In my life I've dealt with grief.
Deaths of family, friendships and innocence.
Still I'd hoped that life and time would make up,
become friends and chime a tolling bell of peace.
Thought ruins dreams.
There is inside us a black so dark we become a void.
Why try searching for the light?
The light has gone aground.
Mankind has ***** this fruitful earth,
despoiled its beauty and its worth.
Money means more than humanity.
Desecration of this fair planet and its inhabitants
justified by the men in suits.
News is just a propaganda tool,
it makes a mockery and a fool of us.
We line up for bargains, forgetting the unfed
We lie to ourselves that good still exists.
Where? When even religion becomes contentious.
Guns, bombs, hate, greed, ****** of the innocents,
who among us opened the seventh seal?
The Seventh Seal was it opened by blood mixed with oil on the altar of greed?
If so, it wasn't done in my name.

Little girl born with auburn curls
Little girl born with freckles and blue eyes
Little girl born with a smile so inviting
Little girl born to be bundled in pink.

Little girl got older
Little girl got bolder
Little girl got colder
Little girl realised she hated pink.

Little girl became a teen
Little girl became a terror
Little girl drove her mama to drink
Little girl drove her daddy to leave.

Little girl was known in town as a bad seed
Little girl decided that suited her fine, carried on drinking her wine
Little girl grew up, now a little woman
Little woman made mistakes, she never baked a cake!

Little woman with the auburn curls and inviting smile
came home early one day, saw you holding her so tight
that she knew what she had to do.
When it was done she spun with glee, caught sight of herself in red.
Smiled, at herself and thought: "if only you hadn't bundled me in pink".

A window, left open for the breeze
A passage for air, sight and sound.
Window originating from the Old Norse 'vindauga', from 'vindr – wind' and 'auga – eye', i.e., wind eye,
and what the wind sees through our many windows
would cause a chill not stopped by the closing of the Window.

Let's take a look at what the wind sees, and hears through our
open, inviting hole in the wall.
The Gothic inviting rainbow of sights,
the sumptuous smells and desirous sounds.
The sound of love, of desire, the moan and groan of fulfilment.
The sound of hate, the dull punch, the whip crack of a slap.

The sight of happiness, contentment and peace.
The sight of sadness in all its forms, bereavement, pain,
beatings, abuse, of riches and poverty.
Drunks, mothers, fathers, children and babes, lovers and haters.
The dying the dead. The hiding the found.
Those filled with dread and not bread.

The wind's oculus is many shaped.
Geometrically placed for a view to be true.
Yet, reflected in that view is an honesty that the wind carries away.
The wind has learnt to howl, to gust and bluster,
and all we do is try and obscure it's view.
We take no heed of it's keening through the lands.

We are all veiled by curtains and blinds,
but, we are not obscured from the wind's all seeing eye.

Within myself I know there's two.
Of who? Of me.
I watch while one takes hold.
One is meek, one is bold.
One is sweet, one is selfish.
One is kind, one is evil.
Which one I am on any given day,
depends in part, on which one I've fed,
and what diet I've served it.
Was it vitriol or humility?
Was it hate or love?
Was it just or unjust?
Was it sweet or sour?
I'll not know until the hour one of two is called.

Please handle with care the man sat in the chair
he's not a millionaire, but priceless to me.
He's not a Saint, he's made mistakes,
he's as stubborn as they come, cantankerous and moody,
but while he's there in your care, please bear in mind,
though, grouchy, argumentative and he's driving you to despair,
he's mine and my siblings dad, he's a husband, a grandfather, brother,
uncle, nephew and once himself a son.
Yes, he's been bad.
Yes, we've made him sad.
Yes, he's a flirt (that's for Mam).
Yes, we're aware of his faults, that makes him human, but, he's ours, and we'd like to be selfish and keep the moody, grouchy,
cantankerous old man a little longer.
So, please just handle him with care.

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.

There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sin's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.