everyday you pick up the hammer
you hit on the head of the nail
words surround you madly clamor
you can't make head or tail.

rarely the nail penetrates the wall
oftener it breaks by the blow
all that's hidden inside the skull
more refuse than pour out to flow.

you drive the nail's head with your might
wishing it goes all the way
miss in the wrath to hit it right
fail in what you badly need to say.

the hammer gets blunt slows your hand
you are saddened no progress is made
on the next day the same place you stand
looking at the twisted nail's head.

Once it was a place of sorrow
where bathing came from hot tears
warmth barely came from Tomorrow
little thought was give to more years

Where eating was swallowing a truth
that was just sawdust coated in lies
Mirrors simply reflected angry youth
all seen through drug clouded eyes

Upon a bed of razor sharp intentions
She painted a heart upon her chest
from the blood that flowed in rivulets
in the indentations of her weakness
She sighed that she did her best

She found herself upon silvery shores
under an incandescent Sun
hoping that she had evaded the laws
condemning her for what she had done

Head thrown back in a field of dreams
Serenity in her tumultuous gaze
Lips curved gently against the screams
so much clarity in a languid daze

She gently caressed coloured flowers
with hands that had never sought to protect
from the constantly brutal storm showers
that raged when she failed to connect

Where once there was only rain
all she could now feel was dry
Where once she was warped by pain
utter tranquility she could not deny

She rebuilt herself in a different place
in a skin that was as hardened as stone
Where her demons could find no trace
far away from all she had known

It is the same garden that holds,
Prickly rose bushes,
Healing basil and spritely marigolds.

It is here the bees fly, birds rest their wings,
It is here every morning the nightingale sings.
It is here the hare scampers, the squirrel scurries,
The snake slithers, the rodent hurries.
It is here the gecko hides, the worm crawls,
The bat flies when darkness falls.

In the mud and the dirt, the soil and the gravel,
In coarse little stones, smooth little pebbles,
In  topaz skies, in waters azure,
In a lotus that blossoms in a world impure.
In the siesta of flowers, the fiesta of leaves,
In the dance of raindrops serenaded by  a breeze.
In summer's golden glare, autumns russet finger
In the green breath of spring, the white hand of winter..

Beauty in His creations, in every season,
In every color for a rainbow of reasons.
Each special and each rare,
Each, in a bough or burrow,
Has a niche somewhere.

And  when  his  usefulness  had  gone.
They  just  cast  him  aside.
And  on  the  final  downhill.
He  began  to  slide.

Rejected  after  all  his  work.
Visions  now  all  gone.
He  knew  full  well  his  time  was  near.
He  knew  he  had  not  long.

As  an  old  man  disillusioned.
And  weary  from  his  fight.
He  spent  in  sad  remembrance.
His  final  lonely  night.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

I believe there is no sanctuary
for me in this subdivision
of dreams, cathedrals
built by unknowns

I am like grass
cracking their concrete,
I was carved by a stone knife
in the mountains
where I learned to speak

I am the rider called death
bleeding in my sleep,
sitting in the saddle
with Dark, the black man
and his crazy blues

I sink down like a diver
into the deep water,
like an unknown poet
going down with his ship.

winding wool.



together.



sbm.