate for its animosity.


Earth renowned for its receptivity.

Universe for its totality.

Heaven for its perfection.

Hell for its isolation.


Individual renowned for its separation.

Crowd for its inclusion.

Unity for its integrity.

One for its singularity.


Hope renowned for its sustainability.

Despair for its despondency.

Joy for its ecstasy.

Compassion for its humanity.




The Sense of Smell


To see with only the eyes

is to miss insight.

To hear without listening

leads to misunderstanding.

To touch without care

is to crush the other.

To smell without discernment

is to miss complexity.

If blind, we can see with touch,

if deaf, with vibration,

if dumb, we can speak

with hands for communication

If no sense of smell

we can only feel texture,

a loss like no other, for without it,

no taste, no sense in touching,

describing, seeing is all that is left,

an absent sense which leaves

a human being quite bereft.


So often the seemingly lesser

is mistaken as having less value,

but the opposite if most often true,

the world without the lesser

could be hard to construe.

So when we taste our next meal,

smell the scent of flower,

the grass after mowing,

the sea in the air,

rain on its way,

the scent of a woman,

the scent of a man,

smell the unpleasant,

the noxious, the foul,

the mysterious, the pungent,

or the scent of a memory,

ponder how dull life would be

without any of these in our world,

and note how many wonders

the sense of smell for us has unfurled.




A Sweet talking Charmer


A sweet talking charmer with a roving eye,

he came into her life one hot July,

swept off her feet with his honeyed tunes

so charmed she oft gave way to swoons.

All Summer long, he sang as he courted her,

awaiting patiently her longed for answer

for he had fallen in love with the maid

when his first intent was just to get laid.


Now it was she who noted his worn doublet

and his ruby ring was just a tawdry garnet.

His gifts were poor and his chin unshaven

even if his words did arouse her passion.

His sweet talk began to drive her away,

throwing his plans into complete disarray.

Try as he might he could not win her back

unless he found a more foolproof tack.


He withdrew a while to consider his options

which would allay her mounting suspicions

that he was little more than a vagabond,

and she was being undoubtedly conned.

Time, he decided to reveal his true identity

and declare his love for this wondrous beauty.

As Autumn came, he turned up one day

with sumptuous robes in royal array.


Kneeling humbly, he told her he was the king

and offered her a huge diamond ring.

Whereupon she glowered furiously at him

and, with an expression dark and grim,

told him that he had deceived her for too long

and what type of man treated a maid so wrong.

The king was grieved and begged forgiveness

for his crass behaviour and his extreme rudeness.


The maid looked down at the king at her feet

and her heart melted to see him in defeat.

She raised him up and proffered her finger.

He rising, put on her ring, and then kissed her.

Her parents were delighted with his choice

and arranged a sumptuous feast to rejoice.

The two were wed when the Spring arrived

and the maid and he prospered and thrived.


The moral of this tale is if you want to just get laid,

come straight out with it and tell the maid,

but, if you fall in love, be honest from the start

or you could end up married to a right old tart.




A morning out


Blue reflected morns,

waves on dimpled shores,

zephyrs sport on cliffs,

while birds float lazily.

Walkers stroll unhurriedly,

children play in soft sand

and all appears well

with the world,

and all appears well

with the world.


Flowers adorn the rocks,

along the river banks,

over hills and down dales.

Ducks rest idly on waters,

drifting on slow currents

while ducklings sleep.

And all appears well

with the world,

and all appears well

with the world.


A brief release from woes,

from troubles and fears.

A moment to relax,

to let go and find joy

in Nature's beauty,

to walk in tranquility

when all appears well

with the world,

when all appears well

with the world.




A Time for Everything?


A time for everything and everything in its place,

it is said. A goodly base to start to set the world

to rights, but wait, a time for everything is great

but who has time for that? And everything in its place?

On the premise everything has to be someplace.

Hard to set the world to rights when no one has time

for everything, and the someplace could be any place.

It would be an awesome, arduous task to keep apace

with everything in time, let alone find its perfect space.

Better to take a single thing and give it all my time,

then find a place for it where I can see it truly fits

before I can rest and observe the spot on which it sits.

After that, move on to the next thing, and so it goes on

until, at the end of my life, I can say ‘not a doggone

thing is out of place, I gave every thing time

and now each place is perfectly and truly sublime.


The fact that I've run out of time is neither here nor there,

though now I do wonder, with a smidgen of fear, where

I'm headed when my clock has ticked its last tock.

Will I be given more time to really take stock

of all I have achieved, or will I become dust

to blow away and settle someplace on earth if I must?

Does seem a trifle unjust to discover that everything

has its place and I am part of it, but drifting

now until I, too, find my perfect resting place.

There again, I could disappear without trace,

but that seems unlikely, now we know every atom

that is me will be recycled, and every stratum

of life will find a place for my atoms as I settle

in time right across the earth returning to the primal.

And, after I've left this mortal coil for good,

I'll find out then if a spirit in all was a falsehood,

or not. That'll be a strange place to be I think

a whole new learning curve where all must swim or sink.




The Word


Words can wrap around us like balm

or cut us deep like razor wire.

Words can lift us up to the heavens

or dash us down to the depths of hell.

Words can explain the not understood

or describe the hidden from our eyes.

Words can mould our future selves

or remove the innocence of a child.

Words can sway the wavering mind

or bring to ferment the disillusioned.

Words can vent the foment inside

or spread malice in receptive ears.

Words can manipulate the masses

or pacify the angry and rebellious.

Words can drip honey from the tongue

or seduce the gullible for fun.

Words can empower the strong

or bring mouthpieces to the fore.

Words can lead men to war

or lead them to talk of peace.

Words are the great gift of humankind

or its greatest curse when abused.

Silence can be so sweet when right

but deadly when words could heal.

Between the sound of silence

and the cacophony of a zillion words

lies the reality of our being,

so far not explained in words

and silence has yet to answer our call.




A Toast to Life.


Raise a toast to life,

lived to the full

or half or nearly

not at all.


Raise a toast to life,

lived in hardship

or ease or with

riches abounding.


Raise a toast to life,

filled with boredom

or pleasure or with

non stop thrills.


Raise a toast to life,

filled with hope

or despair, or with

dull resignation.


Raise a toast to life,

live it to the full

or half but never

not at all.




A Saved Life


To save a life is joy.

Potential incarnate,

future interactions,

unknown now will be.

Events unfold

which would not be

had that life been lost


A precious gift

giving back a life

rescued from death

to exalt in being

once more.

A life changing event

for one and all.


Hidden connections

reveal a future

not seen before.

Entangled round

a life saved

bringing into being

other lives' fruition.


The tangled web

of life embraced

in a single life,

not lost but saved.

The mystery of being

rejoicing in existence

touches all forever.




The Light


The light shines bright and clear

Blink and it's gone

Attention required


It shines

For you

Not me

Open your eyes and see

It reveals the truth

For you

Not me

Your reality

Standing in the light

Bright and clear

Safe inside

Right inside

Where only you can be

Rejoice in it

For it's a gift

A light to guide you on your way.




A body imperfect


To have a body imperfect

is the present participle annoying.

There are a few choice adjectives,

none suitable for saying or printing.


The verb for doing is limited,

in the extreme, more disabling.

Frustration curtailing desires

while reducing more than allowing.


To grow old is a pain, but normal,

to be deformed always, an affront.

So irritating and so demeaning

especially with no adequate treatment.


With ever decreasing energy,

a future that looks decidedly bleak.

A body that refuses to work,

getting daily progressively weak.


With a body imperfect screaming,

a past time for fools, time to learn

patience, acceptance, tranquility.

Not a chance, fight, shout, burn.


There's nothing acceptable about it,

it's a pain in the butt and degrading.

Waiting to slow down to zero,

a fate undoubtedly worth evading.


So the grammar of battle coinciding,

a clash of wills, a body versus brain.

To the winner keep walking, moving,

to the loser a rapid decline into pain.


No choice, go down all guns firing.

A quick exit before all has fallen apart.

No need for regret, pity or sorrow,

it's simply the time now to depart.




The Weather


As changeable as the weather our moods,

when the horizon looms clear on a blue sky day,

we can stride forth confident we're on our way.

When soft clouds appear on a gentle breeze,

we still smile, certain we have no worries.

When clouds thicken, our progress is more careful,

we're less sure, aware now of a need to be mindful.

When the clouds turn grey and it looks like rain,

we tread more cautiously our hopes to attain.

When storms set in and darkness shadows the day,

we temper our progress, fearful we might lose our way.

When the thunder ceases and the sun breaks through,

we're filled with hope that we can start anew.


All through our lives the weather reflects our moods,

come rain or shine, sleet or snow, hail or frost,

we go from high to low, hot to cold, certain to lost.

In temperate climes, moods tend to be sedate.

In tropical climes, moods tend to be passionate.

In colder climes, moods tend to be introspective,

but whatever the clime, the weather holds us captive.

In all its journey through earth's evolution,

the weather has decided Life's progression.

It can stop it in its tracks, nurture it, feed it,

and Life obeys its decisions as is befit,

for the weather is the ruler of its dominion,

with Life co-operating in a perfect endless union.




Like a bite


Like a bite that itches

a memory twitches

reminding of undesired

events, a happening

best forgotten consigned

to the bin but now risen

in need of scratching.


Stay your hand be still,

grit your teeth until

the sensation ceases

and the memory fades

as its poison degrades

breaking into pieces

to vanish once more.


What a curse is memory

but what a joy when happy.

The secret is to resist

the urge to scratch

when bad and dispatch

them back to oblivion

and relax, breathe easy,

for, in the dispelling quickly,

peace returns once more.




A Chance encounter


A chance encounter world's apart

entangle mysteriously and make

bonds across a life time


A spoken word out of the blue

opens a cavern closed before,

drawing another in.


A smile unexpected lights up

another's world, piercing darkness

bringing hope flooding in.


A gentle touch heals old wounds

restoring trust and casting out pain

lightening a burdened spirit.


A tender kiss on lips gone cold

lights a fire igniting a heart

love is born anew.




Time was and Now


Time was when I was young

Time was when I had dreams

Time was when I had hope

Time was when I looked good.


Time was when I was afraid

Time was when I was alone

Time was when I was lost

Time was when I was angry

Time was when I was single

Time was when I was free

Time was when I love parties

Time was when I could dance.


Time was when I had a job

Time was when I earned a wage

Time was when I had money

Time was when I had the eye


Time was when I had friends

Time was when I lost them all

Time was when I found more

Time was when I lost them too


Time was when I was young

Time was when I had dreams

Time was when I had hope

Time was when I looked good.


Now I am no longer young

Now I can no longer dream

Now I am losing hold of hope

Now I am definitely looking old.




Now, I am no longer young

Now I can still have my dreams

Now I can still hold onto hope

Now I am old but still looking good.




A Gift


As I walk around the house, aromas fill the air.

In the kitchen, in the morning, warm milk and cereal,

later on, the rich perfume of coffee and then,

for lunch, the smell of ripe camembert cheese,

sweet pickle, beetroot, cucumber and hot cups of tea.

Up the stairs, in the living room, flower scents

delicate and fragrant fill me with pleasure.

Then on to the top floor, and the bathroom

where the aroma of shampoo and conditioner,

scented soap and clean washed towels

make me inhale deeply with sheer delight.

The bedrooms give off a warm clean body smell

faintly tracing deodorants and shaving foam

from the en suite in one and the scented drawer linings

in the other, and cedar when the wardrobe is ajar.

Then downstairs again to the conservatory,

and there find flowers attracting bees and hover flies

as their particular perfume draws them in,

and, on into the garden, where the beds, the shrubs

and pots pour forth their perfumes for the joy

of all who enter there, and each call out to insects

to come pollinate their hearts, and I sit breathing

deep and rejoicing in the wondrous sense of smell

without which my world would be so much poorer.

Later, the kitchen will play host to a multiplicity

of aromas as the dinner is prepared, and induces

hunger, and the satisfaction of it sated as the smells

call us to the table where taste buds mingle aromas,

and what is on your plate becomes alive with sensations.

How rich our worlds with this gift, a sense of smell

for it can bring in equal measure, pleasure, pain and disgust,

but priceless and precious in its value nonetheless.




The House


Picturesque they called it in the brochure.

I stood outside the house my heart sinking,

it wasn't as described that was for sure.

Derelict came to mind with the roof leaking.


For a while I contemplated not going inside,

then something drew my eye to a window,

I saw a curtain move it could not be denied

but the house was empty or supposed to be so.


Cautiously, I approached the worn front door.

I knocked and stood waiting nervous now.

Nobody came but I had a key so I could explore.

When I walked in I stayed upright somehow.


A smell of lavender and roses wafted around.

Each room I went in was immaculately clean.

I was filled with a sense of peace profound.

Upstairs the bedrooms were quietly serene.


The room where a curtain moved was a nursery,

pretty as a picture and full of games and toys.

I stood in it overwhelmed by the mystery

how such an outside could hide such joys.


I left that house, calling the agent as I went

when he answered, he went very quiet.

I told him of the happy time in it I'd spent

then he said he'd arrange another visit.


The following day he and I arrived together.

The agent seemed agitated I knew not why

until he opened the door and I saw squalor.

I gasped with shock and he let out a sigh.


Five prospective buyers had seen the property.

Each one returned the key wanting to buy it.

Each described the same wondrous things as me.

He concluded it was haunted just a tiny bit.


I turned and ran and never came back again.

To this day I see the beauty of the house inside.

No amount of study tells me of the why or when.

It had been owned by an old lady who died.


I did find a house that suited me perfectly.

Try as I might though, none matched that house.

Forever I would have to settle for almost or nearly.

It was my only experience of a true haunted house.




Step back from the world.


Step back from the world for a break

Let your mind roam free of concerns

Nothing will change when you shut it out

It's necessary for your sanity's sake.


Step back from the world for a rest

Let your mind roam free of worries

Nothing will change if you're not there

It's a necessary relief when stressed.


Step back from the world for a play

Let your mind roam free of fear

Nothing will change if you take time out

It won't even notice you've gone away.


Step back from the world for a retreat

Let you mind roam free of doubt

Nothing will change if you can't change

It's learning to stand on your own two feet.


Step back from the world for your own sake

Let your mind roam free where it will

Nothing will change in such a short time

It's a necessity to take a real newsbreak.


Step back into the world for its sake

Let your mind roam free in tranquility

Nothing will change if force is used

It's time to gently shake the world awake.




Walk gently through the world


Walk gently through the world,

Leave no heavy footprint when you go

Clothe your being in compassion

And gather into your heart the whole.


Walk gently through the world

Leave only the softest touch when you go

Clothe your being in kindness

And gather into your heart the one.


Walk gently through the world

Leave only tender thoughts when you go

Clothe your being in tolerance

And gather into your heart the lost.


Walk gently through the world

Leave no wounded when you go

Clothe your being in generosity

And gather into your heart the hurt.


Walk gently through the world

Leave no burdened when you go

Clothe your being in succour

And gather into your heart the weary.


Walk gently through the world

Leave it better than it was when you go

Clothe your being in unity

And gather into your heart the lonely.


Walk gently through the world

Leave it without regret when you go

Clothe your being in the spirit

And gather into your heart one and all.




The Sojourn


The child was a waif, no more than a thigh high,

ragged clothes hung on her frail frame

as she trudged along the dust dirt road

her face set against the scouring wind.

Few people noticed her as she passed by.


At the break of dawn with her belly groaning,

no food was there, just a sip of water

when she looked down at her mother

her three brothers and one dead sister,

there had been no time for proper mourning.


Her father had gone promising to return.

He said he'd find them food to eat

after the rains failed for the third year.

She believed him dead of hunger too

when she set off on her long sojourn.


Her journey ended when her legs gave way.

Kind hands picked her up and fed her,

washed her then laid her on a bed.

She told them of her family at home,

they listened and assured her she could stay.


For a week she lay between life and death

before she was able to stand up to leave,

after begging for food for her family.

Kind hands restrained her gently

knowing all would have breathed their last breath.


Drought, famine and war scourge her land

year after year and help is at hand

but too late for her own family.

Now she's just one more orphan

gazing out over a parched, barren wasteland.


Inequity such as this is an utter mystery.

How one can be born to so much

and another born to so little.

Only when resources are properly used

will there exist any true and lasting equality.




Privet memories


A humble shrub, the privet,

with a perfume that sends

me back in time to days

when it seemed the sun

shone most of the time

and life was good, full

of fun and play and school

was forgotten when home

again. When the rain fell,

it was down to the basement

full of treasures, magazines,

books, pictures, games,

and boxes packed with secret

stores of I know not what,

and in the garden was privet

that every year wafted a scent

around that would imprint

upon my brain memories

sweet and undisturbed

by too many thoughts

of pain and stress in days

of real childhood, now able

to be restored when passing

privet bushes everywhere,

and, inhaling deeply, recall

a time when I was a happy

little girl before the world

invaded my safe shores

and I could never return

to that innocent place again.




The Endless Song


Life isn't tidy, it isn't neat,

it can't be categorized, labeled,

boxed or sold. It can sweet,

it can be harsh, cruel, fleeting,

it can be joyful, playful, happy.

It might be exciting, thrilling, chilling,

stimulating and extremely trippy.

It could be boring, exhausting,

and downright annoying, irritating,

infuriating, embracing, enticing,

totally unpredictable, and dreary.

At times, morose, moody, sad

or exhilarating, awesome,

dirty, low, sordid, or plain bad,

but it's all we have, nothing else.


We came into being, and that's it,

we live a life with its highs, its low,

its mysteries and blows, no kit

to build another, this is our lot

and love or hate it, it has value

because life will out no matter what,

and it's free with no charge due.

So make the best of what we've got.

It doesn't demand thanks, praise

or adoration, just the silent plea

replicate me, so that days

may turn into years, centuries,

millennia and on for so long

as life can multiply, rejoicing,

celebrating its cosmic endless song.






There's a streak of jealousy in me

with its emerald eyes and envious

yearning for what another has

and knows it will never be mine.

I cannot stop the feeling.

It rises up unbidden and bridling

when I see something I would

love but, in my life, would be

impossible to have in any way,

size, shape or form and I turn away

mournful that what another has

is far more than I will ever have.

It seems excessively unfair

that others should have so much

and me what seems to be so little.

Not in every aspects of my life,

but, certainly, in some that will

remain forever unfulfilled,

so leaving a space I cannot fill,

but do not think about in general,

until I see or hear something

that sets the streak rising again

to rip my world apart, spread

a discontent that cannot be sated.


And I will know that I must go

away and sort my head out.

I'll try to forget all about

the things I cannot ever have,

and count my many blessings,

but, always, knowing that one day

again jealousy will raise its head

leaving me feeling bereft and sad

that my foolish yearnings

for others' good fortune is petty,

not pretty, and definitely a waste

of precious time, and undoes

the chance of ever being close

to anyone with that good fortune.

So, often, my loss, not theirs,

but then they have so much,

and their lives are so rich and full,

my absence would never ever

be missed. There is a vacuum

I cannot fill and so I'll carry on

being jealous and full of sadness

for that is, regrettably, the way I am.




The Fire inside


There's a door that has to open

to let the spirit in. It's a fire

that burns so bright it can blind

those who cannot see, who prefer

living in the dark out of sight.

Who refuse to shine, to open up

and let the spirit in. It's the source

of life, the catalyst, the flame.

The bringer of thirst for justice,

for peace, for harmony, for freedom

from strife, for co-habiting with nature,

a mediator, a co-operator, a meditater,

a thinker, a facilitator. It brings

wisdom, compassion and peace.


With steadfastness born of loyalty,

patience and fidelity, it anchors

passions in gentle restraints

to bring the rational to the fore,

holding the dangerous at bay,

and, opening wide the eyes,

lets the windows of the spirit

reveal the underlying unity of all

and, in the seeing, carry all

who fear to open up until

the day when we will reach

our purpose as the fire burns

away the dross to reveal

a new stage of existence.

And, like a chrysalis, we'll open up

to take flight in a universal light.

Always there, but blinding

in its brilliance for the larvae

that we were, now free

to soar, explore, in liberty

to expand our consciousness

in the spirit's ever loving care

until fully and gloriously aware.




The Brew


A little light relief she said

handing me the corn head.

It was green with yellow dots.

I'd never seen such spots.

They were scattered over it

and smelled quite a bit.


Put it in a stew or a brew,

she said then withdrew.

I stared at it rather scared,

I was feeling unprepared.

Never having seen it before,

I was feeling very unsure.


I chose to put it in a pot

then poured water very hot

on top and sat down to wait

to let it slowly luxuriate

and release its essence

when I noticed the fragrance.


It was an exotic heady perfume

that seemed to fill the room.

One moment I was in the kitchen

then my body began to thicken

and I was flying, I was a dragon

heading up to a starry heaven.


Slowly, I returned to reality

surveying the pot with gravity.

Quickly I emptied it away,

wondering if I'd flown today.

A little light relief she said,

think I'll walk next time instead.




The Grey People


The world is full of grey people,

grey people who hold the reins of power,

dull people, boring people, fat people,

short people, ugly people, lean people.

None who excite, none who you admire,

none who strike you as efficient,

proficient, effective or reflective.


All are ambitious, duplicitous,

conniving and extremely manipulative.

Hardly conducive to earning trust

for they seem to crawl out of the woodwork

appearing to be just the ticket,

but very soon the reality dawns,

they're just not playing cricket.


Their own personal aggrandizement

is the purpose behind their words,

which now seems to be a requirement

for any entering the world of politics,

alongside the ability to bore to death

the populace with promises never kept

though sworn to keep with their last breath.


And manifestos covering hidden agendas

pour out and you try turning them off

while they drown the electorate in miasmas

liable to kill off the will to live

if they get inside your head, like a virus

they spread, and, suddenly, you're passive,

helpless, infected with their particular bias.


And you've lost the game, they win

by being totally grey, totally innocuous

but deadly, because you're prey to their spin,

so the next time you see the grey people

just say you're one of the grateful dead

and deaf to their hypercritical ways,

and you're content to stay a true deadhead.




The Sprite


It's a sprite, a funny creature.

Is it one from the future?

What! I caught it in one of my traps

covering the area on the maps,

where we saw the strange light.

Never expected to see this sight.

Don't put your finger there!

It could strip your hand bare.


I'm not a sprite, you dollop,

Let me out, and I'll give you a wallop.

I'm vertically challenged, you dolt,

I'll sue you for grievous assault.

I was on a private hunting trip

when I got caught in your trap's grip.

I demand you let me out now,

as I'm not a sprite, it's safe anyhow.


He does look like a dwarf.

I saw one once on the wharf.

I think that we should let him go.

He doesn't seem like a dangerous foe.

All right, but stand right back

and hold onto that large sack.

Why? In case he really is a sprite.

You prat, I'm human all right!


I'm going to undo the catch.

Come out slowly through the hatch.

Hey, you're rather cute being so small.

Hell, get away, okay, I think you're tall!

Get that stick to hold him at bay.

Hey, his skin is turning grey?

He broke the stick with a single blow.

What do you mean, you didn't know.


I think we caught an alien.

Run! What, you're frozen.

Move, you idiot, run for your life,

I've only got my pocket pen knife.

That's it, run, damn, he's fast.

I know, we shouldn't have trespassed.

Too late now, just run like hell,

because that thing's growing as well.


Humans are really so very dim.

Pity both of these were so slim.

Could have done with a bigger meal,

but wasn't expecting them to squeal.

Must remember that in future

and silence the next human creature.

Now, these clothes feel weird

but I quite like wearing his beard.




Call Centres


Rein yourself in, tightly bridled,

adrenalin flowing ready for battle.

Can't let it out, must keep it in,

letting it out will only bring ruin.

Deep inhalations, calming thoughts,

details at hand, dial the number,

cheerful voice welcoming,

keep teeth from grinding.

A list ensues as long as your arm,

press the right key or repeat again

and you're through, no, you're not

you've more keys to press

and so you do, and you're through

but no, you're not, you're in a queue!


If not 0800, you're paying for this call

so your stress levels rise as music

plays crap in your helpless ear

interrupted with an automated voice

saying ‘your call is important to us,

thank you for your patience, we'll

answer it as soon as one of our advisers

is free', and the music returns once again,

and you sit there counting cobwebs,

picking fluff from your sweater,

blowing dust from your keyboard,

making faces, swearing out loud,

shouting abuse into the mouthpiece

‘Where the hell are you?' You scream,

after your tolerance level has come

and gone ten minutes ago, and now

and then the voice comes on, repeating

the message and suddenly you're through,

you sigh with relief, or groan with despair

if the accent tells you you're in India

again, and will have difficulty

understanding a bloody thing

because you never learned indenglish

at school, or it's someone up North

whose accent is thick and you can't

understand what they're saying

unless they speak slowly and loud

to give you time to decipher their words.


And your brain cells are numb,

your backside is numb from waiting

around and then you must tell them

who you are, why you're here

and what they can do for you

for the third, fourth or even fifth

time, and they answer civilly

but you can hear the tone is

practiced tolerance verging on total

indifference, because their last call

was the same, and the one before,

and the one before that all day,

every day, and we're all going

insane in our own desperate way,

and then we both conclude

that a solution has been found

and it's been carried out

and is there anything else they

can do for you today? And you go

and put the phone down,

screaming inside, because you've

no idea whether they've done

what they said they have done,

and you go back to waiting to see,

while swallowing little pills to ease

the stress or deciding to live

in a bloody forest in a tent,

and hunt your food, drink water

from a stream and never touch

so called civilization ever, ever

again, oh, and jump on your phone,

kick the TV and break the radio,

drop the desktop computer or lappie,

and hey presto, you're nearly free!






Listen to the breeze rustling through the trees,

see the sun glinting on verdant green leaves,

watch the dew drops sparkle on buds and flowers,

enjoy soft puff ball clouds drifting lazily along,

hear the swish of crops dancing a gentle ballet

as the breeze whispers through on this Summer's day.


Listen to the blustering gusts shaking the trees,

see the leaves twisting in the showering rain,

watch the green fade to gold, red, and brown,

look at the forest floor with its carpet of decay,

notice the berries ripen then be carried away

as the gusts cavort around on this Autumn day.


Listen to the wind howling through the trees,

hearken to the rain pounding on the soil,

watch the lightning searing through the skies,

hear the thunder rolling over hill and dale,

see the clouds fleeing in billowing disarray

as the wind vents its fury on this Winter's day.


Listen to the zephyr wafting through the trees,

feel the warmth of the sun after ice cold days,

sense the new life bursting through the soil,

see the grey skies surrender to the blue,

rejoice when a new born world holds sway

as the zephyr exalts with joy on this Spring day.




The First of the New


They were so mismatched,

they had to be hatched.

Those two weren't born.

Conceived before dawn

in the dark of the night,

spawned out of sight,

they sat there deformed,

their bodies transformed.

The great egg shattered

with grey shell scattered

as they emerged shrieking,

their birther screeching,

and the alien spawn

glowed bright like neon

as they opened their maws

showing teeth like saws

and devoured their mother

so they could grow bigger.

With their first meal over,

like a conjoined ogre

they split into two

flapped wings and flew

from the nest, their intent

to spread over every continent.

And that was the beginning

of the great mass spawning

of an unknown alien life form

that moved as a single swarm

across the world like a storm,

like a ravenous toothed worm,

once it reached full term

grew into creatures hard to believe,

oddly named as Adam and Eve.




Triptych on a Rose


Stark branches frost laden

spear the drear chilled day

where the light is hidden

beneath leaden grey clouds.


First buds pierce the branches,

leaf green tips shoot through

finding life amongst the thorns.

And what was dormant grows

abundant in its fertility, stems

give birth to a rose bloom,

a majestic queen, scarlet robed,

bejeweled with the morning dew.


Petals strewn on soil, chilled

with leaves scattered, torn

from stems dying now, winter

closes in and the rose dies.




Leaving Home


A time of hope, of excitement and expectation

fills the youthful heart when stepping out

into the world for the first time, exhilaration

at having freedom, independence, new friends,

and parties, to indulge where once limitation

was the order of the day, and something

completely new, a job with wages, remuneration

for work done, and it's all yours and yours alone

and life is for living not with fear or hesitation.


Then reality kicks in. Life becomes routine,

your world of work marred by office politics,

and the parties become few and far between.

The freedom you have is still there but now

there are fewer people on which to lean

and your parents are seen as demanding

because they treat you as if you're still fifteen.

And then you meet somebody and fall in love

which brings a load of problems not foreseen.


As time passes, you might decide to marry,

then discover living with another isn't easy,

and there are lots of arguments over money,

but, on the whole, hope is boosted once more

when you find your wife is having a baby.

How life changes once it arrives, your life

undergoes a metamorphosis from man to daddy,

and you're hopelessly besotted with your child

whether boy or girl, either can make you happy.


And then maybe one or two more might be born,

and you find yourself with huge responsibilities,

many of which can make you utterly careworn,

but you carry on toiling for your family

as your life ceases to be your own, and you mourn

for the days when all was carefree and easy.

But, there are times when you know when torn

between leaving and staying, you love them all

and know these feelings as demons before the dawn.


At the end of the day, they will all go away.

The children will fly the nest to join the world

on their own, and like you, they'll find their way

through the pitfalls and pains, losses and joys

to make lives for themselves, and you'll allay

their fears if they call for comfort or praise,

or give them money if broke once again, and pay

for something you never had but they must have

and smile, at least you're still useful in your own way.




It is a light.


It is a light that burns so bright,

a lamp to guide you on your way.

Always keep it in your sight,

it is a light that burns so bright.

A protection from the dark of night,

a beacon guiding you through the day.

It is a light that burns so bright,

a lamp to guide you on your way.


A light not all on earth can see.

Born deep within, a sacred fire.

Nurtured in the spirit's foundry,

a light not all on earth can see.

Wrought in the struggle to be,

it comes from a longing and desire.

A light not all on earth can see,

born deep within, a sacred fire.


Follow it through your life.

It will never lead you astray.

Through happiness, pain or strife,

follow it through your life.

When your troubles are rife

it will smooth them all away.

Follow it through your life,

it will never lead you astray.




Lay down your burden


Lay down your burden and sit back,

you've strayed off the track.

Rest up for you are very weary,

lay down your burden and sit back

you've lost your way briefly,

you need time to ponder wisely.

Lay down your burden and sit back

you've strayed off the track.


I've food to give you sustenance,

water for your thirst and guidance.

You've walked so far, you're fit to drop,

I've food to give you sustenance.

Sit down beside this rock and sleep

for I know you have promises to keep.

I've food to give you sustenance,

water for your thirst and guidance.


When you awake, you'll see the way,

you had not gone very far astray.

I've made you a map to guide you.

When you awake, you'll see the way.

I'll be with you until you're home again

and shield you from the wind and rain.

When you awake, you'll see the way,

you had not gone very far astray.




A time of flux


Peaked mountains and dales in Wales ,

high tors and rocky fjords in Scotland ,

rolling hills and great moors in England ,

mist laden hills and shores in Northern Ireland

make up the land of Great Britain .


No longer so great, now shrunk in size

as its empire reached its zenith then its demise.

A Commonwealth still survives

held by slender threads of loyalty

to a royalty now diminished in its authority.


A United Kingdom struggling now

to keep the united going somehow,

with Scotland and Wales seeking independence,

no longer desiring to be in residence

in a kingdom heavily weighted in favour of England .


We live in a time of flux, of change,

with peoples seeing their identities estranged,

their nations swallowed by the more powerful,

their lands taken over by the more forceful,

and rebellion stirs in hearts once more.


At a time when unity should be coming to the fore,

there is a terrible urge to return to what was before.

A desire to have and to hold ancient lands,

an erroneous belief in god given homelands,

and, in the claiming, whole lands fall to warring.


A time has come for reason, of peaceful co-existence.

It demands tolerance, understanding and inter-dependence.

Enough blood has soaked the earth for territory.

Where peace has failed to come, there is no glory,

for the dead protest loudly they have all died in vain.


We break our bonds of unity without considering

the effects upon our young and upon their offspring.

Handing on a fractured world, lands returned to fiefdoms,

with neighbours seen as threatening their freedoms,

a sad inditement, and the end of true civilization.




In the days of old


In the days of old when knights were bold

a fair young maiden was strictly controlled.

She would be courted on bended knee

with sonnets delivered ‘neath a blossoming tree.


Clothed in shining armour with squire behind,

the knight would dismount with manners refined

while the maiden waited with blushing cheek

for him to open his mouth and speak.


She could not answer aloud but her fluttered lashes

was worth more than all the world's riches.

Her chaperon kept a hawkish watch over both

for the knight would first have to plight his troth.


Failing that, the maiden would be whisked away

and locked in her room without delay.

Invariably, she would be wearing a chastity belt

so her discomfort was most heartfelt.


With her father holding the only key

she looked to each knight to set her free.

The one who courted her with promises sublime

would surely win her heart over time.


Trouble was, he could be called away

by his king or queen without delay,

and on would go her chastity belt once more,

it was for her own good her husband swore.


The conclusion is, these days of old,

were fine for knights but for maidens controlled

they were one great momentous bore

and definitely not fun unless you were a whore!




Let's rock


Tick tock let's rock

I had a horrible shock

When I took stock

And had to mock

My tattered frock

No good for wedlock


Need to go shopping

But the rain's dropping

No use primping

This frock needs dumping

No use moping

My tears need wiping


My car is a wreck

The oil needs a check

I'll break my neck

Can't cover the cheque

What the heck

The shops are such a trek.


Tomorrow I'll go

And search with gusto

For my trousseau

But I'm out of dough

So I don't know

Just seen out the window

There's a rainbow!




The Selfish Gene


The selfish gene the experts claim

is the purpose of existence,

which naturally produces resistance

to a purpose so cold and meaningless

as reproduction in an endless

repetition of the codes embodied

in all life they have agreed.

We are coded to protect our own

they say, so that ours alone

will survive into the future,

it's the purpose of Mother Nature.


What seems to have been left out,

is that we're all linked about

150,000 years ago, when a few

humans made a huge breakthrough

and spread across the earth,

eventually each one giving birth

to every human life on earth today.

So, the conclusion you could say,

or so it seems that way to me,

is that all of us inside are family,

and that requires protection overall

from one and all, a might catchall.


Not what the experts had in mind

but somewhat better to be kind

than to kill off the feeble and the lame.

This conclusion, they claim,

is a necessary task undertaken by the fit

by ridding the world of a surfeit

of sickly lives, and ensuring

that the healthy clones go on surviving.

A depressing lack of compassion

in this process of reproduction.

Such an outlook diminishes life.

Promotes only bitterness and strife,

removes all that's fine and good,

destroys a sense of brother and sisterhood,

as humans abandon the idea of love,

and hope. Time to review the above

and start to see all of us as family,

one body made up of the many,

with the earth our home, our shelter

a place of safety in time of danger,

and genes a product of pure chance

that has led all life a wondrous dance.




Rebellion in the blood


Stirrings of rebellion in the blood,

of disillusionment and resentment,

of frustration and dissatisfaction,

of anger and contempt pre-empt

the rising up of people from apathy,

indifference, fear or paranoia

to make known their grievances,

out in the open for government

to witness, be unable to deny

that their authority is being

challenged, being questioned,

being confronted, being threatened.


Politicians thrust into disarray

call on police to restore order

and look on as the people stand

their ground refusing to go away.

And then resort to brutality,

battering people into submission

but, when the masses have little

or nothing to lose, they'll react

with equal venom, equal force,

fuelled now by rage, by indignation,

by the injustice of a system

that has failed them over and over

again so see their rebellion

as timely, unable to be stopped

for their blood is on fire.


Their purpose, the fall of government,

of the incompetent, the rich,

the leeches, the elite as they face

the forces of the law who must

be torn for they are manned

by ordinary people too, but sworn

to defend government and state

over and above the people's needs

and wants, and so they charge

with tear gas, batons, water cannon,

with dogs, horses, and guns,

until the people turn and run,

only to retreat to gather strength

for another confrontation until

both sides gather up their wounded

and consider all their options.


While the politicians look on

with mounting alarm to wonder

whether it's time to call it a day

and do as the people say,

‘Go, go, go away, you betray,

cheat, lie, connive, conspire

with only your aims in mind

and they're not good for the people,

only for the rich, for the elite,

for corporations, for the greedy,

rapacious, and the criminal.'

And the people stand their ground

refusing to give way for they smell

triumph in the air, and the beginning

of the end of their rebellion

so long in coming, but they got there

in the end when rebellion

stirred in their blood to set

their spirits free on the day

they had finally had enough

and refused vehemently to go away.




I grow wiser


I grow wiser as I grow older

I said then laughed and laughed

because it simply isn't true.

The older I get, the less I know.

I cannot be certain of anything now.

When, once, I thought I knew

so much and was wise beyond

my years, but it wasn't true.

All the things I thought I knew

fell apart and left me wondering

if I ever knew anything at all.

Sat back and thought

some more and found I did

know some things that were new.

One being, never believe anything

to be true because something

is sure to come along and prove

it's wrong. That's growing

wiser I thought as I grow older.

Then I fell into a hole wide

and deep believing in nothing,

and happy in that floating world

of doubt and disbelief until I found

a rock to stand upon and named it

‘Not this, not that', and if I cling to it

I won't be duped or led astray.

So I have grown wiser

as I've grown older, well that's

what I say to myself each day

then I laugh and laugh

because it is a simple truth.




The System


There's an underlying pattern to all things

worked out by computer experts

who take a bit of this and a bit of that

and add it to a program, add in feedback,

looped that is, and what have we got,

we've got a self-regulating system,

which looked really clever and fine

and became the standard model

for the workings of the natural world.

That, in time, metamorphosed

into the workings of all life,

including homo sapiens, who exist

in this self-regulating system,

and who can be regulated too,

but not by self, that would be too much

to expect. No, homo sapiens must be led,

must be manipulated, must be fed

propaganda, lies, be deceived

into believing that the world

is the best possible one for all.

Except the majority see that the ‘all'

is very small in number while

they, the rest, must struggle to fit

in to the system devised for them

by bankers, computer experts,

politicians, corporations, lawyers,

and anybody else able to get

their snout in the trough,

which is big enough for just the few.

Meanwhile, the many sit wondering

just where the world is going,

because it looks to them

as if it's going to hell in a hand cart

and they've got no say, no way

of stopping its descent, but the many

are assured the system is working well,

it's infallible, fail safes are built in,

it's self-correcting, self-amending,

self-propelling, self-destroying,

self-annihilating, self-destructing,

there has been a technical fault,

do not adjust your screens, your screams

have been noted, don't panic, have some tea,

take a pill, we'll be back online very soon,

here's some music, it's a happy tune.




Blow the dust away


Blow the dust, blow the dust of ages away.

All that gathers it, blow the cobwebs away.

Blow the dirt of centuries from ancient scripts,

blow the cobwebs of history off the words.

See beneath the dust secrets long hidden

in the dark, beneath the dust, lost from sight,

concealed from prying eyes, arcane mysteries

for the discerning mind to unravel, to put right

errors of the past when myth and magic

lived in symbiotic union until ripped asunder

when all was plunged into the depth of night

by those who claimed the light, the insight

to see that ancient rituals must be buried,

must be banned, must be crushed, driven

underground, and myths manipulated

to bear witness to the new, and the dust

grew on the days of yore when spirits

roamed and sprites and gnomes and faeries

gathered in the woods to sing and dance

the nights away, and hid from human eyes

during the bright light of day.


So blow the dust away, blow the dust

of ages away, and learn what lies beneath

the bringers of light and truth, they live

in the dark, blinded, branded, blinkered

as the ancient rites and ways seek recognition

once again for myth and magic never left the land.

They were buried beneath the dust of history,

temporarily lost from sight, but will have

their day again when the edifices built

on sand crumble into the dust to die

withering on the vine of arrogance and pride.


Then the King will mount his unicorn to ride

the land with elvin bridges crossed,

when all is war torn and troubles tossed,

to reunite the symbiotic union once more,

and find the Queen who sleeps beneath the sward

awaiting wakening with a kiss from her beloved Lord.

Then the faery tales of yore will be reborn

to bring to birth long forgotten dreams

and hidden gifts will restore what has been lost

when myth and magic weave their schemes

in deadened minds when the dust of ages

is blown away and all those minds escape

their dark and dreary, age old cages.




Here comes the rain


Grey and drear as rain pours down,

running rivulets down window panes.

Misting views as you sit gazing out

knowing how much better it is indoors.

Nobody stirs in the empty roads.

All are safely inside their homes.

No trips to the sea today, no journeys

along traffic laden motorways

with the only travelers being

those who are heading homeward

watching windscreen wipers

flick back and forth to enable them

to see what lies ahead, and the wind

blusters like a bully in the play ground

swirling branches and foliage around,

pushing letterboxes open in front doors

so that you think somebody is knocking

to come in, but it's only the weather

playing havoc outside as it tries to get in

and disturb your warm, dry haven.

Now we'll stay inside until more clement

weather returns and the sun comes back

to warm the earth and yet, how needed

is this rain for parched is the soil

and thirsty the plants, shrubs and trees

now lapping up their life's blood

with silent pleasure as it pours down

from sodden clouds grey and sullen,

forbidding and unwelcome by some

but, embraced by Nature after a long

dry spell of none.




The Date


Sitting in the rain

with my brain whirling.

Is my hair looking good?

Have I shaved close enough?

Do I smell all right?

Are my flies zipped up?

Have I got enough money?

Does that zit show too much?

Why is my mouth so dry?

Think I need a drink.

Will she turn up?

My watch says she's late.

Not by much, but late is late.

The bus stop is dirty.

Maybe I should have met

her outside the cinema.

Not suggested here

with the fish and chip remains,

And somebody's sick,

and the empty coke can.

Her bus has come and gone.

My gut feels sore.

I really liked this girl.

She could have rung

to say she can't come.

I check my phone.

No texts, no call, the next bus

is due soon. I'll wait till then.

I can see it coming now.

My heart is thumping.

It's stopping…

and I can see her!

She's smiling at me

apologetically as she gets off.

‘Sorry, I'm late.' She says

and I say. ‘No worries,

you're here now.'

Shall I take her hand?

Yes, I will and I do

and she holds mine tight.

I'm in heaven!






Loneliness invades us all sometime.

It makes us feel set apart,

not one of the crowd. The crowd

that is accepted, adored, recognized

as being there, of value, having worth

while you sit in isolation wondering

what you have done to be cut off,

to be invisible in the eyes of the people

passing through your life.

You reach out but no hands

reach back to you, so you withdraw

into a shell, protection against

the wounds of rejection and look out

through wondering eyes

at the world passing you by.


No one escapes such times

It strikes all even in the midst

of company that we're alone

embraced in flesh and separate

from the other who we may love

with all our heart, but know

that there's a barrier there

no one can cross. Life

is lonely for everybody

in the depths of our beings,

but it can be filled in giving

and receiving, if only the giving

is received, when not, then hurt

comes and scars are left behind.


Remember those who are alone.

For they may not have chosen

to be that way. A face may not fit,

a shape may deter, a manner

seem strange, but all need love

and company to be whole,

So reach out even in your loneliness

and try, and try again if pushed away.

Somebody will recognize your worth

in your acknowledging of theirs

one bright sunny beautiful day.




A Touch.


A touch and you cower back.

I see the suspicion and distrust

in those eyes that won't meet mine.

I see now that you've been hurt,

been wounded, been abused,

and, though my touch, was gentle

and well meant, it was too much

for one like you who needs to learn

to trust again, to see that people

can be kind, can have your interests

at heart, and will not raise a fist

in rage if crossed or drunk,

or simply because you exist.


I will be patient, will sit with you,

not reach out until you ask

to be embraced, to be held,

until you see the world

through less weary, wary eyes,

and, when your anger has abated,

and healing has begun slowly

over time then we can walk

together a step at a time

until the light returns to your eyes

and trust has found a home

in you, and I can take your hand

without you cowering back again.




Pass it on


You can't take it with you so pass it on,

pass on your love, your hopes and your dreams,

pass on your compassion, your creativity,

your thoughts, your ideas even your pains.

There's a world out there in need of them all

and in the giving, so will each return to you

multiplied over and over again as you reach out

and touch other minds and hearts yearning,

learning, inspiring, educating, suffering,

as you hold them so they hold you

in arms strengthened with courage,

protected against the dread of loneliness,

of neglect, of abandonment, of rejection.

Come into these arms and they will hold

you tight as you have held me and I will

love you, I will guard you from harm,

keep you safe in my heart, come rain

or shine, storm or dark, I will be there

with you for we are one, and while I live

I'll pour out myself like an oblation

on the altar of love for it's a cold, cold

world if it's not there. As you love me

so I love you, throughout my life

I can't take it with me so I'll pass it on, and on, and on.






The light throws shadows,

shadows that move with us

through life where hidden

selves reside, ones we keep

inside, some dark, some pale,

all apparent only in the light.


At night they disappear

absorbed in the absence

of the sun but sometimes

come out in the bright moon light

but this fleeting sight

is not for waking eyes.

These shadows roam in sleep

stirring from the deep

to rise and rouse fears

of the unseen and keep

the sleeper restless in the night.


When the dawn comes again

these shadows retreat

and the light's shadows assert

their right to be present once more.

What would we be without

our shadows, whether cast

by the sun or moon, they are

companions in our lives

as necessary as the air we breathe,

as complex as our minds,

as mysterious as our existence.


I am a shadow of my former self,

you can say until you find your way

and then your shadow recedes

to let you shine in the light of day.

And so it goes on through life,

the interplay of light and shadow

forever there, forever vying

for dominance but one must

always win for when neither

is there we are no longer here,

just a memory of our former self

carrying all our shadows

away forever unknown to posterity.




The Trial


‘Speak now or you will never know peace.'

My tongue cleaved to my palate dry as bone,

fear gripped my heart and set me trembling.

How could I say what I had seen, alone

I stood before the chief his eyes boring

into me, urging me to speak, to reveal

the person who had protected my life

and, in the doing, I would have to seal

his fate for he had slain with his knife

my attacker who was about to kill me.


My family stood around panic stricken.

My father urged me tell it all and walk free

for he did not know why I stood frozen.

I turned to look around and met a gaze

so filled with sadness and unspoken terror

as my beloved brother stared in a daze

at the prospect of being called a killer.

Then I knew what I must do, I found my voice

‘I struck the man with my knife to save my life,

he was trying to kill me so I had no choice.'


A gasp of shock when round the room,

I heard my brother's sharp intake of breath

as I confessed to a murder and sealed my doom.

The penalty in our clan was death

for taking the life of a man in his prime.

I cast a warning eye towards my brother

as I saw him open his mouth to admit his crime,

but I silenced him by explaining the murder

to the chief. He listened until I fell silent,

then raised his staff of Justice for all to see

‘I've heard enough, this is my judgement,

the girl defended her honour, she can go free.'


I stood there mute with gratitude and shock

and thanked the chief from my heart.

My family beamed with joy as they took stock

of what had happened as the chief took my part.

My brother, dumb with disbelief and relief

hugged me hard with a whispered ‘thank you'.

When we departed from the court I saw the grief

of the mother of the dead man and her hatred too,

and knew she saw my brother's guilt

but had to be aware her son was not innocent

of his crime. Revenge for his blood spilt

would be on her mind that much was patent.


I could not say a thing to ease her pain

so walked away regretting this terrible day.

One none will ever forget or repeat again.

The man who died was intent on having his way

and I was too weak to stop him, so my brother

did. Now he will have to bear the burden

of knowing that I bore the slur of killer

of another for him. His face was ashen

in the morning light as he and my family

went home on the day my life could have ended

instead I was free and so, to my great relief, was he.




The Way We Are.


The way we are, the way we look,

the way we think, the way we dream,

the way we weep, the way we mourn,

the way we laugh, the way we scream,

this is the mystery we call life

but still we do not comprehend

what it is, why we're here,

where we're going, and is it real

or just a higher being's dream.


We wake each day with things to do,

we fill each day then go to sleep

and lose ourselves in darkness

for several hours to wake again

and repeat, repeat, repeat routines

that we could do now in our sleep,

and, every now and then, we stop

and fill the day with something new

to break the monotony of our lives

from driving us insane and making

it all seems pointless and inane.


But underneath it all, there lies

a deeper mystery of being

where we become more than the sum

of ourselves, where we fly on silvern wings,

soar the heavens in a space far wider

than the world we inhabit in the flesh

and rise above the mundane

to embrace the magnificent, the awesome,

the wondrous and the dreadful

and, in that world, we conquer fear,

become bold as knights of old,

rejoice like children faced with the new

and never grow older because always

young, ever learning, ever yearning

for completion one day, one way

or another, and always just out of reach

but holding out the promise

of becoming whole, eternal

and beloved by all.




The perfume of a name


Jonquil, jasmine, jacaranda,

sweet sounds of flowers

imparting perfume in the name,

wafting it on the air

to spread beauty and pleasure

from delicate to profuse.

A magical scent drifting

on the wind enhanced

at the end of the day

to fill gardens as dusk is falling.


And time to sit in the soft breath

of a breeze, in silent

contemplation of a sanctuary

designed by hands lovingly

nurturing flowers with perfumes

inhaled with delight

during the day, but especially

at night, and take joy

in a companion appreciating

the garden built with love,

a place of harmony within

where the heart and mind

finds peace and rest along the way.




A Time to Play


Looking back is hard to do.

Times remembered hold

no great attraction now.


The present fills the world

with contentment such

that remembering dies.


Cares can come and go

passing through unhindered

to dissipate into thin air.


A time to play and laugh

at the absurdity of life

and observe it passing by.




The Sap of Life


When young we stoked the fires,

full of passion and burning desires.

We lay down in a field of corn

after which a son was born.

We coupled as the bells pealed,

this time a daughter it did yield.

Then we frolicked in the hay

declaring come what may

the fruit of our loins became three

with another son joining our family.


And as the years passed by

we threw caution to the wind to lie

with each other time and again,

until children came like rain

and our family grew in number.

And the wife grew rounder

every year until we looked around

and realized our offspring did abound.

Now fourteen graced our table

which really was quite ample.


I looked at her and she at me

and both of us had to agree

it was time to take precautions

as we looked at the meager rations

shared between us for the meal,

our poverty was hard to conceal.

So I took a trip to the clinic

and had the snip real quick

for nothing would keep me and her

from coupling in our lives together.


Now our kids have kids of their own

and we look on the fruit we have sown

with pleasure and with pride

for every single glorious ride

was a feather in our cap,

and, though it's slower to rise, the sap

is still there when I see my wife

wiggle her hips and I come to life

at the sound of her laughter

because she knows exactly what I'm after.




The ‘could have been'


Rose Anne was her name

she had one thing on her mind, fame.

One day she met a talent scout

who said that he could help her out,

so she ran away at almost seventeen

unaware she was ‘a could have been'.


The talent scout turned out to be a cad,

in fact, he was downright bad.

He took the innocent Rose Anne

and, in the city, sold her to a man

who promised he would make her rich

by putting her in a popular pitch.


Poor Rose Anne soon understood

that the talent scout had been no good,

but, try as she might, she couldn't escape

from the man heavily into abuse and rape.

After walking the streets for year or so

she finally found away out of the ghetto.


With nothing to show of her wish for fame

and having now lost even her good name,

Rose Anne came home to a hearty welcome

and nothing was said of her search for stardom.

She took a job in a local store

and found happiness came with less not more.


A year later, she married the owner

who adored every bit about her,

and now they have house full of joy

with two lovely girls and a handsome boy,

but, Rose Anne, recalls, once in a while,

how easily she had fallen into a life so vile.


With words of wisdom she tells her girls

to beware of handsome men and churls

who could sweep them off their feet

but were really full of cruelty and deceit.

The girls nod and tell her not to worry

but she does because they're so very friendly.


The moral of this tale with a happy ending

is never trust a man who says he's sending

you to the stars for you're the best

without first making it a priority to test

he's not a bastard in disguise,

especially if you're not streetwise.




A whisper in the dark


A whisper in the dark,

a murmur in the park,

a chat in a square

or seated on a chair

in a café drinking coffee

or a calming cup of tea.


A word of disillusionment,

voicing a predicament,

quietly aware of danger

or the glance of a stranger.

Discontent born of repression

and continuous suppression

of opinions and views

with frequent curfews.


In these whispered words,

there are hidden hazards

for no one can be sure

the listener is secure

and won't betray you,

because fearful of the few

bold enough to speak

of what they seek


And so it goes on everywhere

where revolution is in the air.

A desire for something better,

an end of an oppressor,

and the birth of something new

where everyone can have a view

without being beaten

or imprisoned for words spoken.


One day all may be free

but corruption and cruelty

will have to be overcome

before the desire for freedom

is achieved by countries

burdened with dignitaries

and leaders in love with power.

Currently, there seems no answer

to ousting those rulers

idolizing wealth on their altars,

sacrificing their people and lives

and holding countless human captives.




The Fat of the Land


Sun, sand and sea makes me want to run

wild and free, but now I have to be pleased

with a slow stroll and a rest every now and then.

I see the young with bodies tanned and slim,

well, most, for there are quite a few who could sink

the Titanic if they hit it swimming in the sea.


I don't envy these young ones for they sadden me

because there are pretty faces swallowed now

in mounds of fat and well shaped bodies

wrapped in Michelin tyres, and I cannot see

why they keep on eating, which they do

for they are quaffing fish and chips, burgers,

ice creams, cakes or munching sweets galore.

What has become of our world when there

are so many young eating their way to early deaths,

who cannot run, or barely have any fun,

and who, if they lie in the sun, closely resemble

beached whales. It seems to be getting worse

not better too. Every visit to the city reveals

the mounds of flesh are expanding, the bottoms

definitely spreading and bellies flopping

and I sit there wondering when is it going to end?


Will they all explode one day collectively?

And who is going to warn us when this happens

because it will be deadly to be near when the fleshpots

of this world grow and grow then go off with

an almighty bang sending fatty tissue bursting

into the atmosphere, bringing an end to the age of fat

in one foul swoop. Looking around me with alarm,

I think it will happen soon.




For my dearest love


Light of step, my dearest came to me,

her heart afire with love for such as I.

I know not why I earned such a gift

but I stored it up with a miser's thrift

for it was more precious than the air I breathe

more wondrous than all I saw around me.


Her eyes sought mine and I fell into their depths

for in them I saw myself reflected

and held in such esteem I quaked with fear

lest I could not live up to this one so dear.

Her lips found mine in a kiss full of tenderness

as she embraced me with warmth and passion.


And so it has been this way for many a year,

and still I cannot believe she's mine

for she has made my world dance,

satisfied my heart without askance,

taken my body and made us one

and born our children, a daughter and a son.


Now I hold her hand once so warm now cold

for in the early hours of this sad morn

she had to leave this mortal coil and me

and my tears flow so much I cannot see

for I don't know how to live without her

for she has been my light, my love, my dream.


Farewell, my beloved wife, my lover, my guide,

farewell, the mother of my children, my healer

farewell to the one who has shared all with me

and asked so little in return except my love given thee,

I will follow when it is my time but until then

I will rejoice in the memory of you, my dearest love.




The Foundling Child


I heard the sound of weeping

as I walked amongst the flowers

still adorned with early morning dew,

and before the sun had risen,

though its glow was clear just below

the horizon, and the dawn chorus

was music to my ears until I heard

the sound of woe and sought it out

with curiosity and not a little haste.


I seemed to walk for many minutes

before I saw her crouching in the grass,

now left to grow tall with wild flowers

blowing in the breeze casting red, blue,

yellow, white and purple hues through

the field where I found the source of tears.

A child, no more than six or seven,

with dark foreboding eyes and blackest

hair, dressed in rags and most unclean.


She cowered when she saw me,

but I called out soft words fearing

she would flee before I reached her.

I paused while we observed each other

silently now for her tears had stopped.

Then, with careful tread, I drew closer

and she stayed put, eyes pools of brown,

her skin swarthy implying gypsy blood.

She, full of doubt, me, full of concern,

we faced each other as the sun rose.


Both of us were bathed in its golden glow,

no words did the child and I exchange

but merely stood together and watched

the sun in majesty ascend to its throne

on that early morning when I took a walk

and found her in the field of wild flowers.

Uncertain what to do, I reached out

and offered her my hand. She took it

and together we returned to my home.

That was ten years ago. Now she is a woman,

graceful of body, beautiful of face,

and I love her as my own, my foundling child.


No one came to claim her, and, being all alone,

I took her in. Not one day of regret

did I have in all these years for she has

brought me happiness and joy,

and I have brought a smile to her face

and laughter to my house.

I bless the day I took that early morning

walk and heard the sound of weeping

and did not turn away, for, to this day,

I sense that she and I were meant

to meet upon that dew soaked morning

before the sun had risen and I had

not proceeded on my way.




The Doll


Button nose and rosebud mouth,

eyes of blue and painted cheeks,

hair so fair once brushed with care,

now tangled and chopped, a dress

pressed and clean but now seems mean

for there's no one to love this doll.


A gift once wrapped in bright paper

and laid beneath the Christmas tree

for a beloved child, whose delight

at her discovery made the day

wondrous in every way, but she

has grown now and gone from home.


And so the doll lies untouched,

forgotten, reaching out her rigid arms,

and, finding no response, remains

a mute reminder of times past,

which everybody knew could not last,

but hoped that they would not go

by quite so fast.


Time to return this doll to her resting place,

tucked into the shadows of a closet

amongst the other remnants

of a daughter's presence and wipe

the tear away. They're all still here

should she want them for her young

when they're old enough to play

with such as they.




And down comes the rain


Pit Pat Pit Pat

Pitter Patter Pitter Patter

Chit Chat Chit Chat

Chitter Chatter Chitter Chatter

then the sound like pebbles

on a window pane

and down comes the pouring rain.

Not a sound I like to hear.

The source of disappointment,

a plan deferred or cancelled

then a period of imprisonment

while the heavens poured out their bounty

ill timed and unwanted invariably,

because we could not go out to play,

sometimes for an hour and sometimes all day.

Nobody minds the rain at night

but, during the day, it's just not right.

So, now, when I hear the first pit pat pit pat

I give a groan because I know

I'm not going to be able to do that

which I had planned

and now reluctantly canned.

Today, the sun is shining

and that's the way it should be

in the Summer down by the sea.




Dreams of better things to come.


Going back in time to a day when songs filled the air

and drifted in the sunlit gardens as we smoked

dope to the sounds of head music, and the children

ran around through the trees and shrubs and the dog

lazed on the grass by our sides.

A time when life seemed able to be changed, a dream

of better things to come, a world free of fear, lived

in harmony with Gaia and money was just something

to get you through the day, and there would be

no more war. Oh, dashed hopes were lying beneath

the surface of an idyllic scene as we lay on the grass

our heads flying on the sounds of music drifting

in the sunlit gardens.

Now, we've exchanged that dream for the god

of money and war and our young lie dying or dead

in far off places blown to bits because the dream

went sour, and the nukes still are here, and beating

our weapons into ploughshares was thrown out

of the window alongside sharing the resources

of the earth. What has come to birth is a long, long

way from the dreams we had when songs filled the air

and drifted in the sunlit gardens as we smoked dope

and believed that things could really change.

Still believe it can but the faces behind the scenes

must all die off first and then we can build a world

fit for humans and our children, so some of us

still dream of better things to come one day.




The Mind


A rhyme, a rhythm, a verse,

a poem, a tune, a piece of prose,

as the mind expands and grows

so creativity becomes ever more diverse.


A painting, a film, a sculpture,

an oil, an adventure, an abstract,

as the mind seeks to extract

the essence of life in a structure.


From caves concealed from sight

to tapestries woven in silken thread.

From pottery created by the unread

to porcelain so fine it let in the light.


Inquisitive, endlessly creative,

the mind climbs to the heights

through agony and ecstatic delights

to reach the real it believes held captive.


From the darkest corners of terror

to transcendent thoughts and dreams,

the mind carries its hopes and schemes,

some are right, some a terrible error.


But when the mind stops seeking,

stops creating, stops imagining

so will it die, bringing an ending

to the finest asset of life existing.




A Thin Skin


Sensitivity is a curse.

It makes life feel much worse

than it really is.


So what if you get rejected,

pushed aside or neglected,

shit happens.


How to develop a thick skin

when mine is painfully thin

has always escaped me.


I tell myself it doesn't matter

but still feel frustrated anger,

that's such a waste of time.


I'm going to change.

I won't let slights rearrange

my head anymore.


From now on I'll just shrug

and give myself a hug,

and be happy that I'm me.




Hidden Worlds


A dreamlike state where shadows play,

whispered thoughts indecipherable

waft through the networks of the mind.

Rainbow colours drift in convoluted patterns

weaving fractals into webs of life

and time flows unnaturally slow

in a dreamlike state where shadows play.


Another state of being temporarily

there where the eye is deceived

and the mind altered to taste sound,

feel textures, stroke colours and see

worlds within worlds, where the earth

reveals secrets not witnessed before

in another state of being temporarily.


Not for the faint hearted this world

where long held perceptions melt

and doors open wide to show

that life is a myriad of surprises

with depths as yet unplumbed,

concealed behind a façade of normality

and not for the faint hearted this world.


Astonishing in their complexity,

their vibrancy and construction

hidden worlds within minds

distracted constantly from seeing,

hearing, tasting, touching what is there

behind the eyes where light and shadow

become astonishing in their complexity.




An Unbidden Memory


A memory stirs unwanted.

An old wound opens to taste the air,

unbidden it rises up rancorous,

full of desire to be born again.

No clue why it was roused

but it's here now expectant

in its presence, inviting

a tearing down of the shield

placed there to stop its ascent

into the mind where it can sow

its poison and bitter acrimony

for a wrong done, perceived

or too real to deny and easily

recalled because emotionally

charged still. How a memory

returns to haunt is a mystery,

for when it comes it was not

called upon, nor was it there

a moment before. The flotsam

and jetsam of the unconscious

refusing to die, to be vanquished,

seemingly forever existing

in the dark corners of the mind.

The only solution is to ignore

it, to send it back from whence

it came, to cauterize the wound

with rejection before it festers

and bleeds into the conscious

mind again. With all speed

close it off, and, over time,

perhaps, starved of sustenance,

it will lay down and die

for good one day, or at least

remain forever anchored

in some part of the mind

where its poison is drained

and nothing will be left behind.




A good day


A day when the sun shone,

a breeze blew and the sky

was feathered with clouds

on azure blue. A time to walk

amongst the trees and flowers,

to espy bees and ladybirds

gulls, ravens, lapwings

and pigeons, to name but a few

of the wild life basking

or busy on the green lawns

and riverside. A tranquil time,

no need to hurry, a stroll

around the shops and back

to our favourite café for lunch.

Then time to catch the bus

back home to relax and catch

our breath after a lovely way

to spend a goodly part of the day.




A Minor Hiccup


Just a small hiccup in the plan.

I know I said the world would end

today at six o'clock , but it seems

my prediction again is down the pan.


I've worked out the dates with care.

Twice now I've declared the end

and it seems I've got it wrong again.

It really doesn't seem very fair.


Why put a code within the Bible

if all our studying come to nought?

I was so looking forward to the Rapture,

now people will say I'm really unreliable.


Nothing else to do right now but lay low.

There are a lot of people poorer now.

I think I'd better find a place to hide,

somebody is threatening me so must go.




The Electronic Age


The electronic age is here,

computers, mobile phones,

printers, IPods, scanners,

to name just a few, fill our world

with gadgets galore, almost

against the law now not to own

one or more, and all is well

while they're working

but bloody hell when they glitch

or break, and all information

contained in some can be a bitch

to find again, if ever, because vanishing

into the ether is a trick data can do

and leave you climbing up the wall

as you try to put your world to rights

that, suddenly, came unstuck,

and there's really nobody to call

unless you've money to burn,

because the charge per hour

could take you on a short holiday,

and, if a real problem, on a cruise

with sufficient booze to drown

your sorrows, or raise your mood

from blue to rosy pink as you down

one more for the road or sea,

and never ever want to see another

gadget again, but know you will

because most of us can't live without

them anymore, buggeration to them all

but when they work, I actually do

really like some. I blame the programmers

for all the glitches as they insist

on improvements when none were needed.

We really should tell them all to stay away

from what is working and let us enjoy

our gadgets that we know, and sometimes

love. Please find something else

to bugger up and leave us to relish

those happy moments that we cherish

when all our gadgets work just fine.




An ancient tree


Roots twisted, searching, rotating,

thick, fibrous and ancient

spread beneath a tree

standing now for five thousand years

or more. The striving for nourishment

for water, for any sign of encouragement

to survive as it stretches up branches

bent and blown by the winds of time,

with tough leathery leaves sucking

moisture from the air, clinging

tenaciously to its parent like a child

on its mother's nipple, seeking

sustenance in the short months

of growth when the life can still

exist in the leathery leaves

of this ancient, world weary tree.

And it has seen so much travail

in its long tough struggle to survive.

Beaten down on occasions to barely alive

but Nature rescued it with rain again

and again until now it stands majestic

in its age, in its determination

not to be blown over by cruel winds,

dessicated by drought, burned

by fire or frozen with the cold.

Now, it is acknowledged as so old

it is worthy of honour, protected

and kept secure lest humans

care not for its ancient limbs and cut

it down for wood for their fires.

Its roots spread far and wide

beneath the surface of the land

keeping it alive in its yearning to be

as Nature embraces her ancient tree.




In the silent woodland


In the silent woodland depths

where trees can fall and nothing stirs,

where ivy climbs from ground to sky

weaving round trunks gnarled with age

that seldom see a human soul pass by.


In these dark depths life abounds.

In leaf laden ground insects scuttle,

woodland creatures make their home.

In Spring, wild anemones prosper

And fungi grow each with crowned dome.


A place where humans fear to tread.

Where gnome and fairy dwell

in solitude, and the unicorn calls

unheard and, occasionally, trolls

lumber through as the night falls.


A solitary path winds its way nowhere.

For any unwary traveller, a trap,

for the occupants, a route through

the tangled web of trees and roots

to abodes concealed within the woodland hue.


Dark and drear it appears to be

but so deceptive for there in its midst

birds sing, bluebells ring, rabbits run,

and every season brings a new display

lit by the rays of a jubilant sun.


In the silent woodland depths

where trees can fall and nothing stirs,

where ivy climbs from ground to sky

weaving round trunks gnarled with age

that seldom see a human soul pass by.




The Bathing Bird


Water dancing in the sun light.

A tiny cascade over ornamental

rocks revealed a beautiful sight,

the sound so delicate and gentle.


A bird bathing beneath its flow.

Spreading wide each feather,

putting on a wondrous show

to cool down in the warm weather.


A peaceful scene of pleasure,

each cascade shaded by a tree,

all to be viewed at leisure

and flowers to add sweet serenity.


A precious moment to treasure

when everything was right,

the water, the bird and the weather,

found a unity to our great delight.




The Merry go Round


The lives of some creatures

seem short and unduly harsh

but for others their lives

seem long and relatively soft.

With the former, life is brief

but maybe lived to the full,

while the latter, the length

could mean there's time

for a gradual unwinding

and a slower process of learning.

But all are subject to the whims

of Nature who can eliminate

or save, protect or neglect,

making life a lottery for all

with some living and some dying.

A strange and wondrous world

where nothing is really as it appears.

Where we can be disappear

without warning or hang around

waiting for life to end and death

to release us from this merry go round.


Whichever way a creature lives,

the reality of existing at all

should make it a celebration

for all, because whether chance

or good fortune, predestination

or pre-determination, life

is a gift, a boon, a weird

and wonderful adventure.

So, whether short or long,

slow or fast, harsh or soft,

Nature designs us all to survive

come what may, even if we live

for decades or for only a single day.




A place to call your own


A quiet Sunday evening, still embraced

in the light of the day, a soft sunlight

now with feather clouds painted

on a clear blue sky. Two people

stand talking by their front door

while a silver car glides silently

down the road heading for the gates

and off somewhere.


Gulls ride the thermals and there's

an air of tranquillity here and peace.

A place where children play

in their gardens, or on hot Summer days,

out in the road kicking their ball

back and forth not disturbing anybody.

A cat strolls lazily along seeking

shelter and finds a space in the fence,

sliding through with ease to vanish

from sight out on its nightly walks.


There is no noise here as a rule,

just the occasional sound of dustbins

being emptied or an engine purring

and, very occasionally, a cat sets off

a car alarm, which quickly gets turned

off again and peace is restored once more.

The gardens are neat and green

with a variety of plants, shrubs and trees.

The grass is kept mowed and flowers

adorn tubs outside doors and in rockeries

to add splashes of colour and scent

for all to enjoy. Here is a place we call

our own for now, our home where

we spend our days, where routine keeps

the jobs done, and where play

is the order of the day in the main.

A good place to be for him and me

and here we intend to stay,

for a good while anyway.




A pendulum Swing


A glass half empty or one half full,

a pendulum swing between the two

has me either content or blue.

Never can find out why the glass

will suddenly seem empty

when little has changed in reality.


But it does swing back and forth

altering my mood from self-pity

to happiness in a single stroke

when my world can go from broke

to appearing very in tact and whole.


It might be nurture, or my nature

or both, but, by nature, I was always

naturally buoyant like a rubber ball

bouncing back when life's hard knocks

brought my world crashing on rocks

that would have wiped out most.


But I could pick myself up,

dust myself down, and start all over

again. So, nurture was probably

to blame, a combination of gloom

and doom and sin and not being

perfect, half emptied my glass

to make my existence seem crass.


Fortunately, in my later years,

the glass has begun to be half full

far more frequently than empty,

so I'm grateful that my nurture

has been overcome by my nature,

and I can sit back now and enjoy

a time of contentment and peace.

Might have been a long time coming

but as it has finally awakened,

I don't intend to waste a second.




Madness and Myths


Myths can lead you astray

like finding five thousand

year old honey, still edible

it was believed. Stories

of old embroidered, rewritten

and emended fill our heads

with half truths or lies,

or misinformation spread

about to build up a legend

and coat a character with

an aura for our edification

that was not merited or earned,

but which sustained a hero

or heroine down through

the ages until they become

mythical in their dimensions.

The reality being they rarely

existed at all, or were ordinary

so had to be blown up to be

noble, brave, or plain foolhardy.

But whatever the truth,

it has been lost in the annals

of time. Now all we have left

are stories, so often taken as real,

which is tantamount to being

insane. For belief in a myth

leads minds astray and away

from the real into fantasy land,

and that's where so many

dwell today. As they have

in the past, so they will

in the future for the real

is too painful to bear, so escape

is the only solution but deadly

for sanity and reason, leading

to the depressing conclusion

that the majority of humans

prefer untruths or lies

to the real, glad that insanity

remains firmly in place

and will defend their beliefs

to the end, even if it means

the end of the human race.




Albion is my land


Albion is my land, my heart's delight

green and lush with hills and dales,

flowing fields and lakes and moors.

Born in my blood, this place on earth

I call my home, deep rooted in its soil

my spirit dwells in its ancient past

to its present day. It embraces me

and reminds me that, in all its history,

it has protected my ancestors

through wars, plagues and famines

leading them back again to prosperity

so that I might come to be today.


A land where time has not

stood still but plunged right on

to grasp the new with both trepidation

and exuberance combined, until now

when it staggers beneath a weight

undue, but will survive come rain

or shine as it always has and will do

so again. And Albion will always

be my land, my heart's delight

a land now shared with the many

and the few, which, in time, will

be built anew and see the day

when all within its warm embrace

will cherish it as their home and land

and ensure that no harm will come its way.


For Albion 's heart is broad and strong,

beating with the blood of peoples

indigenous and conquerors, but knit

together now as one, and so, as it

has always been, in time, the land

of kings and queens, lords and ladies,

squires and serfs, freemen and women,

the immigrant of every race on earth,

a rich and sumptuous broth to nurture

with care lest it turn sour with wrath,

for, if for no other reason, Albion

has earned its people's deep respect

for it has served us well throughout

the ages, and will forever be

my heart's delight in every aspect

of its long sojourn through time

and space, it is home for all who

dwell therein on this beloved island

protected by Neptune 's home, the sea.