Deep in the woods, cold sun on His face.
Trying to find a hiding place where He is safe.
From Him. Frisk myself.
No knife, no pills, no bleach or drugs,
just cold to crawl into.
Like a frozen barren womb that has,
as the last act of its painful life
barred my return to the warm.
That warmth is so close, an hours walk,
a quicker ride, ***** it, hide!
They're asking Him in but stay outside.
They will get through,
no circle keeps the good ones out.
He thinks he hears singing,"we're going to get you,
make you warm, make you smile,
for a while.."
He will just lie here and listen for the deer,
just for a little while more.
Just long enough to be so ill,
maybe then He can hide again.

She owes them nothing yet she still goes home,
squalid glances all they can give, the walking dead,
each one  fallen away from her respect or love.
The way wet filth falls from a  city sky,
but the moon and stars still shine above.

Soiled but inviolate, not marred by callous scorn,
no dreams of pulled triggers, not anymore.
Tonight is the last.
Tomorrow will come.
Tomorrow she will fly beside Angels.

All these years, confused and bereft.
Dying so young with harsh grief left.
But they still will come if you catch their eyes.
Six it says,  so hard to count
when they play around your feet.
To small to fear,
so wanting to be loved.

Meant to see them Yesterday,
let them down.
Forgot.
Margaret wouldn't,
She'd be there, and James,
in the distance, old but smiling.
To  say hello
to their six wee babies in the snow.

Keep me a spot,
for in years to come,
I'll stand watching
with your Dad and Mum.

Stand here, close your eyes,
There! Feel it?
Swaying, in steady circles,
forlorn and not decreasing.
Time has not healed.

His hand swelled,
blotchy blue.
She tried, and cried.
Had to kneel ,
to touch the floor,
the impact of the loss
hits a woman so hard.

"It's not your fault,
go to the light in peace,"
she said, tears in her eyes,
as She tries so hard.
For the mother of the
Child who fell down to the yard.

Well, sort of.
I think I saw Jim Morrison today.
At the end of the hall,
his hand high on the wall,
nothing to say.

A Bell jet helmet in his hand,
chin strap swinging,
perhaps he sought his band,
wanted to start singing?

Perfect stance,
beyond any pose I've seen,
a natural nonchalance,
no need for second chance.
Right first time.

On with the lights,
He faded fast, retreated
undefeated, unbowed.
a *****, beautiful,
drug fuelled peacock,
eyes wide,
no shame to hide.

Wanted to ask him,
"Jim, was it you,
that gave Robbie that black eye?"
Or" was it the helmet your  brother
wore when he died?"
With a girl astride,
his bike throttle wide?

He wouldn't have said.
he's not my kind of dead.
He knows who he is,
and smiles at all this.
I can hear his boots still,
and shake with the  thrill.

Jim doen't give interviews,
nor read the news
that he once filled.
But he's still got that smile.
Saw it flash.
A smile, for me?
Ha, we'll see.

We almost hung out..

Ate chips today.
Wahay, thought "I can do this".
Wrong again!
those old scars caught me out,
like devils whistling innocent,
then, jumping out not heaven sent
to snare and snarl and cut.

Close up, shrink that throat.
Close ranks and give thanks
that," we believe,
it will not degenerate"
Dr Mansoor says,
"To the point that leaves you
unable to breathe."

Self trachaeotomy?
Sooner self lobotomy.

But my friends chips were nice.
So is she, looks out for me.
Just carry a knife and tube,
in case I need you!

A tiny speck, growing fast,
so straight, direct that it must be
the first it took, and now its last.
Sobered, sad, feeling bad for riding
like a maniac, and hiding my eyes
from accusing skies.

Empty accusing skies.

The rub comes, as it always does.
with shock and dread.
Taking my helmet from my head.
It is there.
On me.
Neck broke.
Dead.
Sweet.
Young.
Complete.
Dead complete.

Pushed between  my legs
and tank, unseen and thank
my lucky stars that mother birds
don't stand accusing of their loss.
It's bill, still with the bright,
that makes both of its parents fight
to feed unruly chicks
and guard them in a nest of sticks.

So find a bag to wrap it in,
shed quiet tears,
for this new sin.
Glance quickly past
the stinking summer bin.
Rotten with sloth and waste,
and life gone bad.

Where ?
Somewhere that will care.
For a new soul taken,
a wee heart broken.
Sorrow unspoken.

Anwoth,
whispers, down among the stones,
Plants crown the walls,
and, in summer glory
the voices of the dead
gently talk.

Just listen.
They need you.
To hear.

Anwoth,
if you take a look,
hidden in the quiet,
beneath an evergreen.
Beneath THE evergreen.
  a  stone that says.

A Baby Bird.

I read He marks the sparrows fall,
so should We  all.

I went to the Sea today,
hunting stones at Carrick bay.
Grass blurs to rock, water waiting,
for the steady pull
of tide and time.

No child with me,
to see the world in wonders way.
To dream that magic here holds sway.
Rocks might rear into the sky,
gulls great dragons passing high.

Pools, lying still, amongst the wrack,
whisper "enter, no glance back".
Mysteries of ancient deep,
in the soothing dark they keep.

Drink the water, tasting warm,
slip into another realm,
playful fishes open- eyed,
gape and gossip as I glide.

A pocket of stones,
a pocket of shell,
thank you Carrick.
You'll do me well.

Pressaging doom,
girls will swoon,
the number was there,
can't write too soon.
Not suspicious?
Nah not me...
well yes,
actually.
Something down,
any crap,
feeling worn,
need my nap.
got that number in my mind,
now something in the dark will find....
me.
The Bin-bags will attack,
circle drive them back.
Being flippant,
yeah thats hoping.
Take the mickey,
lay wide open.
To Them. It.
******.
Only wanted,
to have 14.
Poems.
Now It may come again.
Duvet!
Light on?
Best!
Pray?
Yup!
Circle,
That will be dandy.
Pay for flippancy,
deserve it.
Sorry.
Got pals,
big pals.

Got it in my sweaty hand,
ee ba gum lad, Ain't 't grand,
golden cone of foreign growth,
it's mine now, not just some or most.

Pop the end and squeeze it out,
whoops too much, shh! Do not shout.
Think I talk of sinful things?
That leave me ******* with dark eye-rings?
My life to waste?

Na, *******,
please don't feel distaste,
Denise just gave me a half!
Of a tube of henna paste!

He He He, squidgey fun on my tum,
because I cannot henna my B.U.M.

Add new,
feels like sin.

Away we go,
Needle in.

Mmm feels fine,
quick write another line.

No-one is looking,
they're watching t.v. or cooking.

Pfist yet more,
my arm is sore.

Watch that spelling,
need counselling!

For poetry?
yup.

The Queen of Winter looked about,
tinged with sorrow, touched by doubt.
The time of change was in the air,
a keen smell dancing through her hair.
Springtimes breath should fill her dreams,
casting spells of summers peace,
as with her court she, serene sleeps,
awaiting on autumns counsel fair.

But troubled now, her gaze is sharp,
what things are come forth from the dark.
Drawn uncalled by winters cold,
things unholy, things too old.
Prowling in the biting frost,
preying on unwary lost.

"there is a way," she says to all,
"to reawaken springs fair call.
I need a braveheart, strong and true,
to carry springtimes promise through!"
None spoke, none moved, all-fearing stood,
then from beneath Her throne of wood,
"I'll go."

And there was an unlooked for guest,
a small young Hare to take the quest,
And she remembered then his face,
beneath last years fall of  leaves.
A little leverett, bereft, born too late,
so sadly left, but seen by chance.
Compassion in the great ones glance.

Set free to tumble in the spring,
to run and dance, and dream and sing.
But wise to evils coming threat,
returned to pay his debt.

"I'll carry springtimes welcome song,
my eyes are bright, my legs are strong,
and though I know you dread I'll fail,
a faithful heart can but prevail!"

A speech of such unwitting grace,
that tears did stain the lady's face.

"So little one, you made a choice,
how gentle is your sweet young voice,
and I instill my strength and love,
to bear your burden far.
And if you fall, the world will know,
my tears of ice will stain the snow."

A little bag of felt was made,
new boots of doeskin,
laced and tied,
a cap to cover well his head,
and then the time,
to face the dread.

"Into this bag I place the spring,
no feather weight, no little thing,
though sadness wishes you could tarry,
this burden forth we ask you carry."
And so with spells of love and care,
out into winter sped our hare.

Through the secret postern gate,
into unremitting hate,
dreading not the rising fear,
but only that the spring was late.

Trotting lightly over snow,
the little lad did boldly go,
leaving lightest prints  behind,
nothing for the Beasts to find.
But, stirring in the darker woods,
creatures of despair still stood.

Crawling, stooping, no poise or grace,
evil made a start to chase,
our little hare, who, so well aware,
kept a steady pace.

Beasts of the pit, deep in the earth,
smother life with their dark curse,
drawn to light to look askance,
hating their own long lost chance.

Breaking through and into sight,
using all the darkest might,
straining fibre, blood and bone
to **** our little hare.

Dancing, swerving, to and fro,
Is he caught? Ah through, now go!
How can one so slim and small,
battle evil spirits tall?
But, from towers far above,
flows an ancient, caring love.

Sending creatures of the woods,
fight the evil with their good,
crows and eagles, claws and beaks,
wolves and foxes, strength and teeth.
Fighting now for what they chased,
and grateful for his speed unceased.

" Pass beyond us, little hare,
and we will turn and, face the stare!
Whatever evil comes to pass,
we dream of springtimes fragrant grass"

So captains of the wood as one,
stand together as they come,
though many fall not to arise,
they battled evils changing guise.
None pass unmissed, she sees them fall,
The Ice Queen marks their everyfall.

The breathless runner toils anew,
oh can he take this burden through?
the night is falling dark and fast,
and still dark forces  are amassed.

New foes astir, claw at his feet,
sharp teeth snap, and call deceit,
arms of knotted sinew strain,
to clutch, to grasp, but still in vain!
Our little hero runs so swift,
at each new threat his own pace lifts.


Cut and wounded by the beasts,
ragged ears, and bleeding feet,
nothing slows the running hare,
"come, you catch me if you dare!"
he gasps beneath a fell  beasts stare...


Then, coming slowly into view,
a wondrous sight, and hope anew,
a woodland tinged with shades of green,
could this be spring, will he get through?

And now the Green Man of the spring,
sees the chase and starts to sing,
"Come all my peoples of warm earth,
we'll war these beasts of death and dearth!"
Flashing eyes, and racing foes,
to battle now for good they  go.

Now at the Green Mans feet hare lies,
the light now fading from his eyes,
his burden passed to hands of care,
all gaze with wonder, little hare!
His duty done, his race is run,
it's now his time to die.

But from afar, a Snow Maids call,
"this once, Man listen to my call,
I'll ask of you no other thing,
than heal this creature, let us sing!"

Together, distant words that heal,
renew the turning of lifes wheel,
The young hare races, where he will,
Watch, and you'll see him, running still.

Tracing lines, abstract and refined,
no course to follow, each shape fresh,
unique, more glorious than any hand or eye,
dare attempt to write upon the ground.

Even midst the grime and filth,
beauty scales mountains of foul,
crowning in chaotic perfection,
with frosts sweet, hard hand.

Let us look awhile,
leave with a quiet glance,
no regret or loss,
fresh wonders still await our gaze.

Got that feeling in the gut?
Tummy stuck deep in a rut,
try and think of other things,
not of spewing up my ring.

Bleugh!

Give up almost right away,
cannot fight or hide today,
belly brewing like a storm.
Here it is, thick and warm.

gruggle (sound effects)

Tastes real bad up the wrong end,
whizzes round the toilet bend.
Like Senna and that Alain Prost,
my tummy has the last riposte.

Wuk, wuk, wurg.(I am NOT anorexic)

Shall I try a biccie now,
maybe milk out of a cow,
perhaps a swig of orange juice?
Whats the point, it's no use.

There's a demon in my guts,
giving duodenal butts,
feel it having so much fun,
did it get in through my ***?

Have to get the pills in soon,
hope that I can keep them down,
sat here shaking like a jelly,
heres some more, wow that was smelly!

Since I came here past the border,
exported with my gut disorder.
Need a rapid puke solution,
to end my Solway Firth pollution!

I'm fretting how the wee girl cried,
how her mama tried,
and bled inside as her angel
all at once distraught
her world in pieces
come to naught.

One little dancers dress forgotten,
one sweet girls day
turned so rotten.

"I want to scoop her up" I heard,
all our minds saying the same words,
GO ON mum, give her a kiss,
a hug or a squeeze, don't be remiss.

Will today live on in her heart,
a ten year old girls day fallen apart?
Or will she be strong , and take her next chance,
the wee little girl with the tears at the dance.

Half way up inside my ***, is a little kind of lump,
like a chum who lets me down, but i cannot give a thump!
Into next week..
'cos my eyes would start to leak.

It's become a constant presence, though a little bit unpleasant,
so don't tell anyone.
Shhh...
That's not it bursting I must stress, although I do confess,
I inserted a brush handle by the light of Susan's candle,
and made a ****** gush.

A sable number 2,
which you are welcome to,
and you can have  the mush.
The Amoco Cadiz, would have quailed at the outflow,
millions of surfers would have shrank and yelled "oh no",
this is not lush, please flush. And do rush.

So a reduction in the pressure of this dinky little fissure,
may not last so very long,
can't say the same about the pong.......

So a shilly shally poking, with a brush that now is broken,
and my pals are all a- choking while the question then is  spoken.
Why put a brush where the sun don't shine,
A roller does it better every time!

And has more coverage!

Excuses are like hooses, they involve dwelling,
though you are all to wise and aren't buying what we're selling.

Cocconed within the words run thin
with each repetetive telling.

If excuses were like mooses with big handles on their heads,
the scary waft would warn you off and fibs not need be said.

(but the moose could start a-pooin' and the carpet would be ruined,
ravaged to its last remaining thread).

So feeling dicky, slightly sicky, see the daughters, broken waters,
what the hell comes first into the mind,

leave behind.

Today there's a feeling that rhymes with bite,
starts with sh and the end of mite,
food to fast,
gullet burnt
God almignty will ye never learn?

On the knees, clasp the bowl, heres some more!
Ewgh! this is foul.
Try to breathe, clear the eyes,
Scrunch my toes, breathe some more,
Wow, ***** puts a shine on the floor!

Spuds and stuff that should be chewed,
my tumbly pretty shot and burned.
The liquid pumping,
taste of acid,
freedom to eat, how I yearn.

"grab yersel'' my pals would say,
"yer covered in green, and looking grey!"
"feeling sorry, so pathetic,
writing Shight that is Nar-******-cissistic!"
yup thats me!

and it's true , yes,
I spell shight  badly,
and I'm a selfish twatte,
whilst vomiting madly.

whoops,  did anyone spot my duodenum?

Explicit content, oh that ****** thing
that burns your ears and makes them sting.

Like cussing and swearing, or pictures you draw
in the head of a reader, leaving nerves raw.

Four letter flummery, f - words to boot!
Will we ever go down a more civilised route

And be nice.....

whats that on your face?
you're bleeding!
bleedin' ugly!
Ha ha got me again.

Should I ever die, what would miss me and why?
Places, faces, things that dwell.
Creatures of heaven, beasts of hell?

Strangers passing in the street, see me lying at their feet.
Glancing as they move around,
the shadow lying on the ground.

Melt a man-shape in the ice, frozen solid in a trice,
blur as one a sculpture set,
solid ice, a mans regret.

Tonight I thought I'd take a ride,
to Cally woods, the tracks are wide,
but all aghast - so were my eyes,
Jack Frost was waiting there outside.

"come out" he whispered with a smile
"the air is sweet, the breeze is mild,
what better for you, lad, today,
than to ride and dream the night away?"

So toiling through the snow and ice,
I went, though doubting his advice.
Although so sharp the air this night,
I felt beyond old Jacks hard bite!

An hour went by, the cold crept in,
Jack cracked his thin lips with a grin.
"You'll be mine soon my lad" he said,
"another hour, you will be dead"

but I'd a trick up my cold sleeve,
a trick that made old Jack frost grieve,
I melt his cold with warmest love,
my guardian angel flies above..