The money and the power
fit like hand in glove,
manipulating our lives
with hands soaked in blood.

Like pawns on a chessboard
we follow their commands,
cleverly manipulated
by cold corporate minds.

They reap a tainted harvest
bought with sleeping souls,
their purses bulging
as they play out their roles.

Prancing about in their
huge stately homes,
costumes adorned
with skulls and bones.

Masonic handshakes
get you into their halls,
where horrors unfold
amidst terrified calls.

And way down here
on the creaking boards,
another pawn is lost
to the bloodthirsty hoard.

Their veils are returned
as they cover the loss.

Another family bereft,
must recover the cost.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd march 2015.
Revised 2nd October 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

A word on a line
joined with many and more,
a story to tell
from behind a closed door.

A line on a page
and a paragraph to make,
from a thoughtful sage
to the ones who forsake.

A page in a book
telling tales short and tall,
just have a quick look,
hear the whispering call.

A book on a shelf,
many dusty old tomes,
a wealth of words
from across quiet rooms.

A history in words,
telling sad tales of pain;
of battles and bloodshed
and tears shed in vain.

Tyrants and demons
live within the short lines,
telling tales of tomorrow
and the end of our times.

Words of science;
of nature and light;
of suns, stars
and comets so bright.

Pages of magic;
of mystery and prose;
of light and laughter
and faces aglow.

A library of life
in unending rhymes,
of joyous love
and wonderful times.

A letter, a word,
a line or a page,
thoughts laid down
across eons of age.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2014.
Revised 24th September 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

Somewhere in between
the waking and the dream,
I can feel you close to me.

Just before times hands
reshape the desert sands,
I can feel you reach for me.

In the blink of tear stained eyes,
watching weary to the skies,
I can see you cry for me.

In the breaking of the dawn,
in the dew upon the lawn,
I can see you smile for me.

In the bright rays of the sun,
in the new day just begun,
I can feel you warming me.

In the beating of my heart,
that once was torn apart,
I can feel you healing me.

In the shadow of the past,
from the dawn unto the last,
I can hear you call for me.

As I take my last deep breath,
as I fear the grip of death,
will you please just wait for me?


Written by Darren Scanlon, April 2013.
This revised version written 15th March 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Gaze into the mirror
at the face behind the mask
and wonder if it's really you,
or don’t you dare to ask?

Who can know what lies beyond
the mirrors fragile face,
reflections of another life;
another time or place?
  
Touch the chill upon the glass
and see a tiny ripple,
was it real or in your mind,
did it really feel so supple?

Gaze into empty eyes
and fall into the depths
of a soul once so full of life,
so youthful and adept.

Look to see what lies beneath,
to feel the piercing pain
of a cold, tired and tortured mind,
so old and now so stained.

Seek the truth, as only one
who dares, could ever see,
touch the glass with hard resolve,
do you want to set it free?

As tears return to trace the tracks
they've travelled so many days.,
to feel a cold and empty heart
as it fades into the haze.

Wrap yourself in a lovers embrace
as it slowly disappears,
until finally you understand
where you've been for all these years
.

A cry escapes from silent lips
as knowledge flows like sand,
your former self now fades from view,
beseeching, held out hands.

As you gaze into the trembling glass,
your thoughts so far away,
who is really watching who
and who can really say.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 12th May 2014.
Revised 17th September 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

In the deep dark woods
lived a great brown bear,
he was seven feet tall
but the townsfolk didn’t care
for although the bear was huge
and had fangs and long sharp claws,
all the people would make fun of him
and point out his big flaw.


Have you ever met a bear
who had nothing much to say,
who couldn’t even growl
when he came outside to play?
Well, Bob was his name
and no matter how he tried,
when he opened his big mouth
all he managed was a sigh.


Now in a nearby village
lived a little girl called Sal,
she liked the big old bear
and they’d grown to be good pals.
She was never afraid of Bob
for she loved him well and true,
she was sure he’d never hurt her,
he was gentle through and through.


“I going to stop them laughing”,
decided Sal one sunny day,
“They're no longer making fun
of my dear friend that way!”

So she came up with a plan
that was certain to succeed
and when the crowd arrived,
she sneaked up into a tree.


When poor old Bob stood up tall
and he raised his great big paws,
showing to all the people
he had long and dangerous claws,
little Sal gave the loudest roar
from the top of her tiny lungs
as he opened his enormous mouth
showing them fierce looking fangs.



The people jumped and screamed
and then ran for their dear lives,
falling over wooden fences
and some buzzing bee hives.
The bees came out and cried,
“What a terrible thing to do!”
and they chased them even further
with the threat of a sting or two.


Bob and Sal just laughed and laughed
as she dropped down from the tree

landing right upon his back,
how they giggled with such glee.
“I bet they'll all be hiding now
and wondering with a scowl,
where on earth did that silly bear
get his loud and fearsome growl?”


Sal gave Bob a last big hug
and bade her friend goodnight.
“Didn't we both give them
such a terrible old fright?
Lets do it again tomorrow
and watch them scream and run
from a poor old sighing bear,
who is really such good fun”.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 27th May 2014.
Revised 1st September 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

My friend Terrence
was a little happy sole,
he didn't need a kennel,
nor a house or a hole.

His home was a shell
that he carried on his back,
so that all he had to do
was drop down on the track.

Then he'd pull his head inside,
followed by his legs and feet
and he’d look inside the fridge
for something tasty to eat.

If it started raining
or got too chilly cold,
his friends would run for shelter
beneath trees or in their holes.

But not our little friend,
because he'd climb inside his shell
and have a cup of tea
until the sun chased off the chill.

Wherever he did travel,
he would walk so nice and slow,
well there's no need to rush,
you might trip or stub your toe!

“And all the good things
come to those that wait”,
or so his mother told him
as he headed through the gate.

“If you’re rushing all the time
and your feet don’t want to stop
then you’ll end up getting dizzy
like a whizzing spinning top”.

His mother, how she loved him
and he loved her lots, right back
with her funny little sayings
she would help him stay on track.

So there my tale has ended,
for all you girls and boys,
and now you've met my little friend,
Terence the Tortoise.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 25th February 2014.
Revised, 30th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Have you ever heard the tale
about the hedgehog with no spikes,
such a sweet little boy
who all the other’s didn’t like?

A case of alopecia,
there was nothing they could do,
such a sad little hedgehog
who cried and cried, “Boo-Hoo”.

But soon the lad grew older,
he wanted to look more lush
so onto his back he tied himself
a little scrubbing brush.

His friends, well they just laughed at him
and bullied him all the more,
until one day, he'd had enough
and walked out through the door.

For years not much was heard of him,
his mother, she did fret
for she’d heard about the busy roads
and trouble, in which, he could get.

But life had turned out fine for him
and soon he’d found a place
where he could earn a little living
and put smiles on many a face.

Within the railway station
with his brush upon his back,
a jumping and a jiggling till
the queue would start to clap.

People travelled from miles around
just to come and watch the show,
their trips no longer boring
they would leave with faces aglow.

But what’s the hedgehog doing
to make the people come to see?
What makes them laugh and cheer
and fills their hearts with so much glee?

You've never seen a shoe shine stall
with such a special knack,
for the owner was a dancing hedgehog
with a brush upon his back!


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 3rd January 2014
Revised 26th August 2015.
Artwork by Angie Caira.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

And the troops go marching proudly by
as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,
the one that she seeks, she will never again hold
for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.

The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze
as man and boy march with well practiced ease,
so glad to be home after being so brave,
with flags overhead and not covering their graves.

She can bare it no longer as tears start to flow
down pale damp cheeks as she sways to and fro,
too much of their blood spilled on foreign fields
at the whim of the tyrants and their deadly deals.

Friends hold her up with compassion and love
and so many look down from the heavens above,
surrounded by many who share in her grief
but the feelings yield little by way of relief.

§

And the troops go marching with heads held high,
ribbons on tunics for brave deeds gone by
but each feels the loss of their friends and their kin,
and trauma buried deep beneath a mask, now so thin.

They’ve experienced things that just shouldn’t be done,
in the name of freedom, down the barrel of a gun.
The memories will haunt them for the rest of their lives
as they try to return to their children and wives.

But in truth and reality, how can any return
to their previous lives after all they have learned,
no love and compassion; no laughter and smiles
can replace what was lost across many long miles.

They’ve all left behind their innocent souls,
dead and buried in deep desert holes,
leaving them drained and with aching hearts
for a love and a life that has been torn apart.

§

And the troops go marching so silently by
on streets lined with people; cheering and cries
but she turns her back on this painful parade,
wishing time could roll back and her son would be safe.

And there’s rage in her heart for the tyrants who sent
so many to their deaths; so much blood spilled and spent
as they cover their coffers; their spoils of war,
like ghouls in the shadows keeping count of their score.

Rubbing their hands and patting their backs
lying and cheating and covering their tracks.
Another quick round in their wretched games,
the dice from the dealer dishing out death and pain.

The survivors will never sleep soundly again
for the loss and the scars will always remain
The ghosts of their past, ever present and near,
taunting as they sink in depression and fear.

§

And the troops go marching so slowly by
some holding back, some with tears in their eyes
for the nightmare lives on in the world far and wide
where so many remain and so many have died.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 24th August 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the persistence of oppression
is precluding my life’s zest.

The dark before sunrise
of a dawn that just won't break,
suppressed by a thirst for my soul
that only sorrow can now slake.

The wisps that you are weaving
are clouding my damp eyes,
a cold and cloying shroud
that’s covering all that I desire.

A void, with sides so steeply etched
and burning with cold dread,
I’m trembling now with fragile fear
and wondering if I dare tread.

Your shadow wraps me in its arms
to hold me once again,
a old familiar friend
that’s feeding fast upon my pain.

A symbiotic succor
and reluctant shield of sighs
from the turmoil of a life
that turned to tears before my eyes.

And the sleep within my veins
now washes over silent souls,
a mind numbing response
to a desperate, lonely call.

I’m crying out from within the prison
of this decaying fragile frame
and I hide my face behind a smile
from relentless passionate pain.

Oh deep, dark depression,
my uninvited guest,
the darkness you are dealing
leaves my soul with little rest.

Now your fog has engulfed me
to the edges of my world,
I hope and pray that one day soon,
my wings will be unfurled.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 2nd June 2014.
Revised 20th August 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

How can a lie
make the whole world cry,
yet they claim there is nothing to see,
where nefarious knaves
and the covetous crave
beneath covers so stealthily, free?

No thought for the plebs
as they weave dangerous webs
in a world already complex,
where the sins of the saints
have done nothing but taint,
confuse, deceive and perplex.

To forgive and forget,
is to aid and abet
the demons, content in their ways,
as they deftly defile
and sneeringly smile
at the lies from our earliest days.

To be taught as a child,
there is one who beguiles;
a one that is two and then three,
is a criminal act
and insidious pact
to enslave the ones who were free.

Our children were taught
not to give a clear thought
as to how it was all s’posed to work,
so they trustingly took
from the ones who forsook
and replied with barely a smirk.

They were used and abused,
bewildered, confused,
then cast aside on their quest,
told to get on with life
under threat of the knife,
for the Robed Ones always knew best.

And the tears and the cries
from damp bloodshot eyes,
can be seen again and again
as the torment goes on,
from The Father to Son,
leaving streaks of soul numbing pain.

So when will it end;
when can children depend
on the adults they were once taught to trust?
When will all the lies,
causing deep hidden cries,
be brought to the men who are just?

Let them rattle the cage
with a long concealed rage
and ask those monsters to tell,
how an innocent child
can be fiercely defiled
and yet kneel ‘neath the chime of their bell?

Then once and for all
watch them stumble and fall
as down to the cells they are led,
with long restless nights,
shallow sleep and no rights;
watch them cowering deep in their beds.

Let the bells peal out loud
as we look ‘neath the shrouds
and tally the terrible toll,
of the heart-wrenching cries
of so many sad eyes,
as The Lie is revealed to us all.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 18th June 2014.
Revised 16th June 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

If day's had been much brighter
and the west wind far less biting,
with paths sufficiently straighter
and avoiding fruitless fighting.

If clearer thoughts pervaded
with our goals so set in stone,
if the tyrants and dictators
would just leave us all alone.

If the drugs that you are feeding us,
weren’t always quite so strong,
and the roads you’re always building
didn’t have to be so long.

If plans and all the plotting
were for good instead of bad
and the faces that we see
were not so worried or so sad.

If all the wealth and power
was purged from those on high,
or the promises they made
were all for real and not just lies.

If people walked down busy streets
with heads held high and proud,
for torment and oppression
were no longer quite so loud.  

If mankind could live in peace;
health and welfare for all,
fragile elders were helped back up,
not derided if they fall.

If discipline, love and respect
were restored within the masses
and society made more equal
with no need to split the classes.

If once again, deep despair
was a thing of days long past
and the family was the beating heart
that above all else, would last.

If you could only tell me we're free at last;
that the voice of reason heard,
that we had our own identities
and were no longer just part of the herd.

...

We live our lives on ifs and buts
and fear the days to come,
we judge our futures by the past
instead of moving on.

If only we could just let it all go;
just live our lives so free,                    
leave behind all the fear and hate
and then look ahead to see...

...a brighter world of joy and hope
would soon be bursting free,
with love and light abounding
that’s for one and all to see.

Clear blue skies and a warming sun,
filling hearts with desire,
a peaceful world of will and wonder
would be rising from the fires.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 10th February 2014.
revised 14th August 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Gaze into a persons eyes,
far beyond the mask
and wonder at the questions
that you’re too afraid to ask.

Gloriously gazing
into depths of deep emotion,
currents running deep
within a cool and placid ocean.

Dive into the loving soul
of one who gives their all
and marvel at the feelings
that are waiting for the call.

Deliberately diving
into strong rolling waves
risking all you have to give
for a lover, to save.

Drift along on the gentle flow
of loves deep warming spring,
exulting at the warm embrace
that begs your soul to sing.

Dreamily drifting
in waters that refresh
you feel its teasing touch
upon your warm and tender flesh.

Swim far out to distant pools
and reach the hearts horizon,
wells of clear compassion
and a strength that’s so surprising.

Sensuously swimming
and content for evermore,
at peace with the heart and soul
of the one that you adore.

...

Melt into a soul-mates sweet
and tender smiling eyes,
never again will you feel the need
to wonder how or why.

All you see within those pools,
is all you could desire,
together let your souls fly free
and set the breeze on fire.

Let your hearts set the rhythm,
beating beneath the sun,
as songs of love and joy ring out,
new life has just begun.



*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 23rd June 2014.
Revised 11th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

May the ink that flows
from the nib of my pen,
forever entertain you.
With words of love;
of life and wonder,
like beams of light
through clouds of thunder.

May the blood that flows
through my hand as it writes,
forever reassure you.
With thoughtful verse
and encouraging rhymes,
to ease you through
your challenging times.

May the emotions that flow
from within my soul,
forever help and cheer you.
With a jester’s tears
and a smile so warm,
to raise your heart
with mirthful charm.

May the life that flows
through my weary bones,
forever keep you guessing.
With a change of mood
and provoking phrase's,
my sweetest rewards
are your smiling faces.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 12th March 2014.
Revised 30th March 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Live every day like it was meant to be,
helping all those who want to be free.
Feel the warmth in a genuine smile,
a childish giggle can bridge the miles.

Surround everybody with happy ways,
bask in the heat of the suns warm rays.
A world of love and peace for all,
where we help the ones who trip and fall.

...

I may be a dreamer of fanciful sights
but dreams are better than childish fights.
“Mine’s better than yours”, “But mine is real”,
such childish pettiness in every deal.

Look at the world as it falls apart,
tearful eyes washing aching hearts.
Families decimated; children denied
the right to live at their parents side.

Its time to put away such childish days
and mend the scars left along the way,
see the world for what it could be,
a world of peace, where all are free.

Look at the smile on the face of a child
who no longer has to run and hide.
It'll warm your soul and melt your heart
and I cannot think of a better place to start.

Why do we fight, why do we hate,
why do we lock and defend a gate?
Why can't we live without all the pain,
just put it behind us; we're all the same?

My blood runs deep in fragile veins
but it’s red, just like yours; it's just the same!
Too priceless to be spilled on hot dusty streets,
congealed and dead under cold marching feet.

Life is so precious, regardless of creed,
we should focus on strife and genuine need,
it surrounds us all, wherever we go,
the dead and the dying on crumbling floors.

Look into your heart, beneath all the greed
and help each other so we can all succeed.
Life is for living, for love and for joy,
for everybody, be they girl and boy.

I, for one, am so sick and tired
of all the wars and funeral pyres.
It's time to grow up and open the gate,
welcome the friendship and throw out the hate.


*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 29th July 2014.
Revised 5th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

She’s the one we could rely on
when things were sorely scarce,
to always find a way to get by
when it went from bad to worse.

She’s the one true matriarch,
the gel at the center of all,
never too far away from us;
never more than a call.

Sacrificing all she had,
for us, her flesh and blood,
always standing second place
to the family’s common good.

She’s the one who bore the pain
and then kept us safe and warm,
to make it through the cold and rain,
protecting us from harm.

She held our hands so tightly
through all the scary times;
our first days at nursery school,
stood in terrified lines.

And at the end of every day
when we'd really had enough,
she'd be stood at the door waiting
with a heart so full of love.

...

When illness struck
me down so hard;
laid up and oh, so low,

I had the comfort
of knowing she
would never let me go.

Yet on that long
and lonely night
so many years ago,

when deaths dark door
stood slightly ajar,
beckoning me to go,

my overriding memory;
much more than
my own fears,

was the lost and mournful sound
of her beseeching,
terrified tears.

...

As we go about our daily lives,
through times so thick and thin,
through pure and innocent laughter
and such pain from deep within.

From days of sunshine and flowers,
to wind and driving snow,
there is one thing sure and for certain;
one thing that we always know.

She is the bedrock of our lives
and the one above all others,
the one we can always turn to;
she’s our sweet and loving Mother.



Written by Darren Scanlon, May 2013.
Revised 4th August 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

The glint of steel, so sharp and smooth,
beneath my fragile fingers.
Delicate inlaid patterns reflect
an afterimage that lingers.

As a child I’d hide beneath cotton sheets
feigning death, that I could deceive.
Then risking a peep from beneath my shield,
oh, how my poor young heart grieved.

For in the corner of my eye
and with a silent cry,
it was watching.

Who might it be and what does it want,
this eternally elusive guest?
A featureless face on the fleeting form,
silence is all I can wrest.

For many long hours and countless years,
I pondered its persistent gaze.
I sense no malice; no dark intent
and yet, it remains, unfazed.

In the corner of my eye,
and with a silent cry,
just watching.

And now as I drown in the depths of despair,
it reflects in the cold steel’s knell.
Has it waited for the day that I kiss the bold blade
and bid my torment farewell?

Come, silent stranger, you need no longer hide
as my time is finally here.
Have you nothing to say, will you lead the way,
for, as I, you have nothing to fear?

With no cutting remark,
it stays there, in the dark.

Just waiting?

*


Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th June 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

What sad weary eyes we have
that see, in all the world,
such poverty and pointless pain.
Would not the sunlight bathe upon it
if we simply look again?

For the eye of the beholder
may choose the depth of tint
we see, through a rose coloured lens.
A hint of fanciful forms,
as they filter the rays they sense.

From beneath the haze
of the shimmering sun,
lies beauty, long forgot.
Or is it simply a mirage,
cavorting through rays far too hot?

Skies of deep azure
with clouds of cumulous mass
drifting lazily on the breeze.
Picturesque landscapes of floral palette,
until winters frosty frieze.

Glorious forests of glazed art,
twinkling icicles, like baubles
on the trees of December.
Wondrous days of innocence pure;
of younger days remembered.

Beasts wandering wild and free
in bountiful wooded wonderlands
of willow, beach and pine.
Snowflakes join to form a blanket
of majestic patterns, sublime.

Meandering melt-water streams
flowing, afresh with new life;
untainted and abundant.
A world reborn of marvelous magic,
colours and scents, resplendent.

≈
To look upon a world in pain
and see beneath the silken shrouds
to the beauty lying below.
The scent of love, life and passion
is there for all to bestow.

We need to look from behind
eyes that want to see,
the life that we need, restored.
As a composer, creating the music of life,
is prepared to re-write the score.

*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th November 2014.
Revised 27th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

To feel her warm and gentle hand
upon your smiling face,
her tender loving caress is like
a sweet and soothing grace.

Teasing, as your fingers
trace a tantalizing trek
along her silken stockings
as you tenderly kiss her neck.

Gazing into enchanting eyes
so deep with dark desire,
whirling pools of life and lust,
dancing in dangerous fires.

A hint of honey on lips so full
and a warm and willing sigh,
a teasing tongue slips slowly across
crimson curves, daring to defy.

Inhaling her sweet
and succulent scent,
as she moans and leans in close,
so delicately sweet;
so soft and gentle,
a shimmering summer rose.

The susurrant sound
of her breathless voice
as she whispers into your ear,
her words so soft
and suggestively sweet,
yet unmistakably clear.

She rises slowly
and takes your hand
with a beckoning
tilt of her head,
leading you away
to the far off lands
waiting warmly
within her soft bed.

Wherever she leads
with her sultry smile,
you will willingly
welcome the chase,
just to feel her warmth
and wallow within
misty moments,
of a lovers embrace.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 1st March 2015.
Revised 25th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

The whistle blows to sound the charge
and over the top they bustle and barge,
covered from head to toe in mud
and soon tainted with flesh and blood.

Up the ladder with slippery rungs,
a scream of rage from terror filled lungs,
adrenalin coursing through every vein
with the fear of not coming back again.

Knee-deep mud ******* boots from feet,
tangled in barbed wire, feel a blast of heat
as a shell explodes just off to the right,
leaving in its wake such a dreadful sight.

Bullets whining and whizzing by
calling the names of those who must die,
screams for help from men in distress,
their lives torn apart in the horrible mess.

Distant machine-gun fire from a bunker,
shells and grenades exploding like thunder.
Looking for shelter to weather the storm
and praying he won't come to any harm,

a private, no more than twenty years old,
who joined the forces, feeling gallant and bold,
now shaking with shock and confused disbelief,
just stumbling and mumbling in mortified grief.

His heart skips a beat; his eyes open wide,
a smoky shell crater; a place to hide.
He dives down, into the shattered remains
of fathers and sons without any names.

The bile is rising along with his fear
as he senses his breaking point is quite near,
alone in a world of death and destruction,
ducking down and beseeching redemption.

A boom to the left, the ground heaves and shakes
and that final shell is the shock that breaks,
as a scream wells up from deep down inside
that is far too hysterical; too terrified to hide.

Breaking right through the walls within
and carried aloft on cacophonous din,
eyes squeezed shut to block out the sight
as he enters a world of eternal night.

The whistle blows to signal retreat
and men bathed in death are now on their feet,
running and slipping on the lives of their friends,
aware that each heartbeat could yield a dead end.

From the crater he watches with a vacant stare,
he's no longer afraid for he's no longer there.
Snuggling deep into his mother's embrace
as he gazes up into her sweet smiling face.

Curling up into a fetal ball,
he doesn't register the Sergeants call.
He's lifted and carried to be safe from harm,
saved by his friends; his brothers in arms.

*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 6th June 2014.
Revised 23rd July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

The child in his arms, such a precious gift,
her sweet little smile would make his heart lift.
Born into a love that none could compare,
baby blue eyes framed with curly blonde hair.

Conceived and born on such love filled days,
from the moment he held her he was blown away.
His heart did a flip and his smile was so wide,
his devotion to his daughter could not be denied.

And he looks on down to the rocks below,
waves crashing over as a cold wind blows.
His mind is adrift from a soul torn apart and
a lump of cold dread where once was a heart.

Her eyes never dulled for she always had a grin,
never a bad word did she have for him.
A bond so strong and a love so entire,
her Daddy would cradle her when she was tired.

He’d always be there to support her in all,
he’d pick her up whenever she’d fall,
laughing, singing and playing in the park
but storm clouds were soon to make it turn dark.

And the glistening rocks washed by tidal attack,
the wind is now rising and pushing him back.
His mind is flying, far out to sea,
his soul is crying out to be free.

The debilitating fear as they stood by her bed,
a mother and father with eyes cried red.
The knowledge; a curse as they counted the days,
not really knowing what to do or say.

The clock on the wall slowly ticking away
the moments of life till the end of her days.
Holding each other in a trembling embrace,
neither one daring to turn from her face.

And the rocks are beckoning, inviting release,
a way out of torment, a welcoming peace.
Standing aloft on a cold cliff-top ledge,
moving ever closer to release at the edge.

Her chilling cries in the dead of the night;
the rush to her side as she stared out in fright.
He cradled his child, reassuring till when
she would settle back off; restless slumber again.

Standing there, knowing that soon she would fade
and wondering now at decisions they’d made.
Had they done all they could and tried all there was,
would the hurt be any less if they knew the cause?

And the rocks are washed by a wind whipped tide,
the pain of his loss is now too much to hide.
Seagulls are crying high overhead,
mocking derision echoing round in his head.

When the battle was lost
on that cold winters eve,
though they knew it was coming
they just couldn’t believe.

To hold her small hand
for the very last time,
to kiss her cold cheek
and wonder at her crime.

To see her frail form
wrapped inside a cold shroud,
the wailing and crying;
beseeching so loud.

He felt something close;
collapse deep inside
and all he could think of
was to run and hide.

And the image of the rocks on the raging seabed,
swimming, pulsing and rushing in his head.
The wind in his ears, tearing wild at his clothes
and the smell of the sea assailing his nose.

A tiny voice made him glance to his right,
eyes blinking wide with shock at the sight,
for there in the mist that swirled at her feet
was his daughter, with hands held out to greet.

Her gentle sweet smile he remembered with pride
as she beckons him to come and be by her side.
His tear-filled eyes give a single blink
and the vision is gone; he's alone on the brink.

And the rocks down below, beneath the crashing waves,
washing the memories of many dark graves
as he offered his body to the wind and the rain,
relinquishing life and sorrow and pain.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 7th July 2014.
This revised version written 22nd July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

(If Mother Earth could speak...)

I’m the first light of dawn setting fire to the skies,
the awe that ends with a soft, sated sigh.
I’m the slow, gentle sway of ancient, lofty trees,
branches of life filled with wonders to be.

I am sands and seas; a warm summer breeze
blowing soft, whispered tunes over ever-changing dunes.
I am stars in the heavens sailing high overhead,
the sun and the moon on their tireless threads.

I’m the love of life; the pulse your heart,
the strength of will in a lovers fine art.
I’m the beaming smile on the fearless face
of a victorious child at the end of a race.


“And what are they doing now...

Waves of hate
washing wasted fields,
decimating all
as they reap tainted yields.”


You’re the time and motion in an open frown,
a smirk beneath the paint of a terrified clown.
You’re the only solution to a worlds desperate cries,
swollen cheeks scarred by too many lies.

You’re a baby’s cry in a cold, stagnant pond;
all it could have been, had it lived much beyond
the cull of the clan or the whaler’s call,
so many lonely roads, at the back of every mall.

You are every grain of sand escaping clutching hands
of every grieving parent in war-torn lands,
carried aloft upon the jet-streams breath,
washed up on beaches that have seen too much death.


“And what are they doing now...

Can’t they see beyond
their selfish greed;
their lascivious needs?

Can’t they be stopped
before the frenzy grows
too fearsome to feed?”


I am the here and now since the dawning of time,
crying confusion at a wasted design.
The questioning gaze on so many tired faces,
a distant rumble felt beneath shallow graces.

I’m the giver of life, each equal to another,
taker of too many wasted sisters and brothers.
Another broken heart from a loss felt too soon,
a cold wretched cry from across a crowded room.

I am the heavens roar on a wild, stormy night,
torrential vengeance of a thunderhead’s might.
A raging wrath you don’t ever wish to wake,
I am nature’s grace that you choose to forsake.


“And what are they doing now...

Sending to the fields
of fruitless death,
their sacrificial sons
breathing borrowed breaths

Unleashing desolation
from way up high;
A tempest of hate-filled
and remorseless fires.”

I’m the molten rock spewing from natures wounds,
the ear-piercing shriek of her decimating winds.

I’m the Tsunami washing away the filth of your deeds,
the quaking earth to halt your murderous greed.

I’m the tornados teeth, tearing lives apart,
the landslide burying your empty hearts.

I’m the freezing avalanche covering all in its path,
the raging storm unleashing thunderous wrath.

I am the flood; the torrent; destroyer of all,
the deluge of death at the reapers call.


“And what are they doing now...

Beseeching the heavens
with open hands
in the wasted remnants
of once rich lands?”
                      


Written by Darren Scanlon, 31st December 2014
Revised 20th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

You'll often see them running
and chasing across the plains,
a rabbit skipping and laughing
at an eagle, in great pains.

But why's the eagle running,
surely he can fly?
Sadly he’s afraid of heights
and frightened he may die.

An eagle that can't fly,
well surely that's not right,
it's just like having an owl
who won't come out at night.

But then one day the rabbit stopped
and said, “I've had enough”,
he waited for the eagle
who by now was out of puff.

“Why can you not fly my friend,
there must be a better way,
all this running so doing you in,
especially twice a day”.

“I will not fly and I'll tell you why”,
the eagle had stopped for a rest,
“I have a horrible fear of heights,
since I fell from my mother’s nest”.

“It’s ok for you just sitting there,
chewing on your carrot
but just you try catching
a pigeon or a parrot!”

“Well why don't you just change your food;
try veggies for a while?”
The eagle replied, “Are you serious?”
and couldn't help but smile.

“It’s not as daft as you may think;
it's clever, if I may say,
it'll save you all the running around,
veggies can't run away!”

The eagle thought and with a grin
ran off as fast as fast as he could.
“Where are you going?” the rabbit called.
“I’m off to find some spuds!”


Written by Darren Scanlon, 4th January 2014.
Revised 18th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

Memories of old,
flooding fast through my mind,
some tinged with sadness
and some, sweet sublime.

A fireside reverie shared
with eyes so bright,
an audience of innocence
and excited delight.

The crackling logs  
on the fires of time,
the little rapt faces as
you feed them a line.

Of thunder, lightning,
and rain as we run!
Football, toy-fighting,
such laughter and fun.

Flying a kite that
you made on your own
out of bin bags and tape
and canes tied and bowed.

A dam in the brook,
fighting flowing water
with rocks, wood
and uncontrolled laughter.

Till finally plugged,
the waters rise
deeper and wider
before delighted eyes.

Then comes the challenge,
“Who can burst the dam?”
No touching allowed,
just throw what you can.

Bricks and sticks
and boulders and all,
sploshing and splashing
they uselessly fall.

But the water's still rising
and there's panic in our eyes,
it'll soon reach the road,
“Better run for our lives!”

But wait, what’s this,
could this do the trick?
As long as a gate post
and three times as thick.

We wrestle and heave
and drag it uphill,
pushing and pulling
and testing our will.

Till finally atop and
we let out a sigh,
this might just work,
“We'll give it a try”.

Straining and grunting
and chuckling with glee
as we swing it between us,
one...two...three!

With a whoosh and a crack
our dam is no more
as the post breaks its back
and we’re laughing on the floor.

Such innocent times,
that can still make me grin,
they live in the mind
of the sweet child within.



Written by Darren Scanlon, March 2011.
This revised version written, 17th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

To hold you up
if you start to fall
and fly to your side
whenever you call.

To hold you close
when dark closes in,
I’ll feed your heart
and beat from within.

To feel your warmth
and the glow of your smile,
when the clouds are parted
we can see for miles.

To hold your hand
through life's testing times,
to shield and protect
on those slippery climbs

And once the crest
has again been achieved,
to watch you sleep,
see you smile; be relieved.


Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th December 2013.
Revised 16th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com

As the sun peeps out
over misty morning hills
and the dawn chorus calls
with its piercing shrill,
the demons of the night
skulk slowly away,
a sidelong glance
at the few who got away.

He rises and stretches
and with sleepy eyes,
breathes a sigh of relief
and a laughing surprise.
The nightmare lingers
in his foggy mind
until a final shiver
leaves the shadows behind.

He opens the curtains
and bathes in the sun,
the heat of all life;
a new day begun.
Out in the garden
playful squirrels flee,
across the lawn
and up into the trees.

A breath of fresh
and life giving air,
the trickling brook
near the fox’s lair.
The sighing sounds
from the tallest trees
as the leaves are rustled
by the morning breeze.

He stares out in wonder
at the glorious scene
as a Blackbird serenades
the woman of its dreams.
But beyond his control
and outside of his will
the doubts creep back in
with a slow stealthy chill.

Why must there be
so much pain in the world;
such hate and division
as the colours unfurl?
There’s so much to see,
to feel and to love,
from the ground at our feet
to the skies up above.

When did mankind
lose the will to live;
to help one another;
to share; to give;
to feel compassion
for sisters & brothers,
for family; for kinfolk;
for any and all others?

Do we no longer care
for the ones who surround,
ignoring their pleas
and heart-breaking sounds?
When did we lose
the ability to be
the ones to help
the persecuted, flee?

Defend the weak,
the young and old.
When did our hearts
stop caring; grow cold?
We are born to this world
as equal souls,
before slowly sinking
down a hate-filled hole.

Us and them;
must it always be,
does the time draw near
when we all have to flee?
The land of the free
is in shackles & chains,
they’ve sold us all
down the desolate drains.

With a sigh of resignation
he shrugs and turns away,
the dawn is dying;
the skies turning grey.
A dark storm approaching
from the distant horizon,
is it the tumult of death
and dangerous division?

There’s a wave of despair
that is too hard to fight,
its better to sleep through
the oncoming night
so behind damp eyes
he retreats and hides,
as the shadows return
where the demons reside.

Beyond the panes,
the sky turns to coal,
The Reaper is laughing,
collecting his souls.
A bountiful harvest
for the gates of hell,
yet there, in the distance,
the toll of a bell?



Written by Darren Scanlon, 23rd August 2014.
Revised 13th July 2015.
©2014 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.

If you see a distant star
in the evening sky
and you shiver from the chill night air,
yet you feel a warmth
in the depth of your heart,
then you know that I am still there.

When your tears have dried,
the bed has grown cold
and you're feeling lost and adrift,
when the days feel empty
and the nights far too long,
just remember, I gave you a gift.

A lifetime of memories
below a rainbow of love,
hearts like spring rain
as they fall from above,
to cover the ground
around your sweet feet,
a carpet of love;
every one a heartbeat.

For I promised you once,
long ago, far away,
that I would always be there,
never falter, never stray.

To my vow I hold firm
and we never shall part,
for I live deep within
every beat of your heart.



Written by Darren Scanlon, October 2013.
Revised 13th July 2015.
© 2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved

The stains upon the bar
tell of many sad tales
of love, loss and tragic lives;
and drink to drown out the wails.

Another washed out soul
seeks the solace of the glass,
to wash away the memory
of another broken pass.

Another wheeler-dealer,
another gambling god,
another weary player
bet his life upon the sod.

The rings around his eyes
mark the toll of tell tale signs,
the vacant stare, unshaven chin,
you read between the lines.

Just one more shot to dull the sting
of a life that’s breaking down,
another drink to hide the lines
of another washed out frown.

He staggers out
onto harsh lit streets,
head gently spinning
on unsteady feet.

He knows that it's near,
he can hear the call,
just over the road
and down past the mall.

Shuffling along
with an unsteady gait,
cell phone ringing,
who cares, it can wait.

Eyes now blind
behind stinging tears
but it's not enough
to allay his fears.

And there it is
in a hazy dream,
a small footbridge
over a lazy stream.

He grips the rails
with trembling hands,
there’s no point telling her,
she won't understand.

Then just for a moment
he catches a glimpse
in the soft flowing waters
and it makes him wince,
for the wretch that he sees
is not the man that he knows;
there’s a stranger staring back
from dark waters below.

With a shuddering sigh
and with tears streaming down,
he's leaning over;
feet leaving the ground.

For a moment he's flying,
so alive and so free,
he’s no longer afraid,
just a strange kind of glee.

He doesn't feel the water
as it closes overhead,
he doesn't feel the chill
for his soul has already fled.



Written by Darren Scanlon, 25th November 2013.
Revised 12th July 2015.
© 2013 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.