Rewards and scars gather up as hours collect my thoughts to gather in a lonely room.
Bladed cuts and screaming
haunt me silently
in the unmasked gloom

No skeletons in closet for demons keep me warm we often look for solace and I simply another line .  But the storms outside offer little silence and long is the night ahead.

The darkness stretches
in pale lines, etching bone in its loneliness
Tracing patterns of lightening against a dark tempest
I sit and wonder why
I sit so alone inside my head

is it everything
you'd thought it be?
Happy 21st my baby boy
forgive me...
as I lay in bed
Remembering
that 21 years ago
I became a Mother
for the first time
you know
and I was as confused
as you were back then
until your tiny little hand
held my clumsy fingers
that feeling...
it still lingers

But where are you now?
Where have you been?

I've been in Hell it seems,
I lay awake every night
I wait for the fright
of hearing your voice
I dream of the moment
I get that choice

Happy 21st Birthday
to my precious,
most coveted
First born Son

Happy Birthday my darling
though you hate me desperately
I say Happy 21st Bithday

It appears you may have made it
*without your Mum...

Why are roses the

symbol of lasting love when

they die so quickly?

we've come a long way
from the days when we
passed notes between mates
secretly pretending
the words on the page
meant nothing
hiding them in pockets
to take them home
to smooth them against
the bed, reading every word
again and again and again
we've come a long way
from leaving little pieces
of paper, parts of our soul
on pillows and in bedside draws
from scribbled messages
on bathroom mirrors
written in lipstick the colour of
Siren Red and Bleeding Crimson
breaking out of our prison
we've come a long way
to being able to say
how much we mean
how hard it is to say the words
how easy it is to shove letters
into verse and choke
it's a long way from face to face
conversations that evoke imagery
from our distant dreams
it seems we've come a long way
with *Poetry

antlers
fourteen points
cernunnos stirs
while the daffodils
reach their thirties
orderly routines
-
stones start skipping
replete potholes, puddle-filled
paving the way
capsizing axles
-
sipping steam from fog clouds low-hanging
not really minding that my shirt is wet from the concrete

on windy plains
flattened panels beneath tight-pressed scarves, they stand
on the edge of the highway
seeking the last streaks of eve's sun
bodies on windy plains where, in the lap of poverty, kids play and listen
the ***** little words mothers spill
a hapless world in flats steep, laundry billows on higher
than most dreams can possibly reach


1.
song to be sung, yet youth's golden mouth swift-ripped away
by hungry-crones topped in white hats and over-spiffed lines
poor boy couldn't hold it together, they fell apart
scatter the crowd in fold-up chairs to make it look less empty
spread the tea-garden in the hall, circulate those tiny packets
so much **** noise, is that all we waited for?

revolutions were built on disparity's hand ****** in the face of the poor
pity the drug of current day keeps all so well glued to the system
somebody wise once said that royalty awards knighthood
                                                *exactly for the same reason
to keep gentry where they are seen fit to belong: below
                                                           ­                   the swirl of understanding
so, there won't be enough cake for everyone.



2.
when saviours ring in the new, for a short while
and new heads bring down the old names
and gut the bastions of the past
surely, when we destroy the ugly parts of history, we conceal truth
with pompous new plaques and road names for petty achievers
even bad press is held up as recognition these days
and too many are numbed, hopelessly foiled by the feed
peck, peck.. nice, little chikken
                         (mind stuffed with trash, mouthpiece occupied)

some content to catch a few crumbs on the way down
while others tread lightly on their way out the back exit
the more we so blindly buy into the whole mess
the less we see the big pic
                           (the real one)
nebulous covers the screen so well: away from organic life
life on a farm, growing your own stuff
       needing less of plug-in
       more of play
I steadily tire of the filthy streams we're led to wade in
thick and viscous with the stench of decay
and no way out but the meeting with barbed-wire walls

oh, for days of simple pleasures.. walking in the park
                                                      swingi­­ng high into the blue sky
with eyes on the rim of the planet
a ten-cents pineapple-popsicle
and no fear of the unknown
       but beautiful discoveries, good and not-so-good

now, a man will die in the hands of a stranger's care
at the mercy of their kin's timetable
busy, busy, busy.. loved ones moving on
ah, no time to enjoy a tot, some oenomel.


3.
say, God.. you got a moment? I'd like to address a grievance or two
are we forgetting what you told us?
what was it again -- on the day, we tried to understand your identity
                                    in a tongue this world's memory suffered lapse
there was a time we understood your meaning
today, I hear your voice in the rustle out my meadow
right here
in the green leaves

I think I can hear you right
loving your remembrances.



*silent anger brews in the streets, common folk took enough
tired of threats and crumbs left by chunks others gorged on
retaliatory mountains grow, a surge in march
a touch too late to retract some acts.. for haste & judgment hurt
where many struggle to breathe, so hatred cements its template
slowly, time may crumble them to stones, then dust
            or hope build a rope from heart's twine
            or love blow breezes of care on this fiery circle
faraway, where queens live on ginger cakes and ale
on windy plains.

I recall you still a ghost on oceans sunset horizon through haze of pills and *****. Do you ever think the same my dear?


    Seeing everything through glass eyes ,can't see straight but its only way I feel alive.


In reflections of the past and oceans crash the tide carries away the guilt with my false sense of pride. Does the hourglass seen by a cruel reflect of what was never to be ******* the night it haunts me still with every round.


     Memories hunt me like a lost soul that cant find its resting place. With every liquid injection every day still hard as the last to forget about what could have been.


Torment are pictures that hang from empty walls now vacant as I. And if we should meet again in a far off moonlit embrace would you tell me it just was all the same a distant look in a scene to be a snuffed candle flame.


      As if we could hold embrace for more than a day. Why must this life cone with so many tournaments and heartache that doesn't seem to be able to go away.

We are shards of fragments left shattered upon the floor nothing rings true.

Picture the clown
with his silly frown
upside down

Picture the big cat
that docilely sat
as you gave it a pat

Picture the main ring
where the bearded lady will sing
the unicorns, risen at dawn
will trail a rainbow on a string

Picture the strongman
holding a child's hand
when everybody just ran

Picture the journey
that involved you and me
Picture the empty seat

Now picture the chaos
the emptiness of loss
all the glamour and gloss

Picture the heartbreak and joy
see the little boy, with the toy?
It's the one thing he don't allow
others to destroy

Picture waking at dawn
understanding in a yawn
nothing will be different this morn

Picture this, the colours are wild
life is more difficult to adhere
Picture the difficulty of this postcard
*Wish you were here

Yesterday my sister visited me
and remarked on the dozen
blood red roses in a vase and said
how lucky I was to have someone to bring me flowers
I didn't dare tell her they were an apology, I didn't dare tell her they represented the blood I bleed,
I didn't dare tell her she could have them because if he came home and saw them missing...
He'd know someone came to visit
and the tones of the tune would be bass deep and in the end only I would weep to a song that would never end
and the roses would die inside the vase
while I quietly hid my face
Then the daisies would arrive
and once again my sister would visit
only to see fresh flowers in a vase
and sigh in heartfelt delight
but she'll never know, that the flowers
that continue to show up in the vase
represent my fear of the coming night.