High on the mountain, overlooking the valley,
the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench.
Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V
are houses, all the same, all in a row.
From the bench the village can be watched
It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping
talking about nothing and everything.
Everyone is there down below,
John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread,
Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale.
A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually
Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first.
Those of us that get out, stay out.
Old feuds still burn, families not talking,
not remembering how it started.
Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension,
the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held
in the ***** of the valley.
How green was my valley?
It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire.
Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious
but that valley was poison.

Constantly craving the night with
it's darkness, and it's shadows.
The ability to steal away into the umbra
to be forgotten.
In the world of darkness secrets hide
is anybody home?
Does anyone see my shadow?
It cries for attention yet obscurity
is its salvation.
To be seen, is to be known.
I am not known, I am hidden in nightmares.
Blackness cloaks who and what I am.
Do you want to know who I am?
Yes?
I am the wickedness in your soul.

Shoulder to shoulder you bands of brothers landed.
Code name Operation Neptune was underway.
You noble breed, not knowing what lay ahead
Just knowing that your duty was called upon.
The bugle sounded, you all answered the call
nobly you waded those waters for all.
06/06/1944 was the day.
The largest seaborne invasion in history.
Yet, you brothers in arms were not caring of history making
Just making it to the beach, alive.
I can but humbly thank you for what you all did that day,
you that lived and those that died.
What thoughts must have played in your mind.
A lone piper played throughout, what courage you all displayed.
No wonder we that came after you, leave you feeling dismayed.
Many wars have been fought since, their courage is also undenied,
but, you, you thousands on those beaches showed the world the meaning
of pride, respect and warrior.
On the beaches of Utah, Omaha, Gold, Juno and Sword,
you carved a way in. To end the war.
Nobler people I doubt exist, and soon this 70th anniversary
will fade in time, but not that date of June the sixth (1944)

Sat at the hairdressers
Hearing the gossip
Relaxes a woman and her senses.

Nothing outside the door of the salon
matters.
Just the head massage, and gossip.

The world has stopped as her locks
are chopped.
If only a closed door could keep the world at bay.

But, the door will open,
the world will flood in
and with it, for next time, more gossip!

The sun is shining

I am shying away

I hate the sun

It's not fun

Just a reminder

That winter's on its way

I hate the excitement summer brings

It's the tumult before winter

The forced happiness, the pretend gaiety

Summer is not your friend, it's a sticking plaster

For the pain that is the rain of Autumn

Then the cold and snow of Winter

Before spring tries to step in with a zing

To remind us that the false friend summer is on its way.....Again.

You left under the cloak of night, again.
To return with your excuse as to why you are late.
What once was harmless, is now unfair, unjust, heartless.
Not on me or you, but her, the one that truly loves you.
I'm the harlot, the iniquity in your life, wickedness personified.
I remove your garments, deal with your hardness and
send you back to her, the promise you made to her broken.
I listen to your moans and return you whole to her.
I'm a social worker, a lover, a comfort, a *****.
You are a client, a bore, a job, a *****.
Our consciousness of what we do is monstrous, yet we do it over again.
I don't love you, you don't love me.
I'm a night deposit banking facility.
You drop off a deposit, leave, and go home.
What lies do you tell her?
Does she believe you?
Is paying for me cheaper than a divorce?
We both are heartless under the cover of darkness

Did I love you when we first met?
No.
That sounds cold but, truth is often painful.
Was I looking for someone like you?
No.
That is a brutal truth.
Were you persistent?
Yes.
Did you win my heart?
Eventually. With roses? No, with chocolates? No.
You won my heart, by accepting me.
You won me by being you.
I love how our love grew.
I wasn't looking for love, it somehow found me.
Did you write me poems?
No.
Sing me love songs?
No.
Did we have anything in common?
No.
But, love grew, desire bloomed.
We needed each other, we still need and want each other.
Over coffee, Monty Python and a gentlemanly kiss on my cheek
I knew that love was real, it crashed into my heart like a wrecking ball.
Is love like the movies?
Is it *******.
It's more like a Wile E Coyote cartoon.
You bought an ACME love boulder!
Meep meep!

The wine glasses stand sentinel,
to last night.
Candles burnt out,
wax cold pooled
on the dining table.
Remnants of the supper
testament to our hunger and
for each other, as lovers.
The house is cold now
like my anger.
Last night,
You told me we were over
You'd fallen for another
younger lover.
Last night my anger was red like the wine
in the sentinel glasses.
Now cold, daylight brings a clarity,
time to start the cleaning.
I'll sweep the table's items into the bin.
I'll keep nothing touched by him.
I'll then take a bath to recover and figure out
what to do with you.
You can't lie on the floor forever.

Turn the page
Start a new chapter
Stand on a new stage
Feel the rapture
Escape your cage
Just
Don't let life capture
Your rage.

Turn the page
Start anew
Begin a new age
Those dreams pursue
Use life to gauge
When to engage, and
When to say 'adieu'
Just
Don't let life capture your rage.

Life is a book
It's pages to turn
Which direction you take
May not always be firm
Be firm with yourself
Follow your path
If faced with a fork.....then
Uncork your rage
And choose.

You came in late, again
I said hello, pecked your cheek
and waited for the flow of excuses.
None came.
You went and poured a drink
I sat awaiting your words.
You came back in, sat heavily down
and looked at the floor.
I felt rage inside my breast,I had news to tell.
You never asked how I was, or how my day went.
I sat quietly waiting, listening to the ice ***** the glass,
I felt as vulnerable as that ice cube, once solid now melting,
waiting, fuming, controlling my anger.
You looked up, you looked at me, no through me, and said
"I'm late because I've been having an affair"
Did a freight train just hit me? I felt despair, but you said more,
"She's pregnant, and is keeping the child"
Clarity liberated me from my stupor, late nights,
meetings, high mileage on the car.
I asked a question,
"Are you leaving me?"
You dropped your head, and said the words most wives dread
"Yes, I have to be a father, do the right thing, I love you but....."
Your words trailed off.
I stood up, took your glass and refilled it for you.
My turn.
"Did you start coming home late because of her? Or because I've gained weight? Or both those reasons?"
Silence.
"Pack your bags, leave the keys, get a hotel bed"
Those words came out so clear, you'd swear I'd knifed you.
                                               ~
At the front door, you turned, about to say something, I cut you off
"Send me your new address, I need it for the solicitor,
I'm divorcing you. And by the way, before I forget, you're not the only
one that's been late, it would seem you know how to propagate"
I shut the door, rubbed my tummy, and waited to be called mummy.

What might have been is no more.
Time to forget, and leave regrets to the past.
Emotional attrition has no place in going forward.
I loved you.
Did you love me?
I'll never know, it was never to be.
I'll remember the way we laughed
I'll remember the way we glanced at each other
I'll never be sorry for loving you
No repentance is needed
We both took different paths.
My regret is that I still see your face in my dreams
I'll be contrite this night, lying by my husband and
Not you

I write at night, it seems the best way
to deal with the horror of day.
Quietude, peace and darkness surround me
Clears my mind, focuses my thoughts.
Allows me to demonstrate through words
my understanding, of this, they call living.

Living in the light of day, means a lot of
shadow play, fake smiles, small talk,
neighbourly actions, following the rules
to keep you in your place.
Being friendly, making small talk, pretending to care.
When all you want to do is lock them all in a zoo.

Gossip, malice, neighbourly disputes, cars scratched
Dogs defecating, owners not caring, traffic noise
Kids shouting, parents shouting, horns blaring.
Pretence, grievance, affectation, keeping up appearances.
Front door closed, you realise that you're feigning interest.

Hypocrisy reigns during the day.
Pretension, feigning interest, losing your soul to the classes
the masses, paying lip-service to the day.
When all you want is the night and to be able to say
*******. Leave me to the chill calm of the night, and to write.

Poetess, rare in contemporary usage
yet, not rare in actuality.
Am I a poet? Or a poetess?
The word "poetry" derives from the Latin feminine noun poetria, meaning not "poetry" but "poetess.
So, confusion reigns in my mind as to what I am
but not what I do, or why I do it.
Do I write because I want recognition? Fame? Accolades? No.
Do I write because I need to? Yes.
Words soothe my soul, whether they be dark words or
words forged in the light.
Poetry allows the poet and the reader to visualise
nay experience all forms of love, hurt, pain, madness,
and suffering, the poet, the poem and the reader become as one.

Is it by chance that Da Vinci's "La Gioconda"
is named as such?
All propaganda, speculations and theories all based
on a smile.
Etymology of the name Gioconda is such:
"Friendly and communicative, Gioconda has plenty of charm and magnetism. A sociable extrovert, she is pleasant, cheerful and very likeable. She was born to express herself, interact with others and have a good time. In effect, she can sometimes appear rather disconcerting."
"Rather disconcerting", now that's an understatement of the enigmatic
Mona Lisa's smile!
A beguiling smile, what are you thinking whilst sat for the maestro?
Is it an affair of the heart?
Is it a smirk? A smirk of knowing.
Are you even real?
A woman or as some suggest, a beautiful boy, Da Vinci's muse/lover?
Does your beauty mask a hidden triumph, your magnetism over time?
You, have become immortal, looked upon and gazed at, where Gods have not.
Did you know as you sat amongst the smell of paint,
that your fate was sealed not with a kiss but a smile?

My window allows me to look out on a meadow.
Nothing but grass, shrubs, meadow flowers and weeds.
The trees are in my eye line yet,
so far away they stand like soldiers on parade.
So, just a simple window, with a view of nature.

This window though is more than glass
It's a portal to the past.
I know, I've been there, and barely came back.
Souls walk in the meadow, they emerge from the trees
They beckon me to walk with them in the Autumn breeze.

Once, as a child I ran outside to look at all the people
Some wore bonnets, some had swords, others axes
Such was the horde. I remember the scene vividly.
Yet, they were all grey, even in the sun. Then,
they all turned and saw me.

Their eyes were white, opaque, like a drowned person's
Tattered fabric clung to bleached bones
Mouths moved with soundless words
Pleading arms outstretched
To me the little girl that opened the door onto the meadow.

I ran from the meadow screaming, tears streaming
icy fingers creeping toward me, hands grabbing,
over my shoulder I turned and looked, they'd stopped
right at the meadow's boundary, pleading into thin air.
What did they want? I was just a child. I could do nothing for
those souls lost in limbo outside my window.

The smell of bleach stings her nose
And waters her eyes.
Clean and purifying, whitening her darkness,
the bleach is cleansing the beast.
She's lost count of how many scourers
she's used on her skin, just to get the taint of him
off of her.
His actions were well concealed that night,
her pleadings fell on deaf ears, so intent was he.
He made her feel like a piece of meat,
cheap, and at fault
time after time he forced her to kiss him,
to smell his closeness
his alcoholic breath, his sweaty hands, his rough hold.
Finally, a friend appeared, he grabbed her from
the monster, then rage, fists and threats appeared.
She ran as fast as her heels allowed,  
through the maze of crowd, oblivious to the monster
lurking in the corner.
The monster's name was John.
Her saviour's name was Rhys.
Yet, still no peace not even today, just the cleansing smell of bleach.

Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?

Hot summer nights have come around again.
With them my memories of you.
The way you squeeze me close
The smell of your clean sweat and aftershave
The way you look after a hard day at the office
The way you forget to get a haircut
The way you run your hand through your hair
The way you twist your fingers in my curls
The way you taste after a beer
The way you howled in pain at putting our dog to sleep
The way you always know I'm feeling bad
The way you calm me after my rage has taken hold
The way you never argue
The way you dress me, wash me, love me
The way you deal with me, my moods, my MS
The  way you'll stay with me until the end
This I'll know, even when I start to forget

I'm invisible, forgotten, a memory in someone's head
I want to be remembered, lauded, loved
But you put paid to that.
I wonder how you sleep, dreamless, more likely
How do you sleep like an innocent? Teach me.

If I shouted would you hear me?
If I hurt you would you feel me?
If I threw a glass at you would you see me?
If I blew softly in your face would you get cold?
If I kissed you deeply would you ******* rotting corpse?

Is my shadow my soul?
Or is my soul my shadow?
Both come with me.
Why would they be separate?
Can my soul live also in my shadow?
Can my shadow hide my soul?
Shadow in the sun, indicates fun.
Shadows in the dark always give rise to fright.
Is my shadow the duality of my soul?
My inner struggle with bad and good?

A shadow is where direct light cannot reach due to
obstruction by an object.
This I know.
Is the obstruction my soul?
The soul, in many religious, philosophical, psychological,
and mythological traditions, is the incorporeal and,
the immortal essence of a person or living thing.
So what is the shadow?
The dark part of our souls?
Or, as many would have it a scientific result.
Soul = object of spirituality
Shadow= result of science

The ancient Greeks believed air, as opposed to solid earth, to be incorporeal.
Ancient Persians believed fire to be incorporeal in that every soul was said to be produced from it.
We humans are mostly water.
We humans live on earth.
Each of the four elements manifests in us.
Our shadows and souls must therefore,
relate to human activity on the principle of "as above, so below"
My shadow and soul are me

I gave you my heart
You gave me an **STD

Hazardous fire, purifier of all that is unclean.
Clean me. Purge my soul in a fire so hot there is no pain.
Blaze in me, like he once blazed in me.
Fire symbolic of Hell, yet contradictory, the symbol
of purification.
I want a bonfire, a conflagration of flames, so large it
obliterates me, my name, my deeds.
Paper, sticks, books, wood, lighter fuel, all in readiness.
I need, NO, desire, the soothing, licking, crackling heat.
I felt heat once before, a desirous heat that bore into my core.
He's gone, I'm cold.
Time now to fan these flames that lustfully lick at my bedroom door.

Traffic speeds past
People go slow.
Days are long
Nights are short.
Silence is deep
People are shallow.
Love is a need
Like water and air.
Food interrupts
A nice interruption.
Dolls for girls
Guns for boys.
Boys now men
Girls now mothers.
A Mothers tears flow faster than traffic
For the boy with a plastic gun, now a dead man,
a dead soldier.

Glass of red in hand, she watches the rain.
The pane of glass the only barrier between her and thunder.
Thinking whilst drinking should not be undertaken at any costs.
How old is too old?
Why does the thunder clap rather than sing?
Slowly she turns away from the window, sets the glass down
and turns the wheelchair toward the bedroom.
Still the storm rages, the thunder claps, and her heart sings
Q:How old is too old? : Answer: right now
The bottle of tablets falls to the floor, ironically timed with a thunderclap.

Its been written in the stars that I will be
Starstruck by your personality, and your
clenched fists
Supergiant of manliness that strikes soft
flesh, sparks bruises, causes pain.
Leave, people say, but I can't, love is a giant supernova.
Sparse is the love for me, infinite is the universe.
The stars I see now are not of distant galaxies though,
but rather the start of a concussion

Duality of the soul
good, bad, happy, sad
Loved, unloved
Wanted, unwanted
The malady of morality.
Who would want to live forever today?
Corruption, disease, pain, infection, brutality.
Pop my date of cessation on a notepad,
I'll get around to being, bad looks like the
World already has.

As I look all around, I see things you do not see,
how can that be?
Listening carefully I strain to hear that creak once more,
a microphone is needed if you cannot hear that moan.
Overblown by the next sound, a groan, what next?
a rattling chain? A swinging pendulum?
Nevermore will I fear any sight, or sound, man or
beast, pit or grave.
E**xclusively unique, privileged to be alone yet surrounded,
by those that still exist, exist in memories, hearts, sounds and smell, no,that mist was more than just a vapour, just look closer

Dynastic lineage
              Of
  *Kindred people
               *Our
   Family tree
               humanity  
Genealogy.

Snoozing quietly on a sunny day,
with eyes half closed, breathing relaxed,
listening to the sounds the sun brings out.
Children screaming with play, lawn mowers cutting,
bees buzzing and singing birds.

Languidly lost in time bemused at the thoughts
running free in my mind. I start to muse on
ridiculous things:
Why liquid soap?
Why a date of birth but no date of death? (That would be helpful like a use by date on food, fit in that bucket list or miss your deadline)

Why do ice lollies only come in packs of three like condoms?
Why are children so ultimately free?
Why does the sun make us feel so safe?
Why does road rage come out in the sun?
Why do we insist on eating burnt carcasses and underdone chicken?
At barbecues that take forever to organise with people you'd rather flail alive?

My body temperature rises like the moon.
Odd that the sun is the symbol of heat,
yet, most heat is felt at night.
Subtlest of sighs and I am undone.
Buttressed and encompassed by you.
I want to bite, nibble, peck at your neck
Like an artist with granite I want to carve into you
I crave you, I want to market our practiced need.
Subtle yet lulled, our lust will be boundless.
Founded on our need to keep our word.
We together are a force, a natural force.
Unreserved, unobserved, unconcerned
I allow you to flood into me.
Hazily, I am drawn to the figure on the floor,
we swore no more, but the thrill of the slow ****,
allows us to be enthralled, exhilarated, liberated.
The moon wanes, the body grows cold, we soar
as we clean the gore.
We swear 'nevermore' but are we just Poe's distraught
lovers, falling into madness?
The madness of the bloodlust, ******.

Hate not blood course through my veins
I want to laugh in your face, when you feel the pain
My fury is my story not yours to tell
Mine to yell, demonstrate, remonstrate
Wrath, in its purest form, presents with self-destructiveness, violence, and hate that provokes feuds that go on for centuries.
Wrath persists long after the person who did another a grievous wrong is dead. But, wrath is mine to feel, to touch, to taste.
Feelings of anger impatience, revenge, and lividity.
Wrath is allowing my revenge, call it self-destructive, call it
bad behaviour, my sin of wrath is directed internally toward me.
Suicide, deemed as the ultimate, albeit tragic, expression of hatred directed inwardly, a final rejection of God's gifts.
But,you made me angry so it's you I reject.
When cold tempered steel,
meets hot vengeful blood

My hunger for you never wanes
your, smell, touch, look send me aflame
my lips bruised after being crushed by yours
my thirst quenched by drinking you in,
my need as robust as your thrusts,
my cravings, like a ****** in need of a fix.
Immersed in you, luxuriating in you,
knowing you, has starved and saved
my soul.
Amongst the smell of lust and lechery
Dante watches, he watches my soul.
Purgatorio, penitent I walk within flames to purge myself of lustful thoughts and feelings.
Dante's Inferno. Souls of the sin of lust are blown about in restless hurricane winds, I feel the wind at my back. Howling.
A symbol of my own lack of self-control to my lustful passions
in this my earthly life.
Just be with me when we are judged, together we can prove our
Love

My demon stays silent
He has nothing to say
If I allowed him to speak
You'd only run away
So when I'm asked "are you ok"
Silence is the stern reply.
Quiet, peace, dumb, mute
Blank, impassive, soundless a
Demon tamed by having nothing to say

A seventies child
Born in Wales, one of the four
Countries of The UK.

I remember brown as the colour
of the day.
Fabric embossed wallpaper
all the neighbours names, who married who,
who was carrying on, the alcoholic, the beaten wives,
Even, get this the peadophiles (or kiddy fiddlers as was known)
Dai the milk, Mair the bread, the shop of infinite items.

Rugby practice for dad, baking for mam
(Cake and babies) gossip over the garden hedge
Fish on a Friday a Sunday roast, hot sweet tea.
Bubble and squeak, post delivered before you
left for school. Mist on the mountain, dew on the grass.

Welsh valley life, sounds idyllic
but scratch the surface and a darker colour
than brown emerges. Petty squablings leading to
familial feuds, the Williamses don't get on with
the Joneses, and as for the Pritchards, less said the better.

School, local, no not for me. I was sent to a Welsh
School, taught and learnt the language denied to my
Parents by English politics. Cat amongst the pigeons there.
Did I think I was special? Ideas above her station. That's what
the neighbours say.

Well, you all had the option.
Dr Forbes FRCS
Delivered babies buried men and women
Loved by all, especially his lollipop sweets.

I wasn't a child to get *****, or rip wrapping paper
off of gifts, I liked to go under the stairs (like Harry Potter)
and read. I left the dirt for my sister born 4 years later.
Then in 1982 came my brother, tidy my mother describes it.
'74,'78,'82 poor dad to have to wait I say!

More pubs than chapels, more walking than driving
more rain than sun, more music than ever was sung.
The '80's came, and we had strikes, no electric, candles
toast made with a toasting fork over the fire.
No mines, no steel, no jobs.

Picket lines, dole queues, women in work
latchkey kids, Thatcherism, ******* times.
Falklands war, IRA bombs, Royal weddings
Tory rule

But, the fire in the dragon never went out
and Tom Jones still sings his heart out.
Cymru cysglyd gwlad y gân, deffrwch
nawr, dyma'ch tro.

Bardic pretensions aside
I am full of dejection
Blue devils plague me
Night and day
Playing with my mind
Circles of thought constantly turning
Whirling and whirring
Worthless, self loathing, aggression
Manifests along with tears and
screams, let me go, let me leave
but, you won't.
Pop a pill, then you'll be less
Possessed, but I'll still be depressed.
It's not a tap, I cannot turn it off
Do you think I want this?
Remembering sunnier days?
My life event of being diagnosed with MS
caused this, do you not think I want it to go?
Stressed, bereft, dispossessed you call this life?
I am enmeshed by a web of my own brains doing.
Descending faster than a broken elevator
down, down, down all the way to the bottom.
If I hear that the only way from down is up
I will scream, and scream, fight and bite
Scratch and holler until I am a hollow husk.
Oh, no wait, I'm already a hollow husk of a human.
All I want is to disappear down the rabbit hole.
Un-whole, lost in the twilight zone."