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.

Consider the individual differences in the experience of pleasure.
Reason that certain individuals may be more sensitive
to the pleasurable effects and thus experience them with greater intensity, resulting in addiction.
Therefore,
I am an addict.
Addicted to words
Addicted to expression
in all formats.
My positive urgency to write
is a dependence on viewing
words, sentences and rhymes
of descriptions forming,
magically upon the page.
Behavioural addiction.
Not, gambling, ***, drugs or
Rock 'n' Roll but of
Ink,paper, pen, iPad, tablet
the format has changed over the
centuries, the need has not.
Fiction, truth,lies and promises
all end up in that icy part of a writers heart,
tearing, souls and breaking hearts,
soul shattering truths held in shadows
of the soul

Deathlike is our love.
Tired, expired, stagnant and numb.
I'm through playing dumb, treated like hired help.
When we met my pulse it fired, now like death it has expired.
We lie in bed side by side like corpses in a morgue,
inanimate, undesired, tired.

I'm sorry if this hurts but love it can expire, lose its fire and it's flame.
I wish that I could say we're both to blame, but you my love you sired elsewhere, and expected me to understand that you were desired by another and now I'm expected to play the role of second mother to a child,
innocent though he is of his father's shared night of tireless passion with another!

And so it fell to me to prepare this fine repast, forget about the past,
look toward the food cupboard and make a dinner of herbs.
A pinch of hemlock, a touch of aconite, a soupçon of strychnine and a
drop of arsenic. All prepared by mine own fair hand, it's bitterness shone in my tears, as you praised my cooking and my fidelity to you, begged my forgiveness and took me to bed.

Now, cold you lie.
Forgiveness I could give, it was the forgetting that did both you and me in. Like Romeo to his Juliet, a moth to a flame, a drop of wolfs bane,
your Belladonna has had her final fling

A
Desirous
Unfettered
Loose
Trollop
Exhibit­ing
Rampant
Elevated
Sexual
S**trains

Fine rain falls and blankets the ground
blurs the images so that it resembles an impressionists scene.
Staring out the window lost in the fine lines of life.
I feel you across the line of time,
I hear you vibrating on the universe's string
I see you in my minds eye
I taste you on my skin, in a snowstorm, in a deluge, in a breath of air,
and I gasp, the only sense lost to me is touch.

You're gone.
You're only here in my memory when I cease so will you.
The scene below my window has moved on apace.
I know not these images, I know only you.
Day after day you return to me,
Day after day you fail to see me.
Day after day you sit and drink.
Day after day I watch you disappear.

This space above the daily pace of life was mine before yours.
I opened the door for you, yet you never fully entered.
Alone you came, alone you remain,
a pity though, for should you cross the string of time
your soul will see mine.

Take my hand, as we walk this terrain.
To the place where upon a branch a woman was hanged.
For stealing grain to make bread, ensuring that her children fed.
Look upwards, crane your head, a woman killed for baking bread.
Now, take my hand and look overland, where grains of sand make up this barren land. From barren life hanging in a tree, to barren sand eroded by sea, come to me. Come away child.
Let's build a sand castle and forget the fear in grains and sand.

I watch him sleep and trace his face with a finger
he could be you, but he’s better.
His hair is a deep chocolate brown his eyes like caramel
his smell is clean like washed cotton on a breeze
and I am seized of a deep ache.

I loved you once.
A pure deep love.
A painful love that never left.

He stirs and his face creases into a smile
I want to follow his dream.
To sit in the curve of his lips and watch the images unfold.
Knowing that within the circle of his dream, I hold his focus.
I want to spiral down and burrow under his skin,
to be owned just by him.

He’s not you.
He loves me.
He’s caused me no pain.

I enter the crook of his arm and silently exhale
Knowing my kisses are printed on his body
My love upon his heart
He’s not you,
He’s better.

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

A
Blistering
Cold
Destroys
Enough
Fruition

Good
Heat
In (turn)
Justly
Kills
Larvae

Maggots
Nourish
Only
Plentiful­
Quarry (and)
Returns
Stores
To
Usage

Vile
Winters
Xacerbate
Yellowing
Zeal

This is a poem about nothing
which is impossible since Nothing is actually Something
An indefinite pronoun.

Now, I'm discussing nothing
a concept that makes 'nothing' a thing
Confused? I am.

My mind is buzzing with the thought of nothing!
So is my mind empty or not?!
Discussing nothing is leaving me blushing!

Now existentialists,
Sartre was influenced by Heidegger
Heidegger says he was misunderstood

In the effort to bring about a poem about nothing,
I've created something, so this poem is now about Something'
what, I know not.

Do you feel strong now?
Do you feel different?
Do you see him lying by you?
Do you remember his name?
Are you happy now?

Happy, you woke in a different bed?
Do you feel empowered?
Powerful by that lie, forsaking your marriage bed?
Did you find yourself with him in you?
Your nails ripping his back.

Did you find him different to the man who gives you his all?
Or the same as any man?
Any shame? Did you come with love?
Did you scream the right name?
Are you happy now?

Did you remember his vows to you? Yours to him.
Do you remember writhing? Screaming? Scratching?
Pouring with sweat and lust.
Did you see him as you clung to the other?
Did you feel dishonest? Unclean?

Multiple questions go with multiple *******.
You have to answer them in time.
But, for now collect your clothes off the floor, slip quietly out the door, and remember how this started; with a row,
And ask "Are you happy now?"

At the bizarre bazaar a dark star was born
In the Stark night its spark put out the light
of other white stars and
beneath the brooding sky strange shadows danced
dressed in their finest black lace,
from the grave in brocaded camisoles
they blazed a trail and set sail for the dark star.

Come take a walk with me.
What do you see?
It's not a trick question, I'll answer first.
I see a world that is cursed.
Cursed, by greed, by wannabe fame,
and the human race playing a game.

What do you see?
Do you see the sea choking?
The forests de-cloaking?
Their limbs torn and cut for adornment?
Do you see children hungry?
Being used for money?
Do you see the rain as just water or tears?

What do you see?
I see people not caring, not sharing.
I see pain and sorrow for the coming tomorrow.
I see destruction and ruin of a planet that ironically rhymes with birth.
I see darkness where light should shine,
in your soul and mine.

Let's take a walk, a wander, a gander,
let's take time to see the truth, to soothe, to return kindness,
to ourselves, friend and foe.
With nothing to gain but a smile and hello, from a neighbour,
from a world in pain.

Bacon sizzles
*** fizzles out
Bacon comforts
Relationships cause discomfort.

Suddenly, life comes crashing in
calling you to participate or leave.
Run or stay, either way life wins, you die in the end.
Spin that roulette wheel, red or black
place your bets, live or die.
What if living is a form of dying?
And dying a form of living?
Who are we to conform in this beautiful carousel of life?
Why do we have to live by rules?
Who made these rules?
Rules are made to be broken.
Hearts are made to be broken.
Why try? after all no one gets out of death alive.
And no one alive gets out of dying.

Weariness screams through my mind.
Sleep barely seems here,yet
Sweet dreams
creep through my subconscious,
Bewitching my inner mind with
images of love.
To keep this love that haunts my
Smitten mind I submit to unconsciousness
Willingly, night after night.
Dream after dream
Ranging from normal and ordinary to overly surreal and bizarre.
Frightening, exciting, magical, melancholic, adventurous, ******.
As the dreamer, the events in my dreams are outside my control
Dreams are a sense of inspiration.
And beauty.

Roses are red, they’re also pink
Which led me to think are violets blue?
Never the first choice at valentines,
shrinking away under their many hues

If I were a violet I’d leave the flower bed
Get a horticultural shrink to diagnose my head
No one wants violet they just want rose
Whatever Happened to Flower Violet?

Pretty in spring
Forgotten in summer
Discarded by autumn
Dead in winter

I am a nymphomaniac.
I'm not really but it got your attention.
I bet I nearly gave all reading a cardiac.
I have to make bold statements now, as I have a condition called,
"Black Glasses" and no one makes passes at ladies in glasses.

Black pain comes with the rain
Rain bouncing hard
Covering the yard with chronic drops
Unhappiness, an empty black hole
Threatening to collapse inside itself
Into nothingness.

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.

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.

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, ******.

Brittle love broke today
The love was only one way
A thousand shards
Glinting in the rays
Of once a love so pure
Now shattered, tattered and
Fluttering in an aged breeze
The love is gone
Such is teen emotion
All is so intense, heightened senses
Truths yet unknown of life
Thank you for reminding me
That my torn and shredded love
Turns to strength given time
My torn and tattered past
Defines me now
I love with no strings
I understand my crushes, the longing and truth
I feel sorry for the teenage me
She that mooned, stared and let life pass by
For no return, no end
You cannot go back
Brittle rose tinted glasses shatter
When true love arrives.

Bruised like soft ripe fruit,
by your meaty jealous hands.

I become more erudite at night.
I feel a sprite within me ignite words,
by candlelight I feel the old masters lift their quills,
place nib in ink and nib to paper.
I invite their words and imagery to suffuse me,
use me in this modern world.
Make new what once was old.

Where nib would glide I touch my screen,
watch avidly as sentences appear,
magic symbols transformed to meaning,
like runic stones of old, or bones thrown for reading.
My words by candlelight enfold and embrace me,
in the knowing language of the poets, bards and storytellers.
Tonight, I delight at my copywrite scribed by candlelight.

Anybody literate can read and write.
But do they understand?
Can they see and feel the deeper meaning?
Do they hear the poets words?
Emote along with the writer?
Find a chord striking them within?
Gasp at the beauty in the imagery?
Hold their breath as the poet weaves magic?
Inhale the scent of sweat the poet gave?
Jump at the twists and turns?
Keen to learn the ending?
Laugh and cry along with the poet's words?
Mope at the end?
Not wanting to let the words go?
Opining their views, not the poet's.
Positing assumptions not the poet's.
Querying imagery, syntax, metaphors and similes.
Robbing the joy from the poet by making grand assumptions.
Seeking to emulate the greats, and join the canon.
Taking what they need from the words written down.
Utilising the poem as a learning tool.
Venerating  the poet and their work.
Words speaking to them from afar.
Xanthic coloured complexions, as they read into the night.
Yanking at the pages of the book.
Z**ealously impassioned by the poet's conclusion.

Pain for me is a cracked vase
It holds dead unwatered flowers.

The flowers were vibrant now they’re faded
Jaded and deflated

One crack lets out water and pain floods into me
sensitive souls suffer silently and experience pain profoundly.

I wanted happiness but got pain and accepted that as an extension of life.

NO**
You shout this to the world, and the world turns still.
How dare the rain fall, a relative call.

How dare the earth turn, while you still yearn
How dare they laugh, while you still ache.

How dare the sun rise and night fall,
while you have no relief from the grief at all.

The wreaths are dead.
All has been said.

T'is that time of year when everybody spends,
pretends to the world that peace is reigning,
winning, lying, buying, crying.

See the mother crying at night deep in the dark,
her heart aching, breaking that love is not enough.
Love cannot be placed under a tree.

Credit wins, common sense loses.
For what? tinsel and a turkey?
Baubles and gifts exchanged in the sales.

Garish lights, plastic trees,
fights in the aisles for the must have items
Belief, understanding all transferred to the neon God.

Advent calendars lie. Instead of chocolate or a gift,
let's open that cardboard door and see the rift
this season brings.

On the 1st day of Christmas a bailiff came to me
repossessed last years gifts and left
the plastic tree.

Little donkey, little donkey
little cheer, little joy,
little donkey can kiss my ***.

Jingle bells, jingle bells
jingle all the way......to depression
oh what fun it is have with discount *****

Poor vs Rich, Belief against Belief
the homeless, the food-banks, suicide
hunger, fear, nothing a man in a beard can save.