Nerves, once dead, now start twitching.


‘Nerves, once dead, now start twitching'.

A pulse throbbing, awakening something

deep inside, sleepwalking through a world

not seen before, searching for something

not yet written, its location defying finding,

for hiding in the recesses of a mind, dreaming

of a poem not yet written but in the process

of becoming, and frustration rises with no lines

appearing, and then a wall so tall with no way

round for what should be is not yet, but feels

so real. In restless sleep, the mind propels

itself ever deeper, compelled to search

ever wider but, no matter how broad

the sweep, the first line is the only line

found for certain, all the rest remain

obscure, clouded in a veil of shadows,

apart from ‘nerves, once dead, now start

twitching', seeking a resolution or a meaning,

ingrained in neurons that can't let go,

the line implies something, but what

stays hidden, and sleep becomes untenable

in the unreasonable refusal for the line

to yield a further one, or show where

it is located if already written, and,

in the quiet of the night, sleep abandoned,

the mind retreats to other things, to wait

until the morning for a rational solution.




The God of Mammon


Bodies of children lay amongst the rubble,

parts of adults strewn around like confetti,

another day, another way to destroy lives,

and the drones strike out elsewhere dropping

their load to kill more of the enemy

that suddenly appeared from out of nowhere,

when the Cold war was here, another enemy

was there, then, suddenly, the Wall fell,

and that enemy was gone, a new one

was required, and, as if by magic, the new

emerged to satisfy the need of the war machines,

busy churning out death and despair

wherever the need to kill arises, no longer

to defend, now attack before the enemy

hits back. And the madness multiplies,

while the world economies teeter on the brink

of ruination, an Armageddon not of deities

in mythical heavens, but an earthly one

of Mammon, this one consumes, devours,

oppresses, represses, corrupts, ruins

and, ultimately, controls countries everywhere.

No kindly deity this, but one that demands

obedience, brooking no rebellion, and,

all in authority, bow before it, minions,

priests of their deity, and nothing is untouched,

untainted by it, its communion is consumption

of goods, money its blessing, and its promise

is happiness on earth for all who bow down

at its feet and bring new victims in each day.

Bright and shiny, its cathedrals, glass reflecting

sanctity, authority over the vast majority

of the human race, and the war machine

keeps churning out death and despair

while Mammon sits on its throne casting

coins to the starving and watching them

choking as they try to consume them.

While an elite uses the world as a playground,

a place for them to enjoy all that the majority

cannot, and making sure it sees what they do,

so the God of Mammon can make certain

that greed, envy and discontentment lives

in the hearts of many as it dispenses promises

that they too can be like this if they do this

or that. And Love runs on a dry tank in a world

where consumption and war is the prime mover,

and the desert of the spirit can only hover

over the parched land until humans understand

how lethal is the god of Mammon, and its minions,

and cease to kneel at its feet. All gods fall in the end,

this one, though, has outlived every other deity so far.




British weather


In the morning sunshine, my mood is light,

no more winter wear, goodbye to thermals,

socks, and all things to keep us warm,

and hello to dresses, sunhats, sandals,

and the bliss of walking in the heat.

No more wasted energy trying to keep

the cold out, and the Summer sun

declares the change of season. But,

sadly, not for long, so make the best

of what we've got, this is Britain , the land

of rain, lush fields of green, rolling verdant

hills, and counties each with their own

perfection, but, oh so frequently, we need

umbrellas, water proof gear and can stand

by the sea in pouring rain throughout

the year. But, when the sun finally does appear,

oh, how my mood becomes light as the sky

turns blue, and clouds burn away,

and the sun beams down on us for just

a few days to bring us all a brief temporary

respite from the usual cloud and rain

that will insist on falling throughout

the Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn.




The Ruin


Ancient stones of a castle, once proud,

now stands in ruins, a casualty of war

between a king and a church, stepping

over ground once trod by nobles, serfs,

ladies, and a host of people sheltered

within its walls, working at their tasks,

each with their own lives, concerns,

anxieties, fears, joys and hopes, all gone,

now dust, lost in the mists of time,

from a day long past, and all but the stones

survive to bear witness to a place

built with care, a castle to protect,

defend and stood for five hundred years

before it died, torn down to lie a scar

upon the landscape, a reminder to all

that royal power holds sway over all,

and none shall stand in its way. Woe

to those who dare challenge a throne,

these stones, these broken walls,

these rooms open now to the sky,

where the elements wreak more ruin

beneath wind, rain and snow to show

that mere stones cannot hold back

the wrath of warriors, called to arms

and sent to bring the rebels to their knees.

When the floors seeped blood of the dead,

until it ran in channels like rivers

in full spate, all washed away now

through the passage of time, buried

in forgetfulness of all the fallen,

perhaps still full of ghosts tied to ruins,

once their home, but, in the sunlit

afternoon, I walked through their world

and saw one bird, a magpie, fly down

and seem to play amongst the dead,

maybe a solitary witness amidst

the masses of the unaware, mere

tourists, and even we are few

picking our way through the ancient

stones of a castle that once stood proud.




A restless Spirit


Feet that roam they know not where,

from here to there, ever restless,

yearning for a place to stay,

a spirit that knows not how to settle.

A world to explore, to seek answers

to questions not voiced aloud

sending feet walking from here

to there, ever restless anywhere.


A moment captured to stop those feet,

when beauty held the mind in thrall

and the restless spirit stopped,

relishing the brief respite.

But, not for long, something called

deep inside, no rest yet,

while life still burns within,

and there are answers to be found.


So ever onward those feet did walk,

calloused by the constant tread,

until a moment came shattering

all dreams with images of horror

and bloodshed to stop the restless spirit

in its tracks, but, once more,

not for long, too much to bear this time

the sight of human suffering.

And so those feet sojourned on,

looking to others to tell the spirit

what is truth, is Love and does

Death always win? But none

could give an answer to satisfy

the restless yearnings of the spirit

for all were seeking the same thing,

all ever restless in this finite world.


One day those feet grew too old

to walk from here to there,

though restless still, the spirit

had grown so weary of the quest,

and, finally, sat down beneath

a tree, and leaned against it to listen

to the sounds around and heard

‘The answer has always been inside.'


‘The answer has always been inside.'

And the spirit sighed deep and long

then, beneath the shaded tree, it died

satisfied at last, but sad that it had

taken so long to learn, and now

too late for those restless feet

had roamed they knew not where

from here to there, ever restless anywhere.






Drowning in information, in data,

in instructions, in worlds not created

for you but for geeks, if you do this,

you will get this, a fait accompli…

Not! Back to square one, start again,

and so it goes on, switch off, turn on,

check this, check that, delete this,

delete that, see hidden this, see hidden

that, and don't forget to tick this

and tick that, and restart, and result…

Not! And now the treadmill begins,

round and round and round it goes,

do this, try that, take this out, put this in,

install this, uninstall that, re-install this,

re-install that, that will resolve it…

Not! And frustration sets in, not just here

but elsewhere as people begin to see

that what is promised just won't be

because the software's broken, it doesn't

work, and it's not your fault, you're

following all the instructions, but

the support centre teams are told

what to advise, and it's everything

that doesn't work. Just typical of today,

made for you so that you can do this

and that, but you can't because it won't

do this or that no matter what you try,

until all you want to do is lie down and die.

Answer, give up, it's broke, and it ain't

your fault, you've done your bit,

and now you know the software is

basically crap, like so much today

it promises everything and gives you sh*t.




Time on your hands


Time on your hands with no urgent demands,

the past has gone, the present is here, and the future

an unknown juncture leaving the Now the all,

impossible to forestall, holding all in its thrall.


The eye sees, the mind perceives and the present

is, a new creation with options open temporarily,

a decision to be made bravely to move this way

or that, and the future arrives without delay.


From perception to conception to creation

it happens in the blink of an eye, no resurrection

of the past, all is new, the idea that nothing changes

a fallacy, each instant original as Life rearranges.


In the centre all stand, unfixed, amorphous,

but not superfluous, an integral part of the whole,

for the builder of worlds are creatures of sentience

undoing and rebuilding every moment of existence.


All is in flux until death steps in to end a life,

though some believe in karmic reincarnation,

while others see only annihilation or resurrection,

whatever the truth, Life is one mysterious sensation.




The Critter


The little critter nosed around in the dirt,

paws digging, sniffing the air, taking care

not to be caught unaware as he sought

the long hidden treasure buried there.

A bone, manured nicely, last year's find,

one of a kind, big enough to chew upon

for many a long hour in his secret bower

beneath the ancient oak and the passion flower,

seeded from somewhere not here in the wood,

where it has stood winding its way upwards

towards the sky and where the critter

loved to lie watching the world go by,

away from human habitation and noise

to hear the song of birds, the call of the wild

that stirred inside him as he lay curled

up on the bare earth surrounded by smells,

dells of blue bells and wild anemones.

Bliss in dog heaven, remembering days

when he was a wolf so long ago, and now

a mongrel, a hybrid of many a variety,

bred for humans to keep them company

and, suddenly, there it was, his treasure

to gnaw at his leisure and pure pleasure

in the dappled sunlight of the deep woods

before his master's call would alert him

and it would be time to leave his bower

to return to a house human's call home

and sit at his feet, be fed, patted and then

sent out to sit guard on what wasn't his own,

but where he'd grown from a pup to dog,

and grew attached to the tall lanky man

who gave him a name, and let him roam

when the mood came up him to run free.

A fair deal, he mused as he chewed his bone

in the woods on a peaceful sunlit afternoon.




All will be well?


The world in a spin, and we move

like sleepers in a dream believing

all will be well, the leaders are here,

not seeing the edge of the abyss so near.

Experts abound, all knowing, all seeing,

with advice gleaned from all around,

but the signs are there clearly marked,

national interests protected, dissected,

and found to be weak, fire walled

against depression, not so recession,

for better a succession of recessions

than a full blown world wide depression.


And the people go about their business,

most with heads in the sand, unseeing,

trusting or not interested, believing

all will be well, our leaders are here.

They'll sort it out, whatever it may be,

but, soon, they'll sit up and see

all won't be well, we're heading for hell.

Not a genocide, but a reduction

of the useless, the expendable, the old,

far too numerous, too expensive, and costing

the earth to keep alive and keep treating.


Not a good future prediction, but one

that's possible, and becoming more real

with each passing day as economies

falter, and wedges are jammed underneath

to support foundations teetering on the brink

of collapse, threatening an avalanche

to follow as the dominos fall one after

another until there are no more left standing,

Then no one will say ‘all will be well,

as they gaze into the abyss now yawning.

What will be true is a new world is coming.




A Misinterpretation


‘Oh, hell's teeth,' she cried, ‘I'm bored!'

And from a distant room, came

‘Don't blame me.' Ire rose instantly.

‘What has ‘I'm bored' to do with you?'

She demanded, bristling with indignation.

‘It's the tone of voice,' he declared.

‘What!' she replied. ‘I just said ‘I'm bored'.

At no point did I mention you! You feel

guilty clearly otherwise you wouldn't say that.'

‘No, I don't.' Says he. ‘So why say it?'

she demanded. ‘Why should I expect you

to entertain me? I merely said ‘I was bored',

which I am. Nobody's on line, I keep

losing my games, and my iPad's run down,

and it's grey and cold outside, and it's May,

and it should be sunny and mild, so, for now,

I'm bored, and it's got absolutely nothing

to do with you.' ‘All right, but it's the tone

of voice.' ‘Oh, good grief, I can't even

speak now without you feeling guilty

if I moan. The problem is with you, not me.'


And that's how you have a set to for saying

innocently a remark that's true but seen

as an accusation out of the blue. Communication,

even after 43 years, can be fraught with rocks

to founder on, and subject to misinterpretation,

unless, of course, life together is one

long perfect peaceful path with never

a raised voice or word of disagreement.

Not so her and him, they've spent a lifetime

bickering and now it's an art form, honed

to perfection, and both would probably

die of boredom if not present in their particular

institution. But, just occasionally, she wished

he'd not take everything so very personally!




The Tongue of a Woman


The tongue of a woman can be soft and gentle,

it can also be bitter and harsh and, at times, wilful.

It can soothe and becalm and relieve deep tensions,

it can also be scheming and two faced, full of pretensions.

It can be lyrical and wise, and give good advice,

it can also shred and lie, and cut down in a thrice.

It can praise and excite and raise to heights of delight,

it can also nag and criticize and turn day into night.

It can bewitch and endear, and make all things clear,

it can also confuse and bemuse, and strip a veneer.

It can bring peace and harmony, and sing a sweet melody,

it can also rant and rave, and be incredibly moody.

It can be funny and roguish, and a great mood enhancer,

it can also be cruel and nasty, and an ego destroyer.


All of these aspects belong to the feminine tongue,

from the calmest of females to the most high-strung,

but when used to declare love, adoration, loyalty

and passion with truthfulness and not out of duty,

then it makes up for all of its negative aspects

and makes a lover, a friend or a child forget their defects,

making them feel cherished, loved, and respected,

a gift unsurpassed and one that should always be trusted.

The tongue of male can be just the same,

but, mostly, the female is far ahead in the game

for she has, for centuries, used it to survive and win

what she's been deprived of, her freedom, and, therein,

lies the truth of the power of a female's loquacity,

for, without it, she'd still be just a piece of property.


So, beware of underestimating the tongue of a female

it has served us well, but we're not equal yet to the male,

which means, the game is still on, and we've far to go,

but we're on our way, and it's on with the show,

now we've everything to gain and nothing to lose,

except the right to be free and the liberty to choose.

Not a war, but a plan, not for egos, but for balance,

and an equalizing of life's continual game of chance.

The male believes himself free, but, he's not,

not until the female stands by his side and has got

respect and recognition, and a Universal right

across the world to speak out, to vote and to fight

for what she believes in without fear or repression,

then, and only then, will the world find true civilization.




The New World


She reached out to touch the mountains,

puff ball white and grey, and her hand

passed through, she frowned. This is new,

she thought as she stood by her window

gazing out at the blue firmament around.

Then, before her eyes, the sky fell down,

it struck the ground to shatter into shards,

revealing a myriad stars against a blackness

she'd not noticed before, it was a darkness

menacing now as her world began to crumble,

and dwindle into numbers falling like rain

down a drain to reform, but not in a way

she recognized at all. Edifices, strange

and elongated, not made for human habitation,

and flying machines floated effortlessly

through a purple sky nonchalantly

delivering passengers along a skyway,

not human for she could see long limbs

of silver and a rainbow hue rippling through

semi-transparent bodies, quite beautiful,

she thought initially but then knew the world

had changed in a twinkling of an eye,

from one she knew to one completely new.

She looked down at herself and saw,

with a shock, she was changed too.

Now she had a body long and slender,

and was standing in a room she'd never seen

before, looking out at a blue tinged cloud

or were they mountains she wondered

aloud, and was startled at the sound.

Her vocal chords had altered, now clicks

emerged, but seemed to be discernible

to her, and then she turned and saw,

standing behind her, a child like her,

clicking away and, inside her head,

she understood, and, reaching out,

she drew him close, and, pointing,

showed him the puff ball mountains

behind the city's edge, and he, smiling,

held her hand in this pristine new world.




Mellow moods


Laid back mellow moods, a melody playing,

creating music in free flow, suiting the mood

on this day when it's raining outside, and cool.

Not seasonal, but nothing is the same anymore

in a world in flux, but music plays still reminding

us that order can come from chaos, and all can

be well if we keep our heads, while all around

are losing theirs. A time for withdrawal, retreat,

reflection on what is, and what can be, if only.

Always ‘if only this or that' but pointless,

‘what is' is all that counts, and the music says

it all. A note here, a note there, changes the mood,

moves it on, alters the exchange, but a wrong note

here, a wrong note there can bring about disorder,

a loss of rhythm, a descent into a cacophony

and the melody is lost, the interchange breaks

down, a reflection of life, our world, full of wrong

notes everywhere. Now, there's a need to find

the right note to restore sanity, drive out chaos,

and bring about changes and fruitful exchanges.

Meanwhile, I listen to laid back mellow music

and reflect on life, the world, and forget the rain

outside, and the grey clouds overhead, tomorrow

we might have sunshine back again, but, if not,

so what, that's life, the future is always open,

never closed, the possibility of the right note

emerging is ever there, as is the chance of the wrong,

But, for now, it's just time to relax, and enjoy

the music masters at play for the rest of this wet day.




Nothing is simple


Shadows in the night can give us a fright,

Light in the day can blind us in its ray,

Ghosts in our mind can be anything but kind,

Memories in our brain can be a pain,

Knowledge in our head can weigh like lead,

Lies on our tongue can get us hung,

Truth in our world sees lies unfurled,

Reality in our mind isn't easy to find,

Pain in our body can drive us potty,

Joy in our heart can sustain every part,

Sadness in our soul can put us in a hole,

Anger in our heart can set us apart,

Compassion in our soul should be our goal,

Freedom in our head is a good path to tread,

Equality in our mind needs to be clearly defined,

Goodness in our heart is a strong rampart,

Evil in our heart is deadly to impart,

Love in our being is the route to co-existing.


Life on this Earth is of incalculable worth.




Slow Down


Time goes faster with age. I get up,

have breakfast, go on my blog,

get dressed, go for the paper if dry,

then have a coffee, back to blogging,

reading mail, thinking, meanwhile,

my husband is, more or less, doing

the same, and then we meet up for lunch,

after which we part, back to the blog,

the Net, maybe a film, listen to music,

blog some more, make comments,

moan about the blog being so slow,

wasting the time I have left now.

I've grown older, not quite actually old,

but definitely older, and I'm not certain

whether time has slowed down or me,

or, I should say, us, for my husband

seems to have slowed down too,

which frustrates me, for, in my head,

I still want to be fast, everything done

now, not in a minute, later, or I'm busy,

can't come now. Not good enough,

I want you now for time has slowed down

and I'm growing older by the minute,

the time wasted is mine, and that makes

me mad. I know, I know it's bad,

should be laid back and cool at my age,

But laid back and cool I'm not, fiery

and furious and I'm more than aware

that's not good for my age, heart attack,

ulcer, high blood pressure can result,

but my brain is in charge, not me,

and slowing down deliberately

is simply not in my vocabulary.


Hmmm...Now we've had lunch,

and our afternoon espresso, which

makes me probably even speedier,

and now it's nearly time for dinner,

which I've already prepared earlier,

and, after that, it's an evening of telly.

Well, some, and then more blogging.

But, sometimes, we do go out and see

the world which even outside moves

too slowly for me...I shall just have

to tell myself every day, slow down,

slow down, slow down, you're moving

too fast. How do I know? Because the

year is almost half way through!

So tell me please, if any of you can,

where in, heaven's name, did the time go?




Mesh of Death


Silvery light in the moon lit night,

life held by a thread, it slipped

and slithered through its watery

home, searching for safety,

for security but finding none.

Like a spirit fighting for life,

holding on to mortal flesh,

it sought a place to hide

from the steel webbed mesh

closing inescapable jaws

around the shoals, and trapping

all in its deathly embrace, a race

to get away, its pod shrieking

loud warnings but observing

its plight with no means

to stop what was happening.

And the mesh closed shut,

and the screams rose as young

and old circled outside and around.

No means now to come up for air,

drowning, the dolphin sent out

a last plaintiff call before it died.

A cruel end for a creature born

to be free, to play, love, swim

in the ocean's wide. An indictment

on humans, but most don't care,

it's work, and profit and laissez faire.

And the pod departed mourning

silently now as they slipped through

their watery home in the silvery light

of this ill fated moon lit night.




Will Power


The will is unique to all, a gift and a curse,

the freedom to choose for better or worse.

But have we really explored its power,

can it be used collectively as a confounder

or a manipulator of the way things are?

If we will together, can we raise the bar

of possibilities, and change our world,

seeing, before us, the impossible unfurled?

To do this requires an act of faith from all,

for all to emerge from behind the wall

of doubt and disbelief that we, collectively,

have power to change our world impressively.


We are but infants still in our understanding,

so very far away from fully comprehending

what we truly are, and what we can do.

So far, held back by superstition and taboo,

but, one day, will emerge like a butterfly

from its chrysalis, and say goodbye

to the chains that have bound our wills

and discover previously undreamt of skills.

Networks of thought across the earth,

could, one day, bring a long awaited birth,

an age of maturity, where wills combined

to create a new and better humankind.




The Room


We weave a protective shell around ourselves.

It begins cobweb thin when we are very small,

then, as we grow, it thickens to a web of steel,

impenetrable to all but who we let in, a closed door

for the many, but an open one for the few, maybe.

Inside we reside within our many rooms, some public,

while others stay tight shut with each of us alone

possessing the key. This room is where we place

all that makes us feel most vulnerable, insecure,

fearful and distrusting, where all the wounds

are kept, the secrets we want to hide, the actions

we would prefer never see the light of day,

and all our broken dreams, failed hopes and

profound regrets, all we think best kept hidden away.


From behind this web of steel, we view our world,

moulding it to our liking, attempting to change

the ugly, the bad, the sad into something beautiful,

good and happy, manipulators are we all of lives,

not asked for but provided, and clothed with

the means to survive, some more than others,

but all try with all their might to make the best

of what they have, but each in their secret room

have things to hide, some so dark demons cower

while others bring smiles to cherubs' eyes

for when the young yield up their lives, no

darkness dwells in their room for they have had

no time to fall or fail, or hurt or wound, but

the long lived are less fortunate by far. Some have

a room bursting at the seams, and yet still more,

have space to fit a huge amount more, but minor

are their secrets if observed, though, to them,

appear to be of great significance and dire and

so keep closed their door to all. And many pass

on, the door never opening to any but themselves.

Perhaps, this is the way of all, or, maybe, only

the mad, the saint or the fool open up their room

to all, then stand back and watch who stays

and who flees when seeing into its darkest depths,

revealing for all the innermost core of their being.




The Feast


Birth, life, death and, in between, the rest,

a concoction of experiences the mix of which

no one has the recipe, the feast consumed

over seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months,

years, and always the table fills, never empty,

with meals embracing a multiplicity of tastes, some

specific for the eater, some for general consumption,

not all desired, but the eating is not by choice

but by what time creates, some by a chef of renown,

others by a cook from way down the line, but

all provided to fill a life. Some refine, some

coarsen, some sate, some leave the eater wanting

more, some are so beautiful, they're made to last,

to be relished, ecstatically enjoyed while others

leave a nasty taste, sour and bitter, or rancid

on the palate, and quickly consumed in order

to move on, but more is learned from them

than from the glorious ones for all that is too fine

can harm the life within, remove the inability

to discern the needs of others at the feast

when sumptuous meals are eaten far too often

and the simple ones seem boring and banal,

but better by far for the well being of all.


And so the feast goes on from birth, through life,

and unto death, a table laid for all, some rich,

some poor, some in between, and, sadly, some

barely at all, but all feed from the same table

in the end for there is only one, one source

of nourishment, the earth, while the world

provides experience, the one working in tandem

with the other, only when one in out of balance

with the other does inequality step in, and greed

and power structures destroy the feast for many.

The feast is there for all, but Life, up till now,

has no concept of sharing equally amongst all,

only the feasters can see to that, and, up till now,

inequality reigns supreme, and the table is still

far too bare for many, making birth, life and death

come far too soon at a feast which could, one day,

bring joy, happiness and long life to one and all.




The Gift


Like a rose glistening with dew

she came to me. Out of the water

she came to stand by me, mute

it seemed for no words she spoke,

but all was said in looks and touch,

and I was bewitched in that brief time,

her slave for ever. As I watched,

she changed from her watery world

to fit in mine, then took my hand

and, in that manner, she led me home.


It was not long before she was my bride,

her beauty and grace spread far wide,

but that the cause of my deepest pain,

for many a man rode by to see her

and became entranced the same as I,

though all the time, I knew her love

for me was true, I still grew jealous

of the attention paid to her for she

was mine. No show piece for the world

to come and see. So I made a key

and, each morn, would lock her in a room,

made beautiful in its décor for I would

not have her suffer. And, in there,

no other man could look upon my wife

in the bright and piercing light of day.


But she knew it was a prison I had made

for her, and, gradually, she began to fade

away, growing sad and tearful, and,

to my horror, I saw when I let her out

each night, that her beauty was going.

Day by day, it grew less and less,

until one night, I saw before me a crone,

and knew I had been bewitched, for she

could only keep her loveliness and grace

when observed by men imprinting

upon her their deep desires to behold

the perfect woman, and she, with no choice,

fulfilled their each and every whim,

including mine. With deepest grief,

I let her out and threw away the key,

but too late, I had seen her as she now was,

and could no more create the beauty

I saw when first I laid eyes upon her.


Still with no word uttered, she took my arm

and, I tortured through and through

with guilt for what I had brought about

took her back to the water, and standing

on its edge, I watched her walk into its depths

and, as she did, I saw once more her

like a rose glistening in the dew and

knew how much I'd lost, and wept salt tears

into the lake that took my love away

through my jealousy, and inability to see

the gift, without cost, she had given to me.




By the garden wall


Standing by the gate stick thin

looking like her bones might break,

she said she'd fight it, wasn't going

to give in, but she looked so fragile,

I wondered then whether it or she

would win. Now, today, I've heard,

it won, and now she's gone, a kind

sweet soul, always slim, couldn't eat

much at all, but always had a smile

for us when we passed by, most often

finding her on her knees planting

flowers, tending her garden with

infinite patience and endless care,

and the lawn was always weed free

and lushly green, and that was the front,

out the back was three times the size

and tended with equal loving care.


We won't see that smiling face again,

but won't forget her, ingrained

in our memories as unforgettable,

just the same as the lovely man

a few doors along who died before her,

last year, another with courage

not seen before, and a cheerfulness

to match, and only once or twice

a small chink appeared when he grew

weary of operations to repair the damage

knowing it would return again and again,

and he was in such terrible pain,

but never once moaned or complained.


These two precious people lit up

the world with their presence and,

now, live on in our memories as lights

to push the shadows away, and remind

us that all things can be borne with

dignity and courage, and cheerful smiles.

If there is a beyond, may they walk

in peace and joy forever and know

they enriched us all, for both of them

stood by their walls stick thin

looking as if their bones might break,

but never gave in to the pain within,

and spoke to us with laughter and smiles.

They'll both be missed but dearly loved

for what they gave out was real Love.




I missed her…again.


I caught her perfume on the air,

a sweet fragrance of jasmine,

light and tantalizing like her.

I stood breathing it in, missing

her, her body next to mine,

her face saying so much without

words. She had been here, and

I missed her…again. I always

seem two steps behind, does

she know how much I long to see

her again, to hold her close,

to tell her she means the world

to me, but the room is empty.

She's gone and I've missed her

… again. Am I dreaming? Do I

imagine the perfume? How can I

catch the sweet fragrance when

I know she's gone, and she isn't

coming back. Lost to me forever,

that love of my life, a precious

gift I once held in my arms and

kissed with tenderness then passion

as we became one body, a union

of love then parted to lie holding

each other, talking softly, laughing,

all this gone now, and my heart

breaks for she was here but now

she's gone and I missed her… again.

One day, I'll catch up with her,

but, for now, I'll keep looking,

remembering and hoping I'll

meet up with her one day… soon.




Sweet Music


Sweet music drifts from the speakers

while rain pours down outside, drops

adorning the windows with translucent

pearls. A sense of peace wafts

around the house on a Spring day

when grey has coloured the sky

from dawn to dusk, and a dismal

air of unseasonal gloom makes

drear what should be days of good cheer.

A blustery wind makes sport with trees,

bending them to and fro like a magician's

wand as it gusts through branches

now garbed in new leaves, a rough

welcome for the new born, and flowers

cling to petals newly formed, folding

in upon themselves as the rain and wind

cavort in a wild dance as April cedes

to May and all look towards it for sun,

soft breezes and burgeoning flora

in all its fecund glory. A strange air

of uncertainty pervades the months,

as rains fail, creating a widespread drought,

then fall in a cascade from leaden skies

on parched earth to bring about floods,

and storms disrupt the peace with

lightning and thunder rolls rippling

across dark burdened skies of black,

grey and purple clouds, and, all the time,

the music plays sweet melodies to calm

troubled spirits and ease the soul,

safe inside for now, out of the wind

and rain, a quiet sanctuary from

the outside world where turmoil reigns,

and chaos sits hovering ever watchful

for a crack in the order to appear,

and the only thing restraining it

are minds holding fast to peace,

to justice, and to the well being of all.




A Flash of Inspiration


The brain processes like a machine,

neurons firing, networks linking,

thoughts forming, ideas emanating,

memories storing, emotions colouring,

language interpreting, sight clarifying,

hearing discerning, producing a single

entity, a mind. Not separate but integral,

emerging from the activities of matter

to create a consciousness, an awareness

of the self, the being who is performing

actions that can observe it working,

making decisions, imposing prohibitions,

removing inhibitions, reaching solutions,

questioning past teaching, finding new ways

of doing, thinking, creating, forming

different paths to past dilemmas.

Learning the differences between chemical

responses and genuine emotions,

concluding love has meaning, not simply

a bonding through compatible chemical

reactions, discerning the beautiful

from the ugly, seeking what lies beneath

the surface, not accepting face values,

and all the time, the brain is processing

like a machine, its neurons firing,

networks linking to bring about the new,

a mind like no other, unique for good

or bad, or in between, like most, grey

is predominant but coloured brilliant

at times with sudden flashes of inspiration,

sufficient to turn a world upside down

as a mind seeks to adapt to what

it has learned, or seen, in a still moment

when the brain linked with something other

and the light of comprehension flooded in,

mind and brain integral in their unity,

and wondrous in their capacity to

reach out and touch the core of being

with the exercise of the magical imagination.




The Universe is Silent


The Universe is silent, no sound

penetrates its firmament from here

to its furthest edge, silence reigns

supreme. The Earth though vibrates

with noise, from soundless to the ear

of humans to the thunderous roar

of erupting lava, the shifting plates

and, over all, the radio waves drift

ever onward into space, silent signals

of life existing here, registering

our presence for any to hear out there

in the silent Universe of galaxies

and nurseries for stars, and space,

a vacuum filled with debris and dust,

asteroid fields all going round silently,

hard to grasp that no sound is heard

in all of space. Images in movies

of wars in space with loud explosions

are fictitious, a deadly silence

would encompass all such conflicts,

but not here. Here, the sound of war

deafens all, spreading fear and death,

not silently, but obscene in its loudness,

each bomb registering decibels of sound,

but, out in space, nothing can be heard

of humans when they fight, just flashes

of light blinking on and off, on and off,

and the wails of the wounded and cries

of anguish for the dead, all lost in Space.

Does anybody, or any being, hear us

in the silent Universe, or are we alone

making noise, loud and penetrating,

to proclaim our presence just in case

there's Life out there, somewhere,

anywhere, to tell us we're not alone

in the vast reaches of silent Space?






Oh, I can't eat that, said the wafer thin girl,

turning away from the sumptuous cake,

and please don't offer me steak, I'll throw up

at the mention of meat, I eat fruit and veg,

and maybe an egg, but fish scares me stiff,

I might swallow a bone, so steer clear

of all types, maybe the occasional prawn,

but I suspect I might be allergic to them

as I had a rash after eating one in a meal.


It's very hard, she sighed, trying to stay slim.

If I put on an ounce, I could lose my job,

the cat walk's a tigerish place and there's

a whole load of girls all fighting for work,

and my career won't last very long I know,

but, while I'm on top, I'll stay wafer thin,

and hope that when I retire, in max five years,

my body will recover from a diet lasting

for most of my life, and I'll have the energy

to eat that sumptuous cake, and expand

my intake from fruit and veg, the odd slice

of bread, but mostly crispbread, to being

able to eat a normal meal at least once a week.


What's that you say, she said, her eyes large

and dewy, don't be silly dieting won't kill me,

I mean, look at us all, we're not dead, just

being what the designers desire. Homogenous

beings, you say, sorry, don't know what

that means. Oh, well, I'm still a woman,

and that's a bit cheeky, but no, I haven't

had a period in years. Can't waste a week

on that. No worries, they'll come back

when I retire, she said, and, turning, walked

off down the cat walk, her white painted face

catching the light, alongside her bones.

It's the day of the zombies, sad but too right.




How truly strange is Life


Sometimes, when all is still around you,

you realize how truly strange is Life.

There seems no rhyme or reason why

the random events which occurred

should have happened the way they did.

But they did, and now you're here.

The journey travelled full of memories,

some good, some bad, some buried

in a fog, unclear now, and none to clarify

them for you, so they remain indistinct,

frustrating and leave you wondering

if they took place at all, or did you dream

them up, cover them in forgetfulness

and leave them there to gather dust.

Who knows, and, if not you, then no one

for they're inside your head and in

no other's. When half asleep, between

the waking and the sleeping, memories

stir of long forgotten incidents, and then

take on a life of their own. Like a movie

playing in your head, scenarios emerge,

bizarre, mixed up, and not very good,

and you observe emotions stirred but

not shaken to realize they're fantasies,

and must ask yourself, how much of Life

is reveries and how much is real, a quandary

now valid in the asking with knowledge

expanding on the complexity of existing

at all, and whether any of us are even

here at all. For now, when all around is still,

you accept how truly strange is Life,

but hold on to the hope that part of it,

at least, is real, otherwise you can't see

any point at all to Lives created in the moment

then are gone, a mystery indeed, but one

that makes it exhilarating and fascinating

trying to discern whether you're just a fiction

or whether you are solid and real. Something

you'll ponder upon until the day you die

for those given to deep thought and reflection

on the questions of how, what, where and why.




I discovered


When I arrived they broke the mould,

or so I have been told,

not so good I discovered because

generally left out in the cold.


To be embraced you must be the same

in appearance if not in name,

not so good I discovered because

somewhat deformed which was a shame.


A strange world to inhabit on the outside,

a situation constantly applied,

not so good I discovered because

I soon found out what it implied.


I could stand and beat upon the door,

but it remained closed for sure,

not so good I discovered because

a dilemma I learned to abhor.


But, over time, advantages began to grow,

I learned to see through the window,

that was good I discovered because

a view not seen by many was on show.


So the mould is broken, as I've been told,

that's fine for a hidden world I now behold,

that was good I discovered because

it shines a light on secrets yet untold.


The door will always be only half ajar,

if not closed, which can seem quite bizarre,

but that is good I discovered because

what's inside is far better seen from afar.




The Lament


There is a song sung in the silence of the heart,

born of tears of sorrow, a lament, deeply felt,

bearing witness to barbarity not imagined,

or envisaged, but carried out on creatures,

helpless in their capacity to ward off torture,

abuse or mindless cruelty. Inflicted at the hands

of humans, cold of heart, with no empathy

ingrained, no thought that what they do wounds

at a level not perceived by these dead souls,

but heard by those who hear within the silence

the cries of creatures everywhere, in whom cruelty

is not known, innocent of any crime, victims

of the predatory needs of humankind. Ignorance

makes of some monsters, and in their blindness

progress dies, stymied by these perpetrators,

but does not stop there. For, while some torture

creatures, still others turn on their own, and

the lament goes on, reaching to the ends

of the Universe, a wail of pain, of distress,

unparalleled in creation as the tortured, abused

or subjects of mindless cruelty cry out for justice,

to be heard, but life goes on for the many, the lament

falling on the deaf ears of most of humankind,

but, until it's heard, no real progress will come to pass,

and none will find true peace of heart and mind.






There is a Scrat in all humans,

holding on for dear life to that

which is most precious to them,

but forever in danger of losing it,

dropping it, putting it down

for a second or two and finding

it gone after they turned their back

for a moment, so the majority

cling to it with a tenacity akin

to a limpet's clasp of its rock

upon which it relies to keep

it in place, and to save it from

being buffeted by the currents

and swept away to unknown shores.


A strange fixation on a precious

thing around which all hopes

and dreams exist, and awareness

of its loss spells disaster, pain

and ruination. The lot of humans

it seems is to each hold onto

one precious thing and, like

a treasure store, carry it around

through lives lived sustained

by its presence. The essence

of it being a crutch to get them

through the daily grind, the ups

and downs of life, and the trials

and tribulations unavoidable

in the lives of one and all.


To each Scrat, the precious thing

is different, but some are like

another, and these gather together,

safety in numbers being the rule,

or so it seems, but one thing

they forget, if the precious things

lose their efficacy, and die away,

all the gathered will be filled

with horror and dismay. Seeking

another to fill the space is hard

when lives become reliant on

a precious thing and it disappears

to leave them bereft. A Scrat

utterance emanates from one and

all, sounding like despair and

anguish and will continue until

a new precious thing is found

and they are happy and secure

once more. Oh, how strange

is human life reflected in a cartoon

character, a stroke of genius

with a pen and brought to life

in film depicting the lot of humans

in one lovable prehistoric squirrel.




Ancient drums


Feet tapping, heart beating, a rhythmic

response to music, down through the ages

dance moved bodies, gyrating, twirling,

stamping, a primal urge to react to the sound

of drums, strings, and whatever instruments

can make music sing. In the jungles,

amidst the songs of the creatures, birds,

and the wind in leaves, human voices

joined the choir, and feet stamped the ground

in unison as the tom tom drums beat out

the rhythm. Energy released in elation

as the sounds penetrated inward capturing

the pathways of the brain and sending

messages to bodies sensing the impulse

to move in sensual, passionate, ritualistic

motion. Eons later, in cities, bodies

still dance in clubs, discos and parties

to the call of music, and the sense

of unity evoked when many move together

as one, and so it has gone on, and will

continue so long as music is here and bodies

respond to the primitive instincts ingrained

in the brain, when little but skins on gourds

and the human voice was around, the need

to dance is here to stay across the earth,

so long as there are open spaces and ground

to perform upon the beat goes on, and on, and on…






Speak to me of sounds divine,

soaring through the heavens

on trains of silvered wings

drifting through my mind.

Lifting me from the humdrum

into the magic of the imagination.

Dragons whirling in magenta clouds

flashing humming bird fluorescence

as they twist and turn, dancing

for the deities of old, shamanic

rituals to create order out of chaos

more in tune with natural life,

pagan but powerful still in reality,

though buried in the annals of time

by deities carrying thoughts

and minds out of time and space

to place them in heavenly spheres,

for escape is the desire of all.

An invitation to some divine meal

and ball where the soul can dance

for eternity in blissful ecstasy,

but, for some, that idea portrays

static joy, for joy unending has no

meaning without the opposite

present too, balance is everything.

And the phone rings, breaking in,

an automated call inquiring whether

my connection to the virtual world

is still broken and do I still need

a visit from the engineer, press one

on your phone if you still need

a visit, and I hesitate momentarily,

then press one and put the phone down.

And back to my reveries again,

carrying me away from the humdrum

and into the surreal and wondrous

place of space, stars, galaxies,

and distances unimaginably vast,

And me a pin prick in the space

continuum, but with a mind almost

infinite in its awesome imagination.




The Fogs of Time


And tolls the distant bell, pealing

a warning, an alarm call for the sleepers

whose ears are deaf, whose eyes are blind,

and sense not what is coming through

the fogs of Time. A time of suppression,

oppression and a doing away with

the rights of Man as wheels are set

in motion, and change is coming,

when democratic ways fail in the light

of an oncoming storm of behind

the scenes control. A time for sleepers

to awake and know the call to rebellion

is here. Oppose what will remove

freedoms hard won over centuries

of fighting, wars, revolution when millions

laid down their lives for the right

to be free, and now it's threatened

in a way not seen before. The ability

to communicate across the globe,

no matter how inane the sharing,

how fatuous the content, how angry

the people, all proclaim the right

to share without limitations, without

restrictions by governments not voted

in by the majority, by shady people

defining threats, imaginary or real,

and declaring the time is here to suppress

the freedom to communicate by spying

on all, creating means to snoop on all.

the threat declared is not true, the threat

is to those in control, governments

fearing their people with the freedom

to express their anger, to criticize,

to expose corruption, double dealing,

and the countless ways politicians

and the bankers find loop holes

in the law to exploit the people.

Trust has gone, the dream of democracy

for all turned sour as the people

turn away, disillusioned and in disgust,

for empty words spill from mouths

now given to promises impossible to fulfil,

and rhetoric written for them by others

intent only in sound bites and cant.

So awake you sleepers, open your ears,

your eyes and see what is coming

through the fogs of Time before it is too late.






Take a chance, nothing comes for free,

everything worth having has risk attached.

Come fly away from closed minds

open up and let the trapped spirit

soar. So long encased in deadening

dross, coating freedom with something

called conformity, impressed on all

from infancy. The right way to be,

don't stand out from the crowd, walk

in the footsteps of those before, tread

not on new paths for they are full

of perils, hidden snares, conserve

the past in aspic, each generation's

inheritance, a stifling mix of old

with what passes as new, but is only

the old clothed in different garb,

created to deceive, to keep the status

quo in tact, made to measure is the way,

don't break rules made to protect,

but, in reality, remove freedom to be,

to grow, to aspire. Only within limitations

can humans grow, like plants in pots,

their roots curtailed, and reliant on

food and water instead of growing

where they can stretch their roots,

take what Nature offers as sustenance,

but few take a chance, aware nothing

comes for free, the risk too much to bear,

and so most stay trapped in closed minds,

neither living nor dead, but caught

in a Limbo made for them, drowning

it out with drink, drugs or some other

distraction, a quiet desperation invading

worlds where roots cannot grow free

and sustenance is meagre, the minimum

but just enough to keep the minds alive

for they are needed to keep a system

functioning, so conformity is obligatory

in a system organized by a few who

see profit as the be all and end all.

And all who are profitless are expendable

in this scheme of things, and nobody

has the know how anymore to find a way

of breaking out of the prison built

over centuries to bring about the best

possible world for all, achieved only by

everybody accepting blind conformity,

but few knew the cost was freedom

for the vast majority of humans, a price

now being paid daily as the god of profit

gains in ascendancy, and the whole world

gathers around on bended knee to worship

at the altars in the mighty temples of

Master Money and Mistress Mammon.




Joyful Reveries


Waltzing in dreams, feet off the ground

as I whirl round and round, ecstatic

with delight and alive with exhilaration,

a reverie of desire, for dancing is my joy,

not to be in reality sadly for such activity

requires an element of flexibility

and bodily agility I cannot have, except

in dreams where I can dance with abandon

no restrictions limiting me, and come

to rest my desires sated. The dancer

unseen who held me tight, and moved

me with grace and dexterity through

my reverie, is hidden always in mystery,

and I know not whether he is real

or just a perfect partner drawn from

my imagination to dance with me in magical

synchronization, and bringing me to

a peak of elation as we swirl and twirl

in star sparkling ballrooms somewhere

never visited before, but as real as

all around me is right now. How strange

are dreams that seem so real as I waltz

with my partner in such joyful reveries.




Pitter Patter


Rain falling on the roof, pitter patter,

a sound recalling pagodas, rocks

and raked sand, contemplation

of cherry blossom and temples

of ancient times in a land far away,

one I'll never see but one alive

within my mind as an ideal of beauty.


Voices speaking in the distance, sounding

close now but with indecipherable words

emanating from a world not mine.

A train travelling through the countryside,

carrying travellers to their destination.

Rhythmic sounds gathering speed

recalling a time of exploration.


Excitement and trepidation combine

a moment of exhilaration on arrival,

expectation high, signing in and seeing

for the first time where I'm staying

for a holiday, fine or tolerable,

no matter, make the best of what I've got,

and unpack quickly and go out full

of curiosity to see something new.


The rain on the roof evokes desire,

knowing the evocations will only be seen

in images not in the flesh, but the train

travel is real, taking me to another place,

full of mystery, history and, sometimes,

regret I stepped on this alien soil at all.

But, mostly, it's a thrill to walk streets

never trod by me before, a privilege too.


And it's back to the pitter patter of rain

falling on the conservatory roof today,

not a sound I generally enjoy but the music

in my ears paints pictures in my mind

to take me on journeys, never travelled,

and time disappears when my imagination

soars. A virtual holiday created by the rain

as it falls pitter pattering from a leaden sky.






A silent world now, communication broken,

a link with the outside world severed

and all is quiet, no input, no output.

In this still world something has awoken.

A turning in to find resources left unused

for far too long, cut off from distractions,

empty chatter, the desire to be acknowledged,

to entertain, to be needed and amused.


Now to sit in peaceful reflection, no tension,

a time for reading, creating, living,

not in a virtual world, but in the real,

no need now for ostentation or pretension.

A place not sought for long in these times,

the real, with links like tentacles attached

to fingers moving snakelike over keys

to reach out, express feelings in rhymes.


The wait for reactions, expectations high

often met with regret when barely read,

and it would be a lie to say it didn't matter,

stirs emotions of rejection, disappointment,

a sense of being invisible probably inbred.

But, when in deeper discernment, realizing

these feelings are mostly superficial,

not ingrained sufficiently to cause much pain,

and certainly not worthy of much analyzing.


So, in a silent world now, communication broken,

thoughts are gathered, calmness settles

over a mind given too much to retrospection,

lets go now and pays heed to what has awoken.

An understanding of the cost of communication,

of letting the world inside with no barriers

erected, of passively receptive to all incoming

views, ideas and pain in this virtual connection.


And yet the prospect of being cut off forever,

the severing of friendships, the broad scope

of knowledge at finger tips, and entertainment,

makes the virtual world quite like no other.

And so this break, though brief, is beneficial

for it gives a breathing space to consider

what is of true value in this chaotic world

and see clearly what is real and what is superficial.