Tis been long I got something down
All day everyday I walk with a frown
To give meaning to what holds me back
All day everyday running round the school's track
I guess long walks do help the mind
All day everyday I thought to find,
What holds me from writing
All day everyday I go to bed with the craving
A phase... The phase is finally over
All day everyday I'll give a new on proper
Do have a nice day wherever you are
All day everyday....

The smell of wood polish;
sprayed unevenly on the counter top,
brought you back to life.
Back down from heaven and earth into my mind,
where you had evaded me for the longest time.
An aroma of you.
My Great Grandma.
The Greatest Grandma,
I smelt that wood polish and your memory came alive again.
For one final time.
I closed my eyes,
I was a child,
and it was almost like
you came back to life.

Write a poem that a man can understand
A man that doesn't understand them
I read to him and he seems confused
Would it be easier it I spelled it out:
I  L o v e  Y o u .

I don't care what land we end up in.
Narnia, Middle Earth, purgatory....
It doesn't matter to me.
Just hold me.

living life like a photograph
I am captured in that moment
a record of images of the past
the black and white of atonement

the negatives scroll through my mind
by now, I guess I get the picture
a flash frame from that place in time
on this wall, I am a fixture

living life like a photograph
it's on my wall, then I own it
a snapshot of images of the past
a still frame of atonement

Blue as the geography
of footprints across the dunes
quiet as the white music
of a silent moon
like the wind blowing
the soul off the water
the shadows go out
and are lost in the evening
I conclude the hypothesis
of sundown making no sound
while night climbs the vines
where lowing sadness abides
the ritual of tides pulls me under.

When you appear to disappear,
a near miss in the atmosphere.
The patterns clear,
and what’s happening here,
Is the same things still,
after all these years.

Talking **** again.

Now you're back again,
acting as if nothings happened,
and,
your trying to laugh it off again,
as if were best friends,
but I can’t pretend this won’t be a repeat like last time.

Telling lies again.

When actually,
this is just your favourite pastime;
you’ve been missing in action for weeks.
No message to check i’m ok.
No call on my birthday.
Now you’ve got the cheek to call on me,
and fall on me,
as you can’t stand on your own two feet.

Drunk again.

So don’t act surprised,
like you don’t know.
When you phone you meet the answering tone.
It’s too late too atone now that i’m all grown,
Maybe you’ll find out now what it’s like to be alone.

**Never again.

Battling.

   The poem,
     half-written, inches
along numerous tries,
   cramped in places, pinched
   somewhat in style,
its subjective meaning
reluctantly waits
    in the sidelines.
   Silence
  has not appeared yet
    so I put aside pen
to try later again.
Tenderness, sadness or rage
   cannot be paged
    in too much noise
but former things sundered
   begin to knit
    as subject-choice fits
into a slot before long.
  Boisterous word-swing
rattles a lot in my mind,
    sentencing rings
  bells which battle with lines
as ends slowly begin to rhyme.
   Writing is vital
   in keeping me sane
   betwixt times
   that mix sense with the inane.