my heart bleeds for the Lost Children of Tomorrow
cut down in their infant prime
a community broken by sorrow
families in turmoil
united, saddened, enraged and loyal.

what happened in Connecticut the other day
is just ******* wrong
I rarely swear in my poems
but the feelings too strong
I struggle to express
20 children killed
lest, the very thought
leaves the spine frozen and chilled

Im not one to be political
and this poem isn't satirical
we talk about the Lost Children of America
but what of the Lost Children of Gaza
200 killed, bombed and shot
in their schools, in their homes, in the plaza
do we protest that these atrocities must stop?
we outcry at the public consumption of guns
but are we fickle to which news story
that leaves us shell shocked and stunned

perhaps we have become dehumanised
to the daily statistics of death;
we should write eulogies
for all the Lost Children of Tomorrow
not just for those from the West

my heart bleeds for the Lost Children of Tomorrow
cut down in their infant prime
leaves a world broken by sorrow
in a race against time
lets not forget the other nations
at this time of giving;
we should be a race united
for the love & for the living

I shed a tear let it not be for nothing
please do not scan read the poems meaning
or dismiss it as poor verse
because it demands of your feelings;
if the emotions were blood vessels
the arteries would burst

we are all poets here
with words to share
put our hearts online
our emotions laid bare
I ask very little of you
Only,
lets not forget the many
when we eulogise the few

the pitch dark symmetry
of spiral engraved
glossy jet black
vinyl

the ***** claws
and webbed spiders;
graced with impeccable
scratch

words come back around
from dog day afternoon;
entwined in ritual
beatology

technique absorbed in prowess
dedication assimilated by passion;
human form and synthetic resin becomes
overlayed

polyvinyl chloride or
unsaturated hydrocarbon radicals;
a derivative by any other
name

I'll leave that nugget for the pub quiz
and relax, post-Christmas stress;
the street scramble bustle,
embrace a pint of
black magic

tried to wash away the memory
as the weeks into months they blurred
unfulfilled dreams now forever lost
weigh heavy on the lips of words

a steeled veneer to protect the soul
self-made iron of unfiltered grace
shattered like a pane of glass;
the rubble that is laid to waste
fills countless endless self-dug holes

to accept the fate of solace
to descend the fires with no sound
to caress the blonde wisps of hair remaining
before being buried in the ground;
this was yours to bear alone

chances are a fates divide
in the dark the demon drink is dwelling
deep lies the dragons breath inside
for a stolen heart
left to mourn its own swelling

so much to forget
a simple gentle touch
a kiss is but a whisper now
who has forgotten how to weep
still remembered
as if it were only yesterday;
the memory will never fade
and was never yours to keep

Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten

Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

Your use of words
of late, I have noticed,
seize the cold light of day
snowball the pack ice
send a shudder down the spine
hail the dawn of an audible ice age
lest if only
One would listen

that loquacious nature
left to stew in the freezer
the embodiment of toxic wine
your preferred after taste;
the sediment of choice
demands a selective palate

we have bulldozed
The Garden of Eden
now only the Snake remains
offering the bitter-sweet apple
to those who oblige
pave the way for emotions
to argue their objections
a subjective nature
in acerbic tones
fierce and unwavering;
the adulation of the Other

A raised eyebrow
denotes a self-centred assuredness
that anyone else
with a deft hand for art or language
is clearly a copy of the blueprint
your ingenious creation;
such is the intellect you abide by
that of your own reckoning

Your argument
is the passing of an iceberg
perhaps fleeting
the early evening;
the disingenuous melt
of your carbon-cloaked temper

My riposte
will be your undoing
defeat by the warmth
of the passing Sun;
embrace that which you chase
see what you dont see
agree to disagree
is the sympathy
for your antipathy

Mary was a poet;
her words beautiful
her grammar impeccable
her grasp of the lexicon
far beyond my simple ramblings

Mary was a writer;
her flow omnipresent
her imagery transports the soul
her understanding of the reader
far beyond my comprehension

Mary taught me
how to express myself
the meaning of a nom de plume;
I didn't need to be
just a boy with
ideas above his station

Mary was a 40-something woman
previously married with grown up kids
living on a Western Isle
with a pet donkey called Samson

For 20 years I walked with Mary's shadow
she made me proud and kept our secrets safe
I remember the poem she wrote
about a coffee and a one night stand
evoked images of two women in a passionate embrace;
it won some award she never collected

Mary had cheques for her published works
filled a pencil case in a box in the attic
her moments in the spotlight gathering dust
citing Maya Angelou as her inspiration
and Ben Okri as a man she'd like to cook for

Mary inspired me;
she was a writer and a poet don't you know
taught me the meaning of a nom de plume
sad was the day I laid her to rest
buried with her cheques in the pencil case
gathering dust in the attic

This is her epitaph:
wherever there is soul
all is not lost,
and what is not lost
is never forgotten.