My only fear
Is that I will spend every night
Sobbing in your arms
To make up for all the times
Everyone else
Left me to fend for myself.

the art of mercy,
is not a hard thing,
to learn...

like pontilism,
you start...
with one small dot,
one act of kindness,
a smile, a word, a change
of heart,
to this add more,
build a picture of caritas....
shaded with compassion
and thoughtful deeds.

paint then, a new canvas
using, broad strokes of time
and heartfelt tears....
be magmanimous,
with colour,
care and altruism,
be bold and brave
with actions,
that come from
your need,
to see this world
as a legacy of love....

then, when you have mastered that,
take up your pencil
and draw,
in fine lined, forbearance and clemency,
a self portrait of forgiveness,
for we all need mercy....
and reminders,
to be of a heart most merciful...

then take your palette,
and new found skills
and become
an artist....
of the street,
teaching, giving showing mercy
at every turn or bus-stop,
every street corner....
under bridges, in tall towers
scrawl mercy, on walls
and sidewalks....
paint the town....
                   paint the town.....

the art of mercy....
               is simply,
                             beautiful,
               to behold,
                             at work,
               it changes,
                           just about,
               everything......
for the better...

I write of spring in autumn
of summer in winter
I like to be where I'm not
to cheat on time
fantasy
is so much better

She had wrestled with many a serpent that had wrapped its slinky body around hers, tightening its grip for death, squeezing every drop of life from her.   And each time escape had appeared to her by a slim chance, luck was there in the moment.   And there were wolves too, with voices oozing charm, dressed in style, in the woolly warmness of sheep, but hungry dogs, dribbling, waiting impatiently to devour a good meal.   She had run from them all, breathless, wide-eyed, heart pounding within the chase.

They wanted life....her life, desiring those beautiful things.   Needing to be full of all the good that was in her, to enable them to shine, as she did.

But things have changed, she scans the world with new eyes, in these untrustworthy days.   And now the living dead can only afford to hiss and growl in the darkness.   Not once will they get close enough, to lick the salt, and taste how delicious she is.   Not close enough, to hold on and wring her dry, not any more.

She sees them coming now, even before the day dawns.   She hears their mischievous desires, moan and rumble like distant thunder on a cool breeze.   It is always the same, as each one approaches; a cheesy grin, the freak in disguise, with its deep inhale of breath, ready to spin the hallucinogenic tale of their lives.

Their blatant nakedness wants to make her break out in a girlie giggle.   But she holds it in, stops it with a little finger against her lip.  Shines a sophisticated womanly smile, and asks quietly, "Who are you?"    Then turns her back, walks far away.   Never looking behind, not even a thought of it.  No fighting, no running.   And her heart remains quiet within.

Three words....and they are nothing.   Ignored, to complete disintegration.   Those mutants who prowl, to destroy her beautiful world.   Slain with a question they can never answer.   For even they do not know who they are.

Her light shines, just a little brighter.   Life goes on – life lives in her.

Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.