A solemn Moon, a solitary tear
        amidst fire-fly flecks of stars,
        looked east to ink-blue light rising and spoke:

Sun, do not rise today
        for love is lost
        and your warmth will sear the tears on our face

Sun, do not rise today
        time is frozen
        in the moonlit shades of night

Sun, do not rise today
        light cannot lift this morn
        from its sorrow and lament

Sun, do not rise today
        leave us be
        let all be

Sun, do not move time on
        let us lay in lovers arms-unmoving
        seized eternal in this moment

Sun, do not rise today
        nor raise the voices of hope or joy
        for a child is gone, a mother stolen

Souls are shaken
        from their earthly care – born
        to the wind and flown

Sun, do not rise today
        your time will come
        when we may turn to you again

For warmth, for comfort
        for reprieve – but ‘til then
        do not cast our shadows long and drawn across the land

Sun, do not rise
        as we catch our trains
        and walk desolate to offices and schools

Let our tears fall ‘til faded,
        leaving just the stars
        to illuminate the night.

for all my life I’ve striven hard
not to be confined
by iambic pentameter
nor other metered rhyme

You can leave wires alone, hidden away
and they still get tangled, ******* in knots,
twisted around in angry coils, like a pit-full
of leathery snakes.  Everything appears to work still fine

and it looks nice and shiny, like it always did.
Dusted off every week. Our visitors admire it,
and family don’t notice it anymore.
It’s part of the furniture, there every day;

useful and pleasurable though it is, in its way,
if it broke, it would be replaced. So why,
though untouched in anyway
are the wires in such a state?

So, moving the furniture, you try
and release them. You try and follow the trail,
from where they used to run straight and true,
to where they now entwine and choke

each other with their tiny knotted fists of flex.
And you think this is beyond the laws of physics,
That an inanimate object can come alive
With such malevolence.

You look for explanation, such as
spectral interference or evil black-eyed
midnight fairies with sharp pin-teeth,
who, in glinting moonlight, spin and prance,

Whirling the wires around, as if in some frenzied pagan dance.
Rather, though, (and you know) it’s the small
unseen twists of time that, uncorrected in neglect,
have snared the wires in their own catch net.

However did it come to this? I ask her,
and she looks at me, as if
I shouldn’t be surprised. For so
it happens every time.

The slipping plates of the planet
Grind ceaselessly against each other
In terse and violent tension.  
Neighbour against neighbour,
Conflicting caress of rock against rock
Until one gives.  

                            The tension explodes.
Little Boy ten thousand fold
Wrecks vast destruction across
Land, sea, village and city
With indifference
For whoever
Whatever
Wherever.

What feeling, what emotion,
Crashes through the landscape,
Dashing communities, families,
Mother and child, father and friends,
School children, colleagues,
Shopkeepers and trades?
Picked up and tossed over and under
By wave after wave, dragging crushing debris.
A black lascivious tongue
Unfurling its fury, lashing
The skin of humanity
From the face of the Earth.

*(And what do I care of the destruction?
Of all the pain it leaves behind?
Of the ever-rising body count
Upon a never-ceasing tide.

I am on my way, surfing
The fury, feeling all powerful
And magnificent, but all the time
Controlled and ruined).

Forced trust breeds jealousies
and in loving shells grow enemies

I measure out my days in witticisms that fall
As freely and pointlessly as leaves in autumn,
My few amongst the countless that fall anonymously
Along streets, in parks, in gardens
Filling gutters, blocking drains, making homes
For hedgehogs, rats and beetles.
Things we **** with cars, poisons and heels.

Have I been here before,
Under the limes?
The brush sweeps sighs
Behind me, wooden footfalls echo
Into the density of crushed
Red velvet seating.

Plinkerty-plank-plonk,
Boney tendrils find a drunk man
Blundering his way home,
Gone midnight, wet and sorry.
The audience having left, amused
But ultimately dissatisfied.

The limes ghost across the blackened stage.
The black piano grins, then laughs,
A breathless wind across the strings at last,
For I have left the building.

On the sixth day of the month,
Being the fifth one of the year,
We congregate to celebrate
The wedding of the year.

Not a week too late (that was Wills and Kate)
But our own dear Phil and Gemma,
Who, in ceremony, have duly vowed
To be as one forever.

But the two of you may be asking,
On this happiest of days,
"How do we keep romance alive?
O tell us of the ways!"

Well, the secrets of a happy marriage,
They are a secret still.
But these few tips may bring success,
So heed them if you will.

If you fall out in bitter temper
Don't  go to bed at night.
It will be far worse come morning,
So just stay up and fight.

A man should keep romance in bloom
With flowers and gifts that gleam,
And also, most importantly,
Keep his internet history clean.

A woman should pay attention
To those little things that matter,
Like vacuuming and ironing,
And when football's on, don't chatter!

And if your husband's eye might stray
Upon a lady passing by,
Why, 'tis only to remind him
That you're much fairer to the eye.

So it is said by those that know,
With certainty undiminished,
That two in love are incomplete,
Until, in marriage, they are finished.

"Excuse me, may I take this seat, please?"*

No. Go away.
I came here to get some peace.

I didn't say this of course.

Out of the blue,
what made you
pull the last straw?

Something undone,
unknown, by someone;
a black hole ***** the light in.

Left is a void
of pain, annoyed
that nothing could reach you;

Nothing we knew.
Then out of the blue
a black hole ***** the light in.

The rain it is a-falling hard
It’s coming down in torrents
I’ve never seen such heavy rain
It fills me with abhorrence

If out you step you will get wet
The land is one great puddle
All the roads have disappeared
The cars are all a-muddle

Mums and dads are driven mad
The kids aren’t out a-playin’
It’s a miserable flippin’ summer
When there’s nowt to do but stay in

I ain’t worn shorts but for an hour
I’m in slippers more than sandals
By the time it gets to half past eight
We’re lighting flippin’ candles!

We haven’t seen the sun in weeks
Just dark, foreboding skies
Whoever said the globe is warming
Was telling flippin’ lies!

With autumns ever shortening diurnal light
You pull the dark evenings in
Like a cloak around your shoulders.
Instinctively your spirited open summer strides

Slip into their winter shuffle,
Inviting the scuffle through fallen leaves
And solemn reflection in every puddle.

Once, long summer days brought inspiration.
Now, with morning, just comes condensation
And a crystallised frosting of the cars and ground.
Through the sky’s grey filter the land’s colours are dulled.

These days are shadowless,
With no memories worth mulling over
Other than when the days were brighter.

Amidst aimless wander my head is full of nothing
But the birdsong of finches in their morning roosts,
Shrouded by berry-laden bushes; musical bushes,

With tiny red beaded bells ringing, softly shaken by dawn’s breath.
My dog runs on before me; the birds take flight,
Silencing the bells’ shrill.

Entering the field; ghost footsteps have left their mark
In the silver dew, bending the grass wearily.
Far across the field another man walks with his dog.

An echo alerts me; there is a connection.  In that instant
A recognition of a moment yet to pass.
Although separated by some hundreds of metres

It is as if I were stood by his side.
His face is indiscernible and I know nothing of him
But that we’ll meet.

He walks toward the middle of the same field,
Then bears left to where the trees break,
Throwing their arms open in wide embrace

To draw you into the heart of the wood.
Sensing the unavoidable encounter
And not wanting it to occur,

I change my route, drift under the oak,
Through the gap in the undergrowth,
Through to the adjacent field.

We skirt the edge, my dog gamboling freely,
Sniffing out invisible visitors from the past
And anything edible.  Our progress meanders,

Idles and pauses, as must, I suspect, our now unseen companions’.
Seemingly still connected, though, we move on
To the inevitable confluence of our paths,

So bound in time and space as the meeting of two rivers,
The calm of morning solitude disturbed by the white waters
Of the unwanted salutation we exchange:

*“Good morning.”

How do you dislike me?  Let me count the ways.
At least half of what I do and half of what I say
Seems to irritate and frustrate you.  
My deeds mistrusted and misunderstood
As something other than selfless good.
Your suspicion steals a narrow view
Of how I would prefer to spend my time.
So the sentence precedes the crime
And love is shackled in its gaol,
A prisoner with no parole,
Once found guilty, condemned for all,
And nothing can now avail.
Imagined crimes will never fade
And penance be ne’er truly paid.

One muggy late September afternoon, a heavy grey cloud blanketing the sky, smothering the sunlight, I was not really heading anywhere with purpose; just walking along the paths amongst the high grass and trees that border the land between the houses and the valley fields.

It started to rain.  Thick, heavy drops of rain, that fell directly down as if they’d been dropped through a giant metal sieve in the sky. I felt each rain drop hit me with determined force, dark spots appearing across my faded green t-shirt. I took shelter beneath an oak tree at the side of the path and listened to the sound of the rain as it pattered off the leafy canopy above and around me.  Everything was otherwise still and silent.  

The air was warm and filled with the sweet earthy scent of the dampening ground.  The grass was bright lime green in the sun where shafts of sunlight speared the clouds. The leaves that sheltered me shone in low diffused light that filtered through the clouds and I admired the bounty of acorns that beaded the branches of the tree around me.  I imagined busy grey squirrels scampering along the boughs, harvesting the bounty in their tiny claws, gathering their store for the long cold winter to come.

Unexpectedly, I felt secure; comforted that I was still able to harvest simple pleasures and peace, just by sheltering from rain beneath a tree. Nature sometimes has a certainty that is re-assuring to a troubled mind.  

My thoughts turned to the coming autumn, with its landscape richly painted in burnished copper and bronze; the hedgerows burdened with the many wild fruits and berries that would nourish the wildlife through the harsh winter months to come.

Shutters hang defeated, at the mercy of the wind.
Rain soaks through the swollen beams,
Dark emptiness mirrored in blackened puddles,
Rats slump across the slimy floor,
Skeletal weeds cling and crawl along the walls.
Through splintered slats the tempest spirits howl,
Tattered cobwebs brace the corners;
A final winding sheet; the end of pain and struggle.

There is no echo
For there is no voice,
Pray the battering storm,
But in the darkest shadows,
Where no-one looks,
Stares a frightened fearful soul.

I need a choir of laughter
To lift the clouds of gloom.
I need warm rays of sunshine
To brighten up my room.

I need the arms that love me,
Not the arms of war.
I need a path before me,
Not a padlocked door.

I need an inspiration
To draw away my doubt.
I need a hope within me
To not despair without.

I need someone to listen
When I’ve nothing more to say.
To learn to face my demons
And not to run away.

To try and be more carefree
And not so much careless.
To keep life more in focus
And not so much digress.

If I could find all that I need
Would I learn to want no more
But love those things I held so dear
That once were lost before?

selfabsorbedandangry
ifindithardtotry
toseethebettersideoflife
th­roughblindanddirtiedeyes.

selfabusermedicator
fearihidebehind
di­ssectedintrospection
amurderofakind.

introspection
dissection
gu­tsandentrails
weighedandlaidaside.

methedoctor/patient
etherised
uponatable
stretchedbeneathnightskies.

I’m paranoid in the morning,
I’m paranoid at night.
I know they’re out to get me -
They think that I’m not right

They talk in darkened corners.
They whisper when I’m gone.
I hear their silent mutters,
They haunt me all day long.

I’m running to far off places,
Hiding behind closed doors,
Staring from barred windows,
I’m crawling up the walls.

When they come and get me
They’ll see that I am gone.
I won’t be here to find me.
They think they’re right. They’re wrong.

When I get home at the end of the day
my significant other rises to greet me
with a kiss on the lips
as divine as the wine
that it is.

Each person sees their own rainbow.
It is just for you,

Reflecting in its arc of colours
Your own uniqueness.

No-one else occupies your place on the planet,
Only you see the world through your eyes,

Your bow of light, refracted through rain,
Arches over the scene set before you.

Behold its beauty before it fades.

Being on the edge, where light fades greyly into dark,
Already you speak in echoes,
Your words from somewhere lost within you.
If I touch the veil of your fragile skin
Would I be touching you?
Although our touch to me still says “love”
When helping you from your chair or just holding you steady,
The Earth no longer firm beneath your feet.

Is my voice confused amongst others
In a kaleidoscope of utterances?
I’m not sure who makes more sense of this, you or I?
A bird that can no longer fly gasps quivering on the ledge,
Its heart a barely visible beat.
And I am the child again, behind the window,
Watching until it passes, its song
Carried away on the wings of the air.

Because I have loved you,
You are here.
Because over you I have bled and cried
And fought frustration and anger deep inside
You are here.
You are part of the fabric of my world,
A bright-coloured thread to my weave.
In body and soul, you are part of me.

How deafening the morning silence
punctuated by the clatter of make-up drawer,
drier blast and vigorous brushing of hair.
I bury my head in the radio
as far as it will go,
absorbing the stale scent on the pillow

of a sweaty, restless sleep;
recall my dreams and nightmares,
clinging to a nether world
somewhere between the dark comfort of night
and the bright glaring brutality of the day,
wanting it all to just go away.

Set all things aside for one moment,
Clear your space and empty your mind,
Free your thought of the debris of memories,
Set all things aside

And breathe in deeply the peace and the silence,
The sound of calm water drifts on the air,
Unshackle the chains of the day that restrain you
- Rest awhile and repair.

It's come to my attention
That the **** has hit the fan.
I should've seen it coming
When everyone else ran.

Now I'm in the thick of it,
This mess that isn't mine.
I'm so slow on the uptake,
It happens every time.