Chance has begone.
I've got it on my hand,
my jaded palmistry,
knows no better.
The faded story-line
tells the summation was seized

And you know in your heart,
your secrets are your own.
Wrapped up in your own armor,
yet lost in confusion,
mitigated by chance.
And when you've given your all
true adage advice will ring.

In a country full of leaves,
adroit promises are made, and
willows shy.
Yet there is no one to walk with.
Like a sole flower  in the night
there's no one to talk with.
Remember who is your best friend now?
deciding it has its merits,
deeper than you planned.
The pale bush is deeper than you gleamed

There is a wind in hell's chance
buried in voices in your head
before the war
the living and dead
A promise blind
as gentle as a two penny.
Johnnies smile, sweet enough to
make the young brides blush,
leading them through the tarnished avenue
Preacher man gave that boy a name
The promise is blind
see shamed guitar men run away

As gentle as a fawn,
when she dances in his dancehall,
remembering Vietnam.
those bedeviled eastern nights,
when she bequeaths her needs
the vices of loss are a contagion,
in contemplating oblivion,
when there's hire in his heart.

If your fingers grew tied
in  rhubarb dye,
home becomes such a refuge.
Like the moon going down the alcove,
a woman suffocates
in the blazing  kitchen.
Homesick in London
marigolds are restful,
let's bury all our desires,
neither have emotions or conflicts,
in the confines of  surreality.

Remember the first photograph
before the cool of summer was spent,
the drench of rainwater presided.
A woman  scorned,
past lovers travail,
come on here's a message in my head,
so we can plant the beating of your heart,
and watch the fields turn green,
wake with pride,
to the banality of bullfrogs shouting,
whilst the war goes on.
With an optic view of a grave,
howling with  blood.

Love never came to my door.
Zephyr away the pain from my face.
How does it feel to be unloved?
To lay ruffled, joylessly.
The schemes I sought are strained,
but don't let me cry.

I know there's a rumor about my dreams,
which grows like a tumor,
spread by a friend I mistook
I need a bath of light
to answer the door,
maybe with luck
lick up to the brimming year.

In the cool of Indian summer,
in the country of leaves,
lit mildew and cobwebs
on the verge,
bespoke sandals on the lane.

Remember who your best friend was?
Now he lies refused
deckled like a bird.
The pages blew, out of proportion.
The broken year will not change,
the kiss of the bright curl of the leaves,
and where was your second chance?

Don't know  where to hide the bodies,
or where that wild smile came from.
But I've got a bad feeling,
the longer this goes on
spots on the Sun will appear
as with gaps on the wall
If there isn't a body
then there's no crime
to support several lives
coming home.

Could have been a contender
through the schemes,
I have dreamed upon,
gardens of poppies
nighttime  shade
against the moonshine.

Hold on to my pensiveness,
open my eyes
forget the time!
Night time changes
before the dawn,
anonymous again
The sky is grey
elbows on dry books, we dreamed

Hope has creaked against my journey
It has crystallized
I stand tall
waiting  for the consequences
having recognized your artillery
from your Alpha _ Bet
I have loved you
in specious time
Now it seems things aren't so strange
I can see my way
from your schematic generalship

Where are you going?
in the morning song
Were you ever a talisman?
And now are you a golfer or go-for?

The music is so empty
I  fade into the crowd
I never got your reply

We are here under someone's request
buttressed by  someone  else's wild secret
We make discrete our escape

Back home
save at least the truth for me
Were you ever happy?
Did you change enough?

over the hill there's a shinning,
taking me from the darkness of the night.
Get yourself together
and see what you can find,
champagne toast
when I'm out of town,
golden daffodils hanging down.

Look to your destiny
your fate awaits you,
whilst riptide currents submerge you
in barnacled fistfuls.

Sunset silhouette,
pitched as one
one last river  to swim,
self-willed happenings
break the dawning
holding the key

The butterflies flight
comes through fields of leaves.
A damp fizzle dampens the throat.
The air is aimless
and full of dust.
The grass swathes amongst the thickets.
The stiff trees murmurs memory
once galloping antelopes on the hoof
clandestine in the lonely morning air.

The Red fox
with cool devotion,
moves around in circles
it is brisk in its actions,
blackened grass permeates the ground
it scorches the Savannah
The sullen waters lap around,
tall lillies of sleep,
angling out of sight.
The fish glitters performing somersaults,
captive in the air.

Playing daisy chains with another's mind
No quarter given
They find their own solace
and refute to look over the sun
finding weird  patterns
to ply with in the dogeared winter farrow

Like a giant balloon
that cant be burst
you've rejected me again.
It starts with a click of interest
on your profile page,
pursuing is virtual
like a  voyeurs' pinhole,
vague and dissected,
yet avoiding contact,
no personal messages are sent

If they meet you
I recall a heavy burden,
of them not replenishing the hour,
coming with heavy overloads,
time warry or just plain preoccupied,
not generous with their time:
a discord of anothers hope

I listen to the ebbs of the day
it never stops.
Under orange sky
I force a smile,
the coarse roots of the earth
rolls into one,
stepping forth, testing .
I fall to my knees
peace evades me.
I bench by parched broken trees,
breathing in a forest of leaves
am I my own law?

And it rains here,
with the soak of grass
between my toes.
Blessed  lichen mounding
on tree stumps.
The Magical sun ascends
upon the hill.
My soul is replenished.

Today I heard the dancing of the wind,
salty air upon my clothes.
I braided with nature,
like sandals and clay
forever in rhythm.

Its the dawn of a long blade,
turning alongside the grass.
It was the hope of another day,
walking on bare feet,
like sandalwood.
climbing the waterfall.
Those memories turn like pages,
like the first gust of rain,
scented like leather
dusty and brown.

The siren isn't just a warning,
as its white Icicles fall to the ground.
My conscience has a clarity
We swim to the brink of the river,
where I fear the swirls of an whirlpool,
holding myself up from drowning,
breathing and fastening the wordlessness
of  heavenwards

I spoke to the trees,
but the lectern  would not listen.
I got up in the dark
and the sky tussled with the weeds,
who wrote a poem for me
and with open arms
I applauded it.

I went off together,
through the trees
gained in insight,
and invited them to hear,
to the serenade,
yet being alone,
from dream to dream

It's raining on the windowsill
a forever lonely man is in a quandary,
its sad news
love has stalled:
satin excuses straight as lace.
Old Man is forever aware of changes.
Now the Sun is peeling,
and his sojourn has faded,
like the journeyman easing into discomfiture
while the moon ponders.

Christmas  decorations in the dark,
same day motifs inspired by you,
hopes undeterred on fetching wind,
silver baubles bobbing on the bay.
Dormant dreams forlorn in Winterland,
yours is the world
begin with it.

Raindrops falling on the windowsill
A lone man standing in front
he's got not much to offer
Jack frost on the tin roof
Old Man blags his finer days
Alley cat roaming the other way
Hot shot comparsions sometimes soon
is about to happen

The note said
loves a nest,
there's this incessant need,
rising in your dreams,
the art of listening
to your heart,
crying in your depths
Pigeon man,
garnish your love,
and then he vanished,
like a stone
into the world
torching the night.

Half the world is contrite
the other half wanton
I hope to make it some day
in the bright lights

I tried to talk on the telephone
the silence was too much
I tried to read a letter
but I could only do it between the lines

For the good times have come to an end
I've got to find relief

Cynical platitudes.
Burying your head in the sand.
As an empty space.
You have to understand
be like  the Phoenix.
Ready to rise,
into my new space.

Self satisfaction as garish as a stalk.
Now I'm carrying the truth,
why waste yourself on vanity,
be sincerely  glad
into something better.

Cynical Town,
knocking houses down
to be made in flats,
except when there's a colony
of crested newts.

A thwarted town regeneration,
tombstones of empty shops.
Voting on the 5th May
for a consensual mayor
Goodbye Labour,
you have unnerved Croydon.

In April somewhere where
sunbeams and Carousels glisten.
He was happy to share in the clover.
The sun was pouring
by way of a morning breeze,
and his plate was full
belly up he floated,
in the shallow water,
where the moon wanders.
His dreams lay sheltered,
against the cove
in the body of another.

I want to be lazy
down  to my shoestraps,
see the jackdaw
scrounge my sweetpeas.
If you cast a spell in my direction
I'll be surprised.
Each night I dream the nectar of sleep
and by sunrise I'm trice arised

In my garden the crouch grass
celebrate their resilience,
and the trellised Wisteria
never fulfilled their frame.
The planted dahlias
can wait another year or two
and the promised acer never was that variety,
undone by my gardener
whose solitary iris is an
forlong dream.

The orange tulips had a short run,
you could ******* disappointment.
The daffodils hitchhiked life a little longer.
Spring came too early,
and confused the season
and now we wait for summers grandstand.

The ground seems to be heating up,
at times caught short by the morning airs.
The Bluebells their defy age,
Pale like wading, waiting to flourish
in the sometime soon

Thought I understood the world
where's there's a message buried in there somewhere,
carried by a higher ideal.
Endless days of waiting,
Eastern nights bedevils his schemes,
bright lights cannot identify the griever,
running faster I am another searcher

I cut her pages out once,
naked with her ambition,
now dashing her analogous dreams

The spotlights smeared
her with guilt.

She is talking about her banal dreams
with the art of withholding

She will be needlessly pleading,
a labyrinth; gnawing; insisting,
hold your penitence
the need will follow her

We eat our chopped  aubergine
and dinned on Safeway white wine
Croydon was like a civic jewel in the crown
We were the Manhattan of the South

We had our record shops Beanos and Cloakes
music was our soul
We had the renowned Fairfield Halls
saw Camel play there
and we drank with mirth
from the abundance of pubs

she's buried her hopes,
somewhere far from home.
Daddy was a dreamer.
Mother scrubbed the floor .
The dog has a bone to bury
and lets pretend that the day is long
as it is drawn
with the customary cold spot in the night

she mistrusts the breeze,
the moon is going down the alcove,
come home there's a message in your head,
as sure as the lone tree,
promise your life away,
it was understood in a day
the silence of quietdom
plays the torture of lust.

I am a metaphor
the one you counted before,
the devil is in the detail.
the queried width of the sun
I am made of woe
yesterday's worth was a country mile
and I pledge my tears
now the war is won
it is so beautiful

She's sleeping in a rose tainted dream
she can almost sense the calm of the coast
Once she loved a man with hands of foam
his words went through her soul,
naked incessantly so
don't cry child the water is warm
there's a scope for listening
carried by the wind

Every young had a wonderful dream
to be the birdman of altacraz
And now with your friends by your side
you've reached maturity
And the songs you sing
are the ones before
By the station
your words were a summation
and our pockets were empty
Then you joined the money men
you had to have your belly full
until they picked your bones
as you count the carnage
unable to beat them

my sweet acorn laid there,
to feel your love
the thirst is spoken.
let it go on this way forever,
this dewy feeling,
with your wild acres
and cool brown hair.

I wish I were a vehement wind,
lofting your hopes away,
tussling your identity under bed linen,
with their origins abruptly shelved

I wish I could torment you,
along a long path,
painting you a long frown,
under the glare of an expectant lunar surge.

My Mother was an Accountants wife,
who sometimes spoke Afrikanesse,
on the telephone
when the children were naughty.
Growing hydrangeas in the cellar,
took up CAB in Camden.
The domestic disputes she could tell

Later took up crosswords
after finding a Left Sun Crossword
then became a master.
There was nothing she couldn't do,
draw freehand domestic animals.
Had the prestige of planning healthy diets,
Aubergine  to appear as chopped herrings,
deft with an Afrikanner chop.

Kindness  follows closely behind
the day is done
Nighttimes dreams flourish

October  attached itself to my window.
Dahlias breezed like a thief in the night.
Happy to share in Autumn's  raise.
Farsides I wish well myself.
There is a rusty red, ginger aroma.
Silver needles shedding from the hide.
Autumn's sun sunk in fallowed fields.
Daydream in a lost October
We were happy to share in its murmur,
to tailgate the night.

If you think long enough
Spring will come
but if a windy wind erupts
from the sty of your eye
the gold streets will turn to lead
from a rain cloud that never pails

The color of  talk
with sunny chimes,
spring as a shiny fortitude
the world as a rounded dahlia.

Silence it did tell
yet I wish you well
Surely we will be friends
With all this talk
I hope your wounds may mend
There will be some time
and waking someday
with a fine fettle
We spoke on the telephone
half the words were astoundment
and the others pride in each other
I wrote you a letter
and re-read between the lines
All I can do is sign the time

Lonely Anne.
The day lays still,
shadows forever chase the wall,
beneath the nights, benign future spheres
gigantic upheavals,
step out into skyline infinity
forever starry-eyed,
you're speaking out about the fear of loving.
you cant release or realize,
There are lines for our deeds
and platitudes for our causes
can our morals be recalled today?