that feeling, that . arrives unexpected from darkness, some winters’ mornings, opening the door to the sound of one black bran bird calling. track four repeated. that comes on waking finding   peace and comfort bound.



it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work



reading how the body works, you will have a better understanding, yet they do not        teach of this

at school. they teach of clever yoghurt in adverts, i did not know microbes fancy food,          move our choices.



the play continues, some of the old cast, new actors oblige, ideas on lack of addictive ways. simple days without receptors. singing under breath, numbers.



have you been to the counting?





lines ruled to stop

vertigo setting in.

two

three

four

five

two

three

it is a fine line we walk, gently avoiding peptides, only just a theory, yet used independently, alongside honest work.



sbm.

She is the poem his heart writes while he lays sleeping in perfect slumber and the sounds of a magenta sky flows with music drifting slow and easy from the rhythmic sway of her soft hair and a gentle warmth rains down from her deep blue eyes sending him ever further down into the ocean of this endless dream and the echo of eternity dripps like honey from her precious lips and beautiful smile and the words of the poem burn into the skin of his heart and the music stays with him throughout the waking hours of the day and he smiles a smile he hasn't smiled since the long lost days before love met heartache and tragedy

My *** drive would cause earthquakes,
but I can never find the time
to leave this place,
this bed-side lamp,
and away from poor attempts at rhyme.

Depression is a tired old topic.
But *** is forever at hand
to pin you down,
to win you round,
slinking off to the toilet in my dressing gown.

I know you feel a belonging
to the archives of music,
you drink in bed,
and sink on in,
to the restless call of another troubled head.

I will find restoration
held between your slender legs.
It is all we've got,
in this paradise lost,
in this sweaty reclaim,
to a feeling we'd forgot.

Going down is not an art,
but a way of keeping young.
How can you claim to love
what you won't dare to kiss?
How will you ever hear her siren song?

stand back to spite the craving, look on as from afar.   people, some write hymns & mantra others watch tv, not the news.               oh no not the news, the truth is too depressing, a bit near the mark.





i guess yours sleep in bed, loved and cherished.                                              others love and cherish , yet their families sleep in mud,                                                                                                   on streets.



the words came suddenly. an odd day, no gentle people to woo thee, day of stress,      and horror, you watch the news.                                                         a day of reality, the reckoning that nowhere is safe.



come in dreams, the shape of your face remaining. there is a line now,        dreams and aspirations.   words and degradations.                                                                                   lines deepen, water etched.







the rain falls round our houses.







how small.

how white

the child,

skin rinsed

with tears.

salt in the wind.

©sbm

There was an old world
that turned on it's head,

and turned out it’s pockets
and shook out the dead,

and shook off the living
and all of their stuff

til' all there was left
it considered enough,

and all there was left
was a world upsidedown,

and wind and whatever
had roots in the ground,

and fish with a warning
to stay where they be,

down under the waves
of the shookabout sea.

this is not a poem

I have been absent

for days and weeks.

I have been cleaning
and sewing

and trying to quiet the anger
that I can't control
in light of this new America.

They say there will be a day
when federal monies
will be revoked from arts programs.

I suggest we start looking for ways
to protect the voices
the ones that are real and true
*and not alternative