When I became yours and you became mine,
did we think we'd stand the test of time?
Did you think we'd last forever?
That we'd weather all storms together?
When we stood reciting our vows,
did you envisage us in our shrouds?

In front of all we took our turn,
repeating words like herds before.
Now, after ten years wed and fifteen together,
have we melded into each other's oppressor?
We love each other, that is true,
but don't you yearn for when we were unconcerned?

The brutal indifference of living is life.
The brutal truth is I will always be your wife.
We were made to stand the test of time.
What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine.
The brutality of this truth is that it extends
to the afterlife.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." - John Keating, Dead Poets Society (1989)

*As a child I loved you Mork, as an adult you taught me the fine line between laughter and despair.

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.

Death
is
the
home
of
maggots.
I
am
its
carrion.

In my life I've dealt with grief.
Deaths of family, friendships and innocence.
Still I'd hoped that life and time would make up,
become friends and chime a tolling bell of peace.
Thought ruins dreams.
There is inside us a black so dark we become a void.
Why try searching for the light?
The light has gone aground.
Mankind has ***** this fruitful earth,
despoiled its beauty and its worth.
Money means more than humanity.
Desecration of this fair planet and its inhabitants
justified by the men in suits.
News is just a propaganda tool,
it makes a mockery and a fool of us.
We line up for bargains, forgetting the unfed
We lie to ourselves that good still exists.
Where? When even religion becomes contentious.
Guns, bombs, hate, greed, ****** of the innocents,
who among us opened the seventh seal?
The Seventh Seal was it opened by blood mixed with oil on the altar of greed?
If so, it wasn't done in my name.

Little girl born with auburn curls
Little girl born with freckles and blue eyes
Little girl born with a smile so inviting
Little girl born to be bundled in pink.

Little girl got older
Little girl got bolder
Little girl got colder
Little girl realised she hated pink.

Little girl became a teen
Little girl became a terror
Little girl drove her mama to drink
Little girl drove her daddy to leave.

Little girl was known in town as a bad seed
Little girl decided that suited her fine, carried on drinking her wine
Little girl grew up, now a little woman
Little woman made mistakes, she never baked a cake!

Little woman with the auburn curls and inviting smile
came home early one day, saw you holding her so tight
that she knew what she had to do.
When it was done she spun with glee, caught sight of herself in red.
Smiled, at herself and thought: "if only you hadn't bundled me in pink".

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.

Within myself I know there's two.
Of who? Of me.
I watch while one takes hold.
One is meek, one is bold.
One is sweet, one is selfish.
One is kind, one is evil.
Which one I am on any given day,
depends in part, on which one I've fed,
and what diet I've served it.
Was it vitriol or humility?
Was it hate or love?
Was it just or unjust?
Was it sweet or sour?
I'll not know until the hour one of two is called.

Please handle with care the man sat in the chair
he's not a millionaire, but priceless to me.
He's not a Saint, he's made mistakes,
he's as stubborn as they come, cantankerous and moody,
but while he's there in your care, please bear in mind,
though, grouchy, argumentative and he's driving you to despair,
he's mine and my siblings dad, he's a husband, a grandfather, brother,
uncle, nephew and once himself a son.
Yes, he's been bad.
Yes, we've made him sad.
Yes, he's a flirt (that's for Mam).
Yes, we're aware of his faults, that makes him human, but, he's ours, and we'd like to be selfish and keep the moody, grouchy,
cantankerous old man a little longer.
So, please just handle him with care.

Those days where cutting off your nose to spite your face
is preferable to the fake smile?
The inane chat?
The constant hum of banality?
The pretence that all in the garden is rosy?
The surrounding of people you would cheerfully ****?

Where the slightest word sends you spiralling?
Where even "friends" drive you screaming for the hills?
Where silence is all you want, need, crave?
Where were it possible you'd scream not talk?
Where you'd get your bucket of regrets, and throw them to the wind?
Today is that day for me.