Cat spat out a baby bird
deader than a drunk's promised word
broken from the maw
only a little blood, no more.  
Could've cried a little
as I scooped it up from the door
into a dandoline dust pan
before the kids saw.
The cat did what cats do
I wasn't angry with it as it pawed
my ankle expectantly seeking a reward

You don't miss the water untill the well runs dry,
sometimes I miss the well.

Scattered light
mottles through the rank of trees
reigning over the aisle between fields
in royal stainglass arcs of protection.
The wheat is young and green
though stretches tall enough to dance under the influence of wind's song
and conceal
scurrying mouse, hare
and proud breasted pheasant
from hunters gun and farmers dog.
No echoed shots ring out today
only the call of birds
seeking twig and thistledown
to weave chalice cupped homes
high up in the throne of trunk,
out of view
from all but the few
who come to seek solitude.

His shoulders wilted
like the petals of a weary cafe flower.

low as a fading iodine evening light.

Drained trying to understand
those last riverlets of kisses  
that douced his contours

parceled cushions of a lovers mouth
dripped lush droplets
of breath and promises.

The same mouth

that shuddered sorries

before
uttering goodbye
forever more.

In reflection of minor moments that ended before I had understand or recognition of their value
I stumbled across a time of mine
as a child
scurrying through a park
hurrying to play before the dark
came to take freedom away.
From the corner of my eye
I spied
a wood pigeon
struggling against the snag
of dense ivy vine.
Its leg revealed trapped between
frantic flapping
and panicked call.
I crawled a careful crawl
ignoring thorns and nettle stings
I used to cover my approach.
Reaching out
denying maddened pecks
and talon sctatchs to detour me,
I gently held the bird
between leg and hand
as the other hand tore ivy vine.
Released it sored.
Swift and gone.
The throb of its shaking heart still echoing in my palm
as this memory echoes in my heart.

She's sitting there all pretty,
but I feel nothing, not a stir.
Shift closer in my chair
tossing conversations at her.
She throws them politly back
unsure.
Perhaps hoping for a spark,
a connection.
I gaze into her eyes at evening light's reflection
sparkling brightly as a dew drop glistening in the morning sun.
She's unaware of my distraction.
She got it wrong.
I notice a shy smile glow and resonate.
Her pupils dialate.
Unintentionally I've led her on.
Feeling a little guilty, I remember the evening's not just for me.
I cut the tethers of care to see
what our bodies will do.

big words can constrict me
leaving little room to wiggle free,
they constrain
unequivocally,
there for show and tell, no doubt!
What can I do with discombobulate
that I can't do with confuse and frustrate?
Or maybe I can postulated
it's just a suggestion
can you relate?
When I say big words,
I meant to say long
cos little words like hope and love have more worth and meaning than floccinaucinihilipilification
Or maybe l'm dumb and use to procrastination
putting off what can be cleverly done.
But if I find a word that's lenghty
and hits the spot just right
I will use it ostentatiously,
or so I might.

Sorrowful wilting petals
those eyes;
bleeding wounded emotions
through the glistening of tears.
Could I evoke hope
for one sitting alone
siphoning reason
from crushed remains
of what's left from what's not right?
Is solitude the only healing grace
time perscribes?
Heavy pleading eyes
searching for where it all went wrong.
Should I approach this stranger
or leave one alone?

Below the window the street spills through with each car pass and dribbling pavement foot fall, splashes of voices fresh as lilly dew. Babbling babes follow falling toys, hellos and goodbyes wash away in time's tides. And I listen out for you

Can be hard to stare unflinching into the eyes of reality
coloured by harshness and badness riddled with tragedy.
Run by dictators and tyrants,
corrupted democracy,
religious fanatics,
blinded hypocrisy.
Innocent children washed up on beaches dying to be refugees
what's that teach us?
Fleeing the horrors of war, torture, starvation, killing and maiming.
Ordered by powerful faces on posters, the soulless have no shaming.
Shake our heads, "it's so terribly sad" express our empathetic views
before flicking on chatshows,
turn off the news.
Can be hard to grasp reality really
in our protective womb
harder to admit what happens closer to home, in the other room.
Violence, abuse, ****, neglect.
Smaller wars perhaps, but with the same truamatic effect.
These don't make the headlines or cover front pages
untill we end what's beside us we can't end the evil that rages.

The walls are sick of looking at me
as I try to explain
why I love the rain
as twilight wanes.
A hunching shadow's long sigh
waited for darkness
to swallow troubles
hardly worth the pain,
wondering when I last felt
some kind of good
or if I would
again.

Evening light washes pale
traffic scrunches up the motorway
weary bones heading home
minds coiled tense as a spring
ready to offload
wasted hours devoured by work.

Heavy eyes
but light hearts keep them open,
late night
early morning
not wanting
to miss a beat of every moment.
Then a kiss untill the next calling
taking time wistfully strolling
walking the colours into the day
as the night gradually fades
like the distance of two bodies giving way.
Though dreary there's an energy
wanting to keep dreams at bay
and savour every touch
and word you may say.

Clawed back from the dredges of deep self-pitty
"woe is mine" and "abandoned" and other such decrees.
Raised head aloft above self and had a good musing of this one grain among many.
others are far worse
and others faring better
but most
grains fare the same.
Is there a parculiar comfort in sorrow?
An odd warmth to loneliness
Perhaps it's a strange familiarity that forgives lack of energy.
Though the choice of circumstance maybe beyond our persuasion,
how we deal with it
is in our control.
Or so I heard someone say

Monday's made for yawning,
watery eyes,
groggy headed morning,
takes two hours and some change
before I'm performing
somewhere close to normal.
I'm not fishing for pity,
but it's still dark when
I reach the city,
yet sometimes its
oh so pretty
when the sun paints it's colours
on you.

She's got her headphones on,
can't see further than the magazine pages,
articles about painting nails
and what celebrities said.

He wears his Sunday best.
Pops a pill for heartburn.
Worries about tax returns
and the few pounds he's gained.

But later tonight
their passion will be on the cusp of perfection
the greatest gift they've got
is only for them to know.

She has a wicket mind,
though you'd never think if you met her. She'd drive a good boy wild
and she can sing pretty well too.

He's a creative soul,
though you'd never know if you met him.
Could melt a heart of stone
and can cook a mean chilly too.

Within the woods
a cluster of silver birch
stand proud among the pines and hazel and elms.
Below the gaze of the silver bark eyes
half hidden beneath the mulch and loam of ground
a toppled circle of stone can be found
to a kean eye
faded traces of blackened soil
painted by the death of a flame
It holds memories, if you listen,
of promises and dreams intimately whispered about the fire
when everything and the world died except you and I.

Oh has there ever been a breath such as yours
to tease goosebumps upon my neck as if they were my first?
A breath of passage from deep within lungs that oscillates my blood and heart's pulse?
Oh has there ever been a breath such as yours to carry heavylight words
of love?

You're wearing me out with your indifference
like a pair of boots walking long distance.
No matter which route I take
I never seem to reach your heart.

Tried travelling down other paths,
but it don't take long before
I have to turn back.
My only destination is wherever you're at..
But you get further and further away.

Diminishing lights
curving gradually
blinking until lost
in the depths of night.
Distant the fading airplane hum carrying on
once gone
from sight.
Suffer not wondering
of its destination,
the possibility of passengers,
the needful yearn to be one.
Some wished to stay behind,
to sit as you do
and remain on a patch of soil.
Imagine another wanting your life.
Bemused?
You should wonder why.

When you be busy getting
to where you want to be going
don't be neglecting
the path you're now roaming
or before you know
it your now will be stolen,
other paths will go unknown,
other mysteries will never be shown,
other yous will never be grown.
And when you arrive you could be regretting
what's the good things you have now
when you get to where you be going.

When loneliness comes
you call for another without calling.
When loneliness settles
you pray for someone without blessing.
When loneliness stays
isolation falls like winter's rain
deeply burrowing.
Destitute of humanity
despair comes echoing
when loneliness digs it's moat of disheartened thoughts
you shrivel disponded
cease the point of trying.
When loneliness calls.

Battle hardened hearts
***** battlements
to protect from future
emotional elements
and
bitter scares.
Because every love is a possible enemy
and every love is a possible knife twist.
Is it better to stay alone and numb
than allow room for more hurt to exist?
If a love should come
bringing liberty
to smash those cold walls
there will still be
noticiple relics in crumpled debris
cautions of what could be.
Don't fear them or let them mislead.
heed their history,
but set your heart free.

Almost content
Not fully there yet
But an improvement nonetheless.
Yes?
I'll take that
as time well spent,
well as time not wasted
a recovery of sorts
Almost brave enough to gather thoughts,
Almost.
Almost considering making plans.
Yes,
Plans come before hope but after dreams. And I'm not ready to consider anything as bountiful as those.
But it'll take more time. More healing and permitting myself an occasional forgiveness.
Maybe just one.
Meant to help lighten the load so I've been told

Lurking in a sullen snug
hiding away from eyes of the good
except the occasional ones
of a waitress who acknowledges
his order
with a nod
a momentarily glimmer of light
from neon reflecting sparks of life
between exchanges of glasses,
empty for full.
The change lands on the table  
dull as a labour's boots.
Sometimes here he writes
of worlds too fine for spoken words.
In the wakefulness of day
they are crumpled, discarded, shredded and burned.
Who'll listening if he could,
but speak as he wrote?
But there's nought.

We are a zoo
there are many animals
housed within
some are protected
by our prison
some pace frantically
clawing for freedom
some are timid
and keep themselves hidden
sometimes they battle for dominance
sometimes they're peaceful sometimes they're driven to violence
sometimes they're docile
sometimes they're irrational
sometimes they take over
our wild animals are all
emotional.

She gathers up the lost dreams
the old and the broken
the dying and the stolen
neglected and fogotten
then carefully carries them
in a spider spun satchel
takes them to her home in the meadow
where she carefully mends them
till they're strong enough to fly on wings of hope eternal
back to those that most need them.
The ones that have no one
to return to,
return to
live in the wishtree by her garden
and when it's time
they help guide her
to dreams newly lost and broken.

Saturday's sky a dessert for the eye,
Creamy clouds dolloped liberally,
fluffy and plump
floating silently
through rich azure
sprinkled
with hovering vs
of birds soaring high.  
To have wings is to be blessed,
why can't I?
Questions of a child
still rumble in my aging bones.
Though I'm kind of glad
to still have
echos of innocents
and hidden hope
that one day I may.

Did the night
whisper your name?
Did I speak it
in a wish?
It hung here suddenly
almost a physical thing
delicately chiming echoes
elusively
pealing petal images
long after its bell had rung.
My heart listed
into its fading wave
before
its gentle ripple was lost
amid the sea
of a cruel cacophony.

Wonder I sadly
the wish of the sun
for a shadow or
somewhere dark enough
to dream.

You bet
there was **** frost on her breath
so coldly she told him to leave.
Just like that
he packed
his duffel bag,
fixed his hat.
Left and grabbed a bottle of Jack
and the first train.
Slowly he took a swig,
as it pulled away
better a leaving drunk on a train
than one that remains
bawling in the rain
after the tomorrows
flushing down the gutter drain.
He sank into the comfortable
locomotive sway
consulated their lust
wasn't deep enough to cause pain.
Smiling he toasted her all the best,
her and all the rest,
then he drifted away
wondering who would be next.

Cloud cap,
graphite matte,
raised a horizon peak.
Pale magnolia added flesh
to dawn's early brow.
Is blindness worth witnesssing
the opening eye of the sun?
Waiting for the evening's softer one.

Our behaviours are reactions to our perceptions of situatuons
There may not always be a best option
but most problems have a solution.
For those that don't
we can make resolutions
when things get out of our control
we can learn to control our reactions,
our behaviour and self-perceptions.

I'll have to iron them I said for the fifth day in a row
eyeing the pile as it grows
stacked on a chair buried somewhere there under the creases and crumbled clothes
Er, I'll do it tomorrow,
maybe,
who knows?

On the wall opposite
a gallery of posters and pamphlet raising awareness, and warnings
of conditions
he prays she doesn't have.
High glossed brochures they hope not to collect afterwards
The weight of the waiting
as crushing as the worries
they try to play off
in light conversation
pretending it's nothing.
Urging each open door and passing uniform to be the calling.
Eyes burning through the back of those who came after,
but are seen before them.
The unfairness of it draws the focus of their anxiousness in mutter curses.
Recalling the sayings
"its a rare person who wants to hear what they don't want to hear."
it depends on why and how long you're waiting.
They sit there trying to stay calm, distracted
and stare at the floor,
focusing on the ripped edge of a poster as many before have and many will again

I write, but I am not a poet
I paint, but I'm no artist
I read, but I am no scholar
I have dreams, but I'm not a visionary
I create, but I'm not an inventor
I pray, but I'm far from being holy
I ponder, but I'm not a philosopher
I hate violence, but I'm not a pacifist
I am not unique, but I am uniquely me.
Though there's many things I'd like to change
for now
I just want to be

When wings of time
sweep you away
things return
to being just things
Nothing to cherish
nothing significant
Nothing worth noting
A night without stars
a sun without radiant warmth.
A wine stain is a blemish
A cold pillow takes up space
A clock tics slowly.
Things are only things
nothing more
You gave them essence

Time:
a perpetual motion,
an unstoppable force.
The present:
a constant collision with
an immovable object:
the past.

Friday
Raindrops fleck neon's flash
Friday night's here at last.
Used to mean freedom to me
cash in my wallet, friends to see.
I'm older and don't dig the city no more.
Got mouths to feed
I'm just above being poor, but
the streaks of rain
cause memories to soar
fresh aftershave city to explore,
though I wouldn't think twice
of hitting the clubs again,
I remember feeling free
when I was younger back then.
And I remember feeling lonely
too often,
sometimes my only friends
were at a bottles bottom.

Rubbed drying earth from my hands,  
swabbed my brow with my shirt tail.
Jeans stained with mud and plant juices,
the shovel rests without complaint on the lawn (It's use to me by now).
Though my back aches
and blistered hands shake,
despite being beat and done,
working out doors
under the intense sun,
crawling with insects
stinking of sweat,
I feel more satisfied
than when I sit
in a clean office
on a comfortable chair
with only a phone to lift.