You are an old habit
clinging to me,
like a child clings to a comfort blanket.
To elaborate, I need to cut the apron strings.
Discard you like a cigarette ****,
another old habit.
We've marred and scarred each other and called it:
Love.
We are nothing more than substance abuse,
for each other.
Habit formed, co dependent adults.
No twelve step program for us.
Just your charred remains, found
in our bed.
Our bed that justified our habit.

Draped like a long forgotten shawl
my dreams lie in my mind, covered with a caul.
No second sight was afforded my disillusionment,
my deluded, discarded dreams.
Brittle decaying hope.
Tattered remnants of youthful vigour cling vine like
to my mind. Was I ever that happy?
Or is that an illusion also.
Born of the caul, as a charm to be deemed unable to drown,
so, that's why I failed.
I watch my past on fast forward, skipping to the present.
Strange word present, meaning: the here and now, or a gift.
My dreams are nightmares, my present is no gift.
My nightmares are the gifts of my present

Father's Day was yesterday.
But why must a day be set aside to show a parent love?
I love my parents all year round
I've fought, screamed, cried all the while loving them.
But, my country breeds strong independent people
national identity to be found everywhere.
From the hilltop spring to the coast
we Welsh are a mystical breed, of mystery and sorcery.
My anthem "Mae hen wlad fy nhadau"
or Land of my fathers made me stop and think,
think of my father and other men in this land.
Rough handed, hewn from steel and coal.
Iron willed, fiercely proud.
Valley born I am, even now I'm in a city.
But when I die Valley dead I'll lie.
In my father's plot, set aside for us.
Set aside on a green mountain overlooking the valley.
The land of my fathers, the land that bred him and me.
This poem is in English oh "uch a fi"
But if I write in Welsh my father will not understand
His generation denied the language of song, poetry,
and identity. I have a happy heart "calon hapus"
For he and I will be forever tied by blood and country.
Father's Day for me and all children born of woman lay claim to
Father's Day all year round.

Hush, listen, soft breath is needed,
quiet now or we'll disturb them.
The lovers entwined in lazy armed need.
Twilight has crept silently into the room,
soft pale blue light suffuses the couple,
whose love act dapples the sweet light,
and bends the shadows seductively.
Evening twilight ends and night begins.
The French expression l'heure bleu has passed.
The lovers oblivious to the blue hour
lie together in sated desire.
Come now, let us leave the serene sapphic scene.
The night awaits, and many a couple lie
procrastinating, whilst Aphrodite, Eros and us,
the watchers, dust them with desire

Words, like a fragmented mirror, piece themselves together
in lines of poetry.
Some words fit, some words fail,
all that is known, is that one minute these words were individual
now they are knitted together in sentences,
to become for some a resonance