From quiet homes and first beginning, Out to the undiscovered ends, There's nothing worth the wear of winning, But laughter and the love of friends.
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), British author. "Dedicatory Ode," Verses (1910).

Dear Parents

Thank you for deciding after two years of marriage to have a child, me.
Sorry I wasn't the boy that so many of my family desired, sorry I was late, sorry that you missed the "Rumble in the Jungle", if it's any consolation I know who won.
How I came to be is quite beyond me. Father's family disliked mothers and vice versa. Dad a steelworker, Mam a trainee chef, dad flipped a coin with a mate, my mother was the stake.
Four years later sister came along, then another four years the son, that so many yearned for made an appearance.
I saved my sister's life from my grandparent's dog, lost an ear in that battle, a bit like Van Gogh. Plastic surgery at seven, still hate Cocker Spaniels to this day. I tell everyone I saved her from a rabid Doberman (I know parents, there's no Rabies in Great Britain) what did I get for my trouble? A stuffed white cat and a sister that I made sit in a cow pat.
Thank you parents for sending me to a school that made other kids suspicious of me. A welsh medium school, might as well have been Hogwarts, but they taught me well, (I can swear in five languages) and read and spell.
Dad taught me how to head ****, mam you taught me how to make cake.
My sister taught me how to share, my brother taught me how really not to care. Live each day as if it may be your last, I told my brother that often.
Dad, one of 13 kids, mam one of 3, like me. Dad, I hate your sisters that are alive they remind me of the Moirai, or the three witches from Macbeth, I've tried to like them but I'm terrible at lying, and to be honest they are in their late 70's so they must be close to dying.
Mam, your sister is a lesbian, I think her army days gave that away. Your brother like mine a source of consternation a Navy man that never went to sea????
Now, my grandparents are all dead. Apparently, I have inherited my father's mother's temper. She disappeared for 3 days when she thought she'd killed my grandad!
I'm married now, no rug rats thank God, I'm aunty material, selfish and wicked.
Now, this sounds I know a little quaint and odd, but I know we've had our share of bad luck, but, 42 years wed, still in the family home, surrounded by trees, neighbours we've known for years and people we'd like to poison. But,we've laughed so hard mam you have a hernia, dad you are the male equivalent of a ****, you'll be flirting in the OAP home **** yes, sorry parents as one of your three I get to pick the residential home! And, as they say,that is a good life.
Jo **
P.s I didn't mention our family mental illnesses, early 20th century communism, possible adultery, coveting the neighbours Ford Capri, or pet cemetery in the garden. I'll wait til all are dead then spill about the good secrets.

Put your arm around my waist.
Let us share a kiss so chaste
that even sinners will be vouchsafed
by its purity and be graced.

I am debased by its foretaste,
encased in the sin of lust.
Lips interlaced like a corset yet undone,
enslaved by your lascivious tongue.

Come hold my hand and retrace our steps
back to where we first embraced,
unscathed by want, need or disgrace.
Where we raced into each other with haste.

Crazed with passion made brave by fate,
seal my end with this misplaced date.
Ignore my complaint and acquaint yourself with me.
Debase the chaste kiss that started this greedy need in me.

Forgive me for I have strayed, half crazed,
into a kiss that coursed and raced through my soul
like poison not yet sated, straight into craven depravity.
Engraved upon my heart forevermore, is my last kiss.

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.

Humankind
Look about you; and what do you see?
A group of people like you and me.

Some are fat and some are thin
All are just covered in a layer of skin

Shall we go deeper into the flesh?
Take a look at what they possess.

Anatomically defined, humankind
Mankind intertwined, designed thus, us

Are we good are we bad?
Do we want all that we have?

Do we need or is it greed?
When we proceed to overfeed

Unrestrained indifference to consumerism
Leaves us open to malfeasance, and our skin wrinkles.

But fear not, the answer is to be found in a ***!
Only £€$¥ 9.99 and that wrinkle is smoothed.

So, buy today and it will go away.
And all of us will one day die and turn to dust.

And all we buy will fade and rust
And love will never be enough

This spiteful poem has no title.
That doesn't mean it's not entitled to a title
it just means, it hasn't got one.
It's not in any way vital to title
a poem is it?
Without a title, would a rival thieve
the poem?
Without a title, it means there is no
subject matter. Does that matter?
I guess at a recital a title helps,
it introduces the poem to an audience.
Let's face it, the poem is not going to get
suicidal if I don't give it a title!
It's not going to go all homicidal, suicidal,
or self harm.
Will it sue me for libel?
Am I being frightful?
I think it's delightful that this poem
has no title.
Maybe, what I should have titled this poem, was
"Poet being idle".

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.

My depression is a transgression
against me, and mine.
I never asked to be contaminated
with this strife.

My depression is a possession
of evil, of illness.
I never thought I would be
rife with highs and lows.

My depression is a progression
of good and bad thoughts.
I never wanted to be
violated with cries and lies.

My depression is a weapon
against all who suffer its woes.
I hope the afterlife takes this repression
and nullifies it's effects.

My depression is mine but
suffered by many. We are pulverised,
neutralised and modified by our own
minds and medicated to keep sated.

My depression is Legion
a wickedness to the self.
A circle unending, unbending,
curving toward suppression of oneself.

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

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.

Sing me a song without any music
Cook me a feast without any taste
Touch me without any feeling
Look at me without any chaste.

Draw me with smoke
See me with touch
Whisper me words
Caress me in your clutch.

Ignore me at your peril
Acknowledge me at mine
Sculpt me in your body
As you and I entwine.

It was unfair that I loved you first
It was unfair that you and I were cursed
It was unfair that with no one around we were free
Just you and me, joking, talking, knowing

Peers are just the first form of abuse we suffer in this world
Words hurled, lips curled,
We drifted apart, whispers became louder than shouts
I found out that you'd kissed her

I didn't cry, you weren't mine to cry over
I didn't show emotion, that takes time
I didn't pursue anyone else, I insulated myself
I didn't experience anything but loneliness and bitterness

Facebook show me those peers
Reveal their lives, their pain, their happiness
She's on the social network, she runs, drinks wine
Is married, is a mum

I look for you on there, you're not
I am, but if we find each other again
Life has had the last laugh
We are both married. Unfair.

Words.
Those tiny individual letters formed into expression.
Feelings, emotions, reality and fiction.
All bound into words.

Tonight I have an appetite
I want to merge my body
With your soul, and become whole.

To converge upon each other and
discharge our urges until spent
reemerge, renewed, unhurt, purged.

With sleep slurred words
I tell you that I love you
You stroke my hair, and murmur

I love you too hummingbird
Content we fall asleep entwined
Our urge confirmed in love.

Roses are red
Violets are blue
My love is a gun
And the bullet’s for you

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Let me sharpen this knife
I want to gut you.

© JLB
08/02/2018
03:44 GMT

Do you see them?
They see you.
Do you hear them?
They hear you.

Yes, you see them
Out of the corner of your eye
Yes, you hear them
During the silence of a ticking clock.

You'd rather not see or hear them
You'd rather they sleep a quiet slumber
You'd rather they didn't talk to you
You'd rather the professionals were right, you're mad

But, you and they know otherwise
They are only seen and heard by you
To others they elicit that "someone's just walked over my grave feeling
Like children at play their cruelty knows no bounds.

We fight delicately, sniping, taking and giving verbal punches.
Our skin doesn't bruise, maybe our egos our minds,
but our bodies no.
Our velvet arguing is seamless, flawless.
Anyone listening would hear witty repartee.
A couple playfully bantering, no more.
Polite meritorious armament of words.
Primed to fire a salvo of cruelty.
Cruelty, covered and handled with crushed velvet gloves.
Textured, cultured, arguing.
Polite parrying, pleasant resentment.
A bottle of wine, remnants of a meal, wounds needing to heal.
Less or more cruel than a punch? This seamless linguistic pain.
Bruises fade, pain subsides, mental cruelty resides.

Meandering like its canals
Venetian streets sing underfoot.
Who wore away the stone cobbled streets?
Who walked down to the shore?
Who gazed out at the Adriatic?
Who's dreams were lost in Venice's stream of streets?

Licentious lovers loved in Venice's streets, kissed on her bridges,
Crossed under by gondola and over by foot.
Proposed at the piazza San Marco.
Kissed, while the Grand Canal wound her way down.
Down into the sea,
where the menace that is the world, Venice shuns.

Rialto, Doge, Basilica, St. Marks, pigeons!
All evoke that lagoon city of streets.
Originally refugees, incolae lacunae ("lagoon dwellers")
Venetians, gave not only a place for the dispossessed,
but a place for the world to see, feel and taste.
Art, war, politics, commerce, spice and silk.

Venice with her ribbon of streets, alleyways and bridges
saw the Renaissance, the crusades, and the Black Death.
Glassware, paintings, sculptures, religion, refugees all
synonymous with that floating city.
A city returning to the water she arose from.
Subsiding with grief as she drowns in elegant decay.

I wish for silence
I wish for peace
I want you all to be silent
I don't want to hear you any more.
I feel awashed with voices talking at once.
SHUT UP
I'm begging please just one night of peace.
I don't want to care
I don't want to lay my heart bare
I don't want to bare my soul
SHUT UP
I'm sorry your dead
I'm sorry you left things unsaid
I'm sorry they can't see or hear you
**Just get out of MY HEAD

Watching the day pass
Waiting for the night to come
Wanting the anonymity of dark
Wishing that the day wasn't so bright

No place to hide in the light
Sparkling sun reveals all
Reveals truth and lies
Stargazing is what I want, what I need

Watching the people of the day
Going about their daytime duties
Leaves me cold. They're just consumer cattle.
At night the watching differs.

Night watching is quiet
Night people are quiet
Night duties are quiet
Night is peace, night is my quietude.

Lie back, look up, see the stars all burnt out.
Degenerate matter. They are dead.
What we see in the night sky is death.
Bright death.

Imagine the world smooth and polished
Imagine the world skimming water
Imagine the worlds ripples on the water
Imagine the world that is smooth, polished and skimming is you
Now imagine that the smooth polished skimming world that is you suddenly drops with a splash 💦

I lose myself in memories past
Watch scenes on a loop
Run these memories through filters so that
Brighter, softer, more muted hues speckle the reminiscing
Harsh lines now resemble an impressionist painting
Harsh words now a poets tongue become
Harsh actions a noble deed to overcome a harsher pain.
Harsh words fall soft from the tongue
Diluted memories in ombré hue
Gradually blending and shading
Until only an impression of a memory remains.

We have no kids to bounce on the bed
We feel the cool, damp day start side by side
We know each nook and cranny of the room
And of us.

We are an odd couple, no one would pair us
We are Ying and Yang
We are two halves of one whole
We are light and dark

We are a mystery even to ourselves
Why do you love me? I ask
Because you are you he replies
But why? I persist

Because I love you, all of you.
He turns catches hold of me
Gives me a hug, and helps raise me from the bed
Guilt washes over me on this grey Sunday

Why would he love a bitter, angry, depressed
Disabled woman?
Why?
Because he loves all of me, and I of him.

Every breath I take reminds me I'm alive
My uniqueness survives my weakness,
my illness has given me a strength, that,
I never knew existed.
My health is deteriorating, failing,
day by day, but despite these facts,
I can say "******* MS" I'm staying
at least a while longer!
I'll never give up, or give in, without a scream, or a fight.
You have stealth, I have a wealth of love
You have insubstantiality, I have no regrets
You have pain, I have gain.
Through my pain, fatigue, depression and laments,
I've gained a friend, ME.

Moonlight lit the room casting shadows that stayed.
I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise into midnight's hour.
Nine hours to go.
Nine hours to wait.

Nine hours to remember,
remember the night,
that Easter Sunday.
That pub in Hampstead.

Why did you tell me that you loved me?
When clearly it was untrue.
Why did I love you so intensely?
When a single punch from you, took the life growing inside me away.

The clock has struck 3am
No mice have run down.
Just me, a table, cigarettes and the moon.
I'm not mad, that is true, just too passionate for you.

5am and a weak dawn is breaking
Just 4 cigarettes left, one an hour, if I'm lucky.
I called your name that fateful day, twice.
You ignored me, carried on looking for your keys.

Keys to a car that would not be needed.
You can't drive to where I sent you.
A .38 calibre Smith & Wesson Victory model revolver's
bullets were your last ride.

On 20 June 1955, Number One Court at the Old Bailey, London,
before Mr Justice Havers, I said;
"It's obvious when I shot him I intended to **** him."
I'd shot you dead.

Now it's my time to go meet our maker
Nearly nine, and a drop of 8ft 4 awaits.
As I told the Bishop of Stepney
"It is quite clear to me that I was not the person who shot him. When I saw myself with the revolver I knew I was another person."

8:59, with 30 seconds to go I take my glasses off
Won't be needing those anymore.
I know what a drop looks like.
15 seconds is all it took, my feet dangling toward the floor.

We live so close to one another
I sometimes have to wonder
Are we destined to always meet?
Are we always just going to greet each other as friends?
Smile and talk about the weather while both wondering
whether we were once one.
I know you, you know me
We joke, we smile, we share wit and banter
Yet, all the while I see you as me and me as you.
And as you I want me.

We live so close to one another
I sometimes have to wonder
Are we destined to always meet?
Are we always just going to greet each other as friends?
Smile and talk about the weather while both wondering
whether we were once one.
I know you, you know me
We joke, we smile, we share wit and banter
Yet, all the while I see you as me and me as you.
And as you I want me.

I can't forget you, where are you?
Memories are haunting me, are you with someone?
Are you happy?
I'm with someone, he knows about you.
Do you think of me?
No, that's crazy, why would you?
I can't hear your name, without being pulled back.
Is it good where you are?
It's good where I am.
It took a long time to get over you.
It took a long time to realise that you were unable to break conventions.
So, you broke my heart instead.
You made me stronger, made me realise that you are in the past for a reason.
A man who cannot be true to himself is no man, so I ask again,
Where are you?

I sometimes find my mind wandering
Remembering the good old days

Use by date seen better days
No use to man nor beast

Better days are no more, there’s clawing at the door
The door inside your head

It rhymes with dead does head
It also rhymes with shed, which is apt

As that’s where he put my head