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Leigh Oct 2018
Ease yourself in up to your waist
And grit your teeth against the cold.
Take a slow step deeper with searching toes;
Learn to wade again against the tide.

I have always preferred the land;
To stand where I can see a horizon's
Distance and not risk being
Enveloped by it.

My risk was his wish underlined
By a body of work. He's away now from a life
Made up of **** ups, and break ups,
And love, and changing lives.
For Scott Hutchinson 1981 - 2018

"... a version of man built to collapse in crumbs."
Leigh Jun 2015
It wasn't tackled with a surgeon's finesse
But the battered brute of conviction.
I can still see the two man cross cut saw
Jammed deep in the bark - but a tickle.
A mail of thick branches disguised as
Dense fodder stood strong against waves.
Throwing everything at it - raining sawdust -
As the giggles were heard for miles around.
Now standing crippled, taunting as it sways -
The battle's won but the war will have its day.
Leigh Aug 2015
The blank space beside her name carries him back home.
Leigh Jun 2015
The well-oiled clunk of padlocks
slotting smoothly home
for dark to close off
rooms to outside days
and droned opprobrium.

The morning shine that
carries breezes brimmed
with birdsong must await
the sliding click and clack
of opened blackout blinds.

Open to a bundled clump of
tumbled, crumpled, crass,
incessant, prickling,
self-reflective musings
binding me to doubt.

It is this lair wherein I
rest and find the peace of
reign; 'Tis here I manifest as
Father Time to forge a faulty
rise and set with blackout blinds.

Leigh Mar 2015
Wincing at the light, I deprive myself;
Take in an uneven frame.
With lowered brows and interminable thoughts
I pass it all by,

Float and reflect on the detail
Never seen,
Convinced I experienced it all,
Scratching in the rest;

I tear in the blue sky and smear the
Breaking waves;
I become more an object of scorn as the greens
And greys of the cliff side are marred,

Framed in the corner of an eye.
I have a tendency to get stuck in my head while I'm out. I have trouble switching off and taking everything in. I call myself an observer but miss so much due to an over-active head. This was written about how much I missed the last time I took a long cliff walk near where I live on a nice day not so long ago. I gleaned nothing worthwhile from my absence that day, or any other.

Leigh Aug 2015
Slick grass glistened heavy
After summer showers fell before a sun
That trickled veiled toward transcendent trees
Towered on the outskirts of the demesne - It unsheathed
A pearlescent canvas for a dreamer who paints ideals;

A reader finding signs in smiles and glances
Strolling paths free of fear to free imagination;
Summoning hopes against a fresh red/orange
Backdrop, and ignoring perilous heights to cast
A thought to moments yet unlived -
This fool's masterpiece.
Leigh Apr 2015
For Idil Ibrahim
In memory of Tim Hetherington - 1970 - 2011

I cannot stay and speak my truth while the front line has no voice.
The carpet doesn't share substance with the blood-clumped
dust of Liberia; Red wine doesn't stain nations and it hasn't
changed the world.

I cannot stay and walk these steps while the fragile youth stand.
Our Sunday morning route doesn't cover landscapes of wounds
and bodies; Central Park has never felt a thousand welted
feet march for death.

I cannot stay and see your face while molten plastic scars her world.
Your delicate eyes have never seen the darkness of a child's grief;
Our democracy cannot fathom the searing, slow drip after a family

I cannot stay and feel worthy of your love while injustice goes unseen.
My lens has immortalised what we held dear, but is yet to capture
the human condition; I spoke to you like I spoke to them;
Through decades of mortar fire I spoke to them.

Inspired by the life of Tim Hetherington, a frontline war photographer and journalist. His story is well told in 'Which way is the front line from here?' A truly remarkable person.

Leigh Sep 2015
A seat at the precipice -
Stained and rusted -
Weathered by decaying leaves
Fallen inside the boundaries;

A caste to live within,
Without tight-knotted
Morals on wrists -
A place of slow progress

And little growth
To foster little changes
Meant to brace a wall
Built of shortened breaths.
Leigh May 2019
Crowded streets, alive with a rhythm
That moves too fast for me.
I carefully weave through a town for the artists
Who need someone to be,
Into a quiet place;

A crowded mind, sustaining an echo chamber
Fit for our times.
Surrounded by a thousand decisions
I look back at a life
Up on a pedestal.

Where I missed the signs in smiles and glances,
And hold out for those second chances
At the moments that I've missed;
Never lived.

(I) Detach from the dream disrupting the rhythm
That makes you you, and me?
Lost in time;
Compulsively collecting the moments
That made me want to be
In this quiet place to read

(Read) All the signs in smiles and glances;
I won't change the world discarding chances
To move on from when we lived,
But we'll live, we'll live, we'll live...

(I'll live)...through all the second-hand supposed answers
Composing poems in hopes of small advances
Towards the peace of mind I need
To find me again.

Crowded streets, alive with a rhythm
That moves too fast for me.
Leigh May 2015
A ripened sky splits and bleeds
Mangled reds and blacks;
An instant melts as heat from
Clustered newborn suns --
Blistered from the wounds --
Collects and beams 1600 feet
Earthwards from Fat Man's
Plump and pompous underbelly.

The pure-light pin-***** stopped
The city's pulse for a moment;
Collecting remnants of the
Beating hearts (of artists,
Doctors, students, parents,
Preachers, rats, and peasants)
To plant on rotting soil -
A hellish fungal pustule.

The swelling abscess breathed
But once and burst to
Ripple excess outwards
Soaking up the landscape;
Ingesting miles and spewing
Spores towards septic skies to form
A mass of mushroomed
Might and pyrrhic triumph.

Leigh May 2015
Pictures of your tubes and a wooden cross
Engraved is all I know of you.
I wasn't yet a thought when perhaps you wrapped a
Tiny hand 'round a trembling finger to feel a beat,
Or when maybe you cried just enough for everyone
Who kissed your little head.
I sidestepped all of your goings on and the grief
By a few years, but I will always miss you.

I will miss our bond.
You didn't stay long enough to grow into your mannerisms,
But I wonder what we could have shared.
Would you have been funny or serious?
Together or scattered?

Somehow you've always been there for me.
You listened when I didn't know anyone else
Would and your flowers became my sanctuary.
Maybe you would kick my *** for
Being so uselessly sentimental,
And maybe you wouldn't.

It gets cold here, but you know that;
I hope you rest easy in your little garden,
Fit for a princess.
Leigh Apr 2015
Cardboard mattresses lining doorways;
a warning to avert your eyes
lest you be caught off-guard by throwaways
or made to squirm because you empathise.

A pinched sneaky glance at a sleeping bag
to see if a wayward vagabond there lies
A woman and child, or a greasy toerag
Probably a ****** laying vacant on high.

It is with pacified ignorance you accept this -
society's stunted stereotype, which offers no prize
for presuming your time's of more value than his
hers or theirs, a lost cause - the shivering exiles.

A person cold and damp remains a person
whether they smile or they stifle their cries
upon losing their place when matters worsen;
we can help, we can acknowledge they're alive.

I'm not usually one for rhymes but here we are.

Leigh Jun 2015
Dig deep in the sand with a cupped shovel-hand
Until you come across a healthy source of water.

Scoop up what you see and let loose the soggy contents,
Let them dribble through a careful filter fist.

Slowly drip foundations and upon them start your fortress
Using steady streams of trickled dribs and drabs.

Stalagmites in hyperspeed form walls and lookout towers
With the damp bricks one by one constructing peaks.

Spectators of all sizes will collect and cast their gazes
But you must keep up the focused droplet swell.

Maiden battles can't be won and so the masterpiece will crumble
To the tide that forces motes to overflow.

Waves crash and reek their havoc on the castle that you managed
To build with will and manky dripping palms.

The sand on which it once stood will be flattened out and polished
To make way for a palace twice as grand.

When on the beach as kids, my Dad taught us to make these incredible castles using only dribbled water and wet sand.

Leigh Apr 2015
The hourglass spills days while penning insides and outcries
leaking content soaking pages; infecting woven fibril.
Using sharp fragments of semi-coherent tangents I scrape away
the leftovers:

Scraps of unfit metaphors fed to mounds of misshapen sentiment
Rusted similes left strewn on margins like impotent flotsam
Sampled words that don't quite capture the yaw, pitch,
angle, vibe, or taste I'm gunning for.

All tossed - Useless on paper, but useful as a dense foundation
of nonsense to bolster my intent.
The scribbled-out waste; the deep black marks between the final
cut are the raw outpouring I can't let you see.

The mess is too mottled for exhibition
Too fragile and too honest to absorb the stones.

Leigh Apr 2015
Holding back is an impulse for those of us
who spell 'happy' with a question mark.

We are the restless, thinking deeply;
trained to accept a consuming plateau.

We follow theories in patterns so as to clumsily grasp at
a conclusion to poke holes in and a reason to follow it
around again - the upended bicycle wheel spins and
we push ever harder - desperate to find something new;

Words to write or notes to piece together on a
set of strings or keys to show we're here and happy?

A little grain of our forever-doubt to leave behind
after spending lives tracing a question mark;

Weaving a pen around the joy that grows in the
middle of our road to arrive at an empty point.



Leigh Nov 2018

My everything swelled

Until my fear grew legs

So to carry me from you

And your everything too

At all costs.
Leigh May 2015
The tide collects it all by morning;
The drama and the ***** napalmed across the path.
The scenes at second warning for most had been swept away
Before they wiped the sand from their shoes.

Empty cans of Dutch and Tuborg slouched on the dunes
Are tight-lipped about the Velvet Strand's secret ecosystem;
An underground microcosm;
A peripheral cluster of seething emotions drowned.

Memories of those years - although some expired,
The vestiges take pride of place - hold a cosmic clump of smells,
Tastes, firsts, goosebumps, hangovers, and ends.
I never before understood what I was holding on to.

Winters down in the shelters nearly killed us but we
Huddled through the cold, lit cheap firelogs and
Found our oblivion. It didn't take much for me to develop  
A stagger - tolerance for a lot of things was learned later.

I narrowly recall my first taste of poor judgement and
Hazy-headed stargazing. Six cans of Stonehouse
Dry cider - most of which ended up on the hillside -
Was a ridiculous endeavour that will always be sublime.

At the heart of it, I did it to impress a girl;
The one every boy has or has had that sticks;
Who holds your firsts and your hands and makes
Things simple if only for her complexity;

The one that never fails to bring upon digression when
Pens are involved. Revisiting reminiscence on a jarring note,
I think of my Junior Cert exams and a cross-dressed man
Exposing himself to two uniformed boys behind the public toilets.

This one doesn't stir the joy of the others.
This one I wish would dissolve;
An ugly, awkward blotch on a childhood.

Luckily fondness trumps disgust when recalling that place
Because of sunrises and sunsets absorbed from the roof.
The Summers spent jumping the gap and drowning in the
Heat of the sun were everything.

The fugitive sand between our toes and under finger nails
Became an accepted nuisance, a part of the territory;
A lingering grain or two to drag you back.
I miss waking up with the smell of last night's faded fire.

Some weird and wonderful memories of my teenage years.

100 points if you catch the Derek Mahon reference.

Leigh Jun 2015
It doesn't fall far but it falls hard --
Bruised fruit
Leigh Jun 2015
Fires in ditches and fields with
Newspapers, boxes, and dry grass
As our accessible anthracite;
Once smouldering enough on its own feet
To become its own source is when
The limbs were stripped and introduced;
Torn from trees or salvaged from
The outlying waste - they fed the
Crackle - spitting whispering embers skywards.

As children with little sense, our noise
Was all we could offer to appease
Wayward youth's disorder.
The crippled heat was secondary,
But to watch things burn was valuable;
A ring of lives held tenuous.

One thing I came to know
From the nights we gathered in droves is
That within this life of loose bonds and swells
I soak in the hungry gloam.

Leigh Mar 2015
Eloquence has little worth in the steaming hearth;
Where the ropes coil and knuckles crack from the strain.
Others set themselves free and pirouette in the stream
Because they don't carry the ballast on their feet;
Their tongue;
Their nerve.
Leigh Apr 2015
Fleeting, rolling days, weeks,
years of half-memories with
no faces,
but places - parks,
playgrounds, forests, ditches -
in which youthful time was
spent without a thought for
permanence or preservation.
The "best years of your life"
twisted, tarnished, pastel-
smeared to indistinguishable
faces, places, seasons,
feelings, fears, loyalties -
scrunched up and abandoned;
left to seep inside a clockwork mind
teeming with trivial tenterhooks
and patchwork recollections.

How many details have been smudged by time and perseverance?

Leigh May 2015
For the lucky, a million chances are granted
before their first day sleeps.
Unnoticed - mostly unspoken to the
screaming, restless, 'just wont settle' infants -
they are to be carried on the shoulders of  
protectors and handed down as time presents.

The chance to grow attached to that first teddy-bear.
The one in the attic with just one eye and
an off-white coat of the softest fur;
It holds all the heat from the nights you
nuzzled, before your imagination was clipped;

To wear your first little booties and
plod your first steps holding fingertips sky high;

To run headlong into the edge of a table
you could fit under but a day before;

To cry with your face scrunched up
and your eyes closed, mouth hanging ajar, after
falling from your bike;

And the chance to be embraced and told it will all
be okay by those same protectors, then handed another chance
with one less stabilizer.

Now let's replace the embrace with a thought -
For her;

Her protectors couldn't carry her chances.

When she awoke and filled her lungs
the chances handed down were a cold plastic bag and a
chance encounter with a passer by on the Steelstown Road:

Her chance at a first day, unnamed.

Given half a chance I would give her all of mine.

This is about a baby girl in Rathcoole in Dublin. She was less than a day old and found, alive thankfully, at the side of the road wrapped in a plastic bag.

Leigh Apr 2015
The nettle stings, scrapes, scratches, and scuffed shoes were
far removed from us; the last worry as we cut,
crisscrossing to create a crawl space
through a wall of flesh-hungry growth -
at first - to gain access to more flesh-hungry growth

The discipline - for me - was an exhorted departure but the
product was worth every scab; an open space where we
could be: undisturbed, unfettered, unchained, and with
a live canopy we were free to create more, build more,
care more and leave a sliver of our growth

Perhaps more than a sliver. Perhaps it has become my
definition of what it meant to be young and to find a fit;
connect with the other forgers - akin to a close-knit
military unit - collecting driftwood, desks, drawers, drapes,
and designated seats to burn or to use as decor

And decorated it was. Spectacularly so! Swings hanging
from the sturdiest branches, discarded rugs coated
with muck, leaves, and filth dragged in to line our atrium,
a place for every member and a code:
"Nobody but us"

Simple society solidified with barbaric politics.
A system preaching tribal nonsense can't last long.
Mostly the damage was done when things got less simple;
when we grew and outgrew and the fences were put up.
The homes and the simple society were moved in shortly after

A group of friends that hung around together when we were younger used to spend our summer months hollowing out nettle and bramble infested areas of land to create secret bases to hang out in. It is by far my favourite period of my childhood. The amount of work some people put in was incredible. The outcome - even more so. Eventually, the main bit of land was sold and there were apartments built. I think it's a shame that suburbs are becoming so built up that kids struggle to find a place of their own. I really appreciate those days when things were more simple.

Leigh May 2015
A droplet in a cave echoes the
impact that I've made;
A life of dribbled
lime it takes
to lay this
path of


waves wash
out the resonance
I crave - That steady, stoic
drop too forms the biding end atop.
Time drips slowly by.

Also, this rhyming business is getting fun!
Leigh Dec 2018
If she knows, she's keeping the secret of generations. When she leaves a room, it resonates for her until she returns.

A generosity of spirit unsurpassed and a one of a kind soul.

I'll miss her something serious.
It was better knowing she was there. A little light to treat the bleak.
Leigh Oct 2018
I've always known her on her own;
Bereaved by the man whose name I carry with me
Before I first carried it home, ******* on my thumb.
With no time for waiting on the day to catch up,
She's up and gone on tomorrow's adventure.

We've often run to her along the trail; To lose her again
As she paced up the Burren, or along a country lane in
Liscannor until met with a natural place to pause -
To fill her lungs with a wistful world,
Then to double back for the ones she loves.

I've always known her on her own, but never alone.
Leigh May 2015
An insistent past solidifies a present crumbling at my feet --
To rubble so fine it rains through desperately cupped hands.
Leigh Jul 2015

Blurred hibiscus
Sit alongside the
Bravest boy in
New York but
Offer nothing of
The judgement
He feels in his heart.

Sitting on the
Red brick steps
Of a porch which
Opens to the world
He pours himself
Through the focused
Lens of a life changer.


Leigh Jun 2015
Don't think less of me for thinking too much of you
Leigh Mar 2015
The dream -
I know it's gone.
I became too involved and let loose
Ham-****** desperation.
It was neat and cogent until I scrunched it up
To hold you tight.
Leigh May 2015
Clunky hands tick round
To beckon the rooster's crow --
No crisp morn summoned.

Perhaps sharp teeth sliced
Spilling chunks on moving gears --
Springs once sprung severed.

Though ticks still trundle
Their purpose swings freshly void --
Dense clunks breed gloaming.

With no shredding bay
Ending rapid eye movement --
Endless night transpires.

I wanted to write something with Haiku verses.


Leigh Apr 2015
Muddled senses in honest circles;
simply delightful,
like a lobotomy.

Leigh May 2015
Construct your steel fortress
To keep the sanctimony,
Stones, and bottles from causing
More damage than the message they carry.

Chain your armoured Land Rovers
Around the outlying mobs
Just as the Holy Cross kids chained
Daisies to hang 'round their necks.

Don your plastic faces to match
Your plastic shields and be sure
Never to forget your baton, bias or bitterness
Lest you be left vulnerable or human.

Load your guns with rubber
And only pull triggers when provoked
To be absolutely clear just when it's
Okay to open fire on a child.

Hold your faith in your palm,
Grip it tight every chance you get
For it will guide you through the
Nightmares -- ones in which you'll soon feature.

"Great peace have they who love your law,
and nothing can make them stumble."
Leigh May 2015
Anaemic black mist creeps its way between toes,
crawling eyewards, worming stealthily up shins,
pausing only to cup bolted knees and find more
progress toward the stomach's pit where it will rest,
For now.

The soaking - from outside in - is a violation as a pore
stretched aside is all the space this ten tonne mass
needs - a callused finger pulling back a fleshy curtain
to claim squatter's rights - mashing its body into a crawl space,
It curls.

Right here, in the depths, it will feed from its host and
gradually weave a tendril through intestines and bile
like a periscope, seeking and feeling for a route to the stem:
The source of everlasting sustenance;
The end goal.

Once it latches, it will live forever suckling stance.
The insipid parasite, the binding leech; as it takes hold,
consumes with its voidwalker embrace
and paints every memory with your fault;
Perpetual guilt.

Given some time, I will find a way to blame myself for just about anything.

Leigh May 2015
He took a heart and he plucked its
Strings recklessly to compose a second quartet -
Of love! Of passion! Of chaos! -
With sounds dredged from a hollow
Box inhabited by his masterpiece - Kamila.
Not the young, flattered, other man's living wife,
But the manifestation of his desire to depict
An artificial, delicately moulded, fervent

One of the great classical passions -
Up there with Dante and Beatrice -
Tarnished by a most deceptive
Embellishment in exchange
For radiance.
His melody - although bracing a lie -
Sings to the fizzle in your chest and
The tingle in your fingertips --
A lullaby to the desperation he required
To convince us it was at all possible.

"And in your withered heart you know it's crap."

I was driven to write this after reading the short play 'Performances' by Brian Friel. His take on the true sentiment behind Leoš Janáček's intimate letters to Kamila, which inspired and bolster his second String Quartet, is thought-provoking. Friel's idea that the letters were written to a perfect image of Kamila as opposed to the imperfect person in order to inspire the work he produced struck a chord with me. Pun whole heartedly intended.

Leigh Mar 2015
If I could but dance a moment in someone else's mind
A confident, outgoing type, someone well defined -
I'd hold the hand of their life's work and feel how it aligns
With what they want their world to be, a mirror of outside.
Ahh rhymes.

We control our world.
Leigh Apr 2015
I've walked the path many times
before and since.
It is always calm -
baron but teeming
with a muddled
disquiet of
once thought
final thoughts.
It's a place of peace
in which everything
resonates chaos
to the point you can
feel it invade
each synapse -
Ivy smothering
your process.
A slow-release
maddening hum
amplified by the
wind sweeping through
monstrous, scrawny
trees in formation:
They held the bodies
and winced when
their branches broke.
Yet still there is a draw
to the energy
festering there,
be it from the asylum
at the top of the hill
leaking memories
of abandoned
or from the long submitted
of martyrs who inhaled a
sharp cluster of reasons
as their last
with solidarity.
Leigh Apr 2015
Candy floss and a visit to the arcade:
That's all it took to bring things back an hour
to the moment before a missed step.

Panic, pandemonium, a parallel universe
is what I came to; Landed, rag-dolled on a weather-worn,
rice field imitation rock. What I would give to see myself

From the edge. To see the angles my body chose
while I was away bringing my dearest to my side.
First I collected my sister with a scream that belongs

Only in stories that deal with grief: Guttural.
Come to think of it, that acrid ancestral call didn't belong to me.
I wasn't the one who pricked her from her periwinkles

And guided her over the barnacles to become a silhouette.
It wasn't me who dragged the adrenaline-fueled arms and legs
of an undressed, distressed father from his bed, through the

Haze of his own thoughts: a descent he wont soon forget.
I wasn't there. The things I describe are born of a situation
I have spent fifteen years rebuilding; I'm ashamed to say

I missed it. I never felt the chaotic shift of the wind and was never  
able to expect the worst because I was too enthralled with her face.
It was my sole focus as I lay down.

I watched intently - in slow motion - distortion explode into
her cheeks, tearing her mouth to the seams; scared eyes
enveloping lids and unwavering, taking me all in.  

I have no doubt she remembers the moment as well as i do,
Probably more so, for she experienced the backwash.
She was certainly shown the quickest way down.

I remember that it was beautiful that day:
A real Irish-sunburn peak in Liscannor Bay.
I also remember walking down the garden

To the cliff stenciled on the back of my hand
with the cheerful arrogance only an eight year old
can get away with.

When i was young, I experienced real irony for the first time but didn't quite know it. While showing my aunt, along with my little cousin the safest, easiest, quickest way down a cliff, i fell from it. This is my attempted recollection of events.

Leigh Apr 2015
As the day breaks and the shards embed in your soles,
Tread lightly.
Don't be the one to take away the glare;
A blanket that draws you -
Hand over brow for an empty salute -
To the vast empty spaces where
You hold the only shade.

If you're who I want to be,
You'll give it back as you found it.
Calmly picking up the splinters
And trying to make it right;
Right so the slow tick lines up with the
Imperceptible order of things and no one feels uneasy;

So no one shivers as you cast it back to the horizon,
Waiting once again for the ricochet.

It can be difficult to start a day as you mean to end it and affect people positively throughout.

Leigh Mar 2015
Brittle hands
Dense and scaled
Older than their days
With a gentle touch and a
Knack for making people crumble.

Hungry eyes
Blue and tired
Dried at the edges
With soft intentions and
A need to keep all they discern.

Vapid lips
Diluted and fixed
Smothering all intent
With a hesitant filter and
An intensity only few fully know.

Dark air
Withdrawn and blunt
Frigid moods infecting
With love below the thaw and
A candour to stem tangible trust.

People glean
What they need
And just take in the skin
*With so much left underneath
To touch, to see, to taste, and to feel wholly.
Leigh Mar 2016
You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to trace the times
Your perfect puzzle-piece body
Sat home with mine;
Quiet hands on your chest
And on your stomach,
Breathing closer;
Holding tighter to muffle
The 'nails in skin'
Sort of **** that was
Held at a distance

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to suffer the nights
You were left alone with my mood

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to worry
As you hold together -
I sink into my crawl space
Pushing the rubble to the top

You are only lovely when I allow it:
When I let you out to relive and to relove
The way I should have
Leigh May 2015
Let's go searching.
With hand over heart to
Set the pace, you can guide our
Way through goosebumps. We'll search
Close and thin for meaning
In fears we're yet to shed.

Let's go falling.
We'll feel fuzzy headed
When the bough breaks
With a crisp crunch and
We'll leave to chance
Whose fall needs fixing.

Let's go shaking.
We'll let blurry white stars
Propagate in petri dish
Pupils; A shudder
At the brink with
Nails buried deep.

Let's go dreaming
Dreams of finding
Soft sands stretched limitless:
A place to land
Where respite paints
Over sanguine lips now still.
Leigh Nov 2015

Bloomed in a chasm of faith -
Life-deep, bereft of touch -
Where mass spoken seeds of grace
Morphed misanthropic and vile;
Splintered roots grow
Crooked - inwards - under laws
Force-fed and born from chaos.

Righteous hands - drenched in black -
Reaching to tear homes from
Homes and return the bones to
The hole from which this started;
Sticky fingers reaping lands
In what was said to be  
The name of God or just revenge.

No falsehood lies in belief as
One from one can cast their judgement
Born of love and greed and hate and pity
But faith takes the softest targets;
Detaching fear and hope and innocence
From names; bleeding all  
Into the earth to feed the bloom.

Leigh Jan 2015
If she could see what I see, maybe it would make her world more bearable.
Maybe her anxieties would let her breathe and her down days would be less poxy.
I can't begin to imagine what it's like bouncing from explosions of colour to that shade of grey, and for that to be the system.

When she smiles, if she could feel how I feel as an observer - enthralled -
maybe it would reassure her, give her some warmth.  
She does nothing by halves and she's learning herself;
I wish she didn't have to do it waiting for the fall.
Leigh Mar 2015
I take myself too seriously to go up to eleven.
I've never done a 10W poem so there's a first time for everything!
Leigh Oct 2018
Stand down
And guide me
Through this pantomime
Of old improvised distasters
Amalgamating in real time to create a start,
Or start to create another
End to cycle through
Next time 'round
With more
Leigh Mar 2015
When the day squares off neatly:
No flex in the coating.
No chips or cracks,
Nothing to catch in my breath;
Why do I find myself here,
Where a smile grates?  

When I connect to the grid:
Fumble through smalltalk,
Have a pint or two,
And learn my place (in that order);
Why do I find myself here,
Where the panic waits?

When Spring cuts the chill:
A simmering sun inhales the frost.
Fog retreats to regroup
As stoats skitter across busy back-roads.
Why do I find myself here,
Where pressure propagates?

Maybe my perception is warped.

It's sometimes warmer here,
(where a smile grates).
It's sometimes safer here,
(where the panic waits).
It's sometimes easier here,
(where pressure propagates).

Maybe I'll stay a while.

Still getting the hang of dealing with my anxiety.

Leigh May 2015
                                        ­                     you
Leigh Jun 2015
The creature waits clenched.
It waits hunkered and steadfast
For the quintessential moment to
Dangle your pride and cut its
Throat where you can see it.

The creature waits fuming.
It waits - shadowed and drip-fed -
For the penny to drop from its height;
To pierce the soft body of calm
And let loose the mess.

The creature waits grinning.
It waits smug and hysterical
For the time and times before this
Where it beat down a smile by
Forcing the question:

What is wrong with me?
Leigh Jul 2012
The word slips. A sound
that can resonate for a lifetime;
A diminished sense of purpose
is replenished in that solitary tone,
as the days spent in mourning
join everything else that has since expired.

The reason has long left
my train of thought
- woven by past joy and present longing
- which distorts and twists
until the word fits
comfortably in the empty room.

A canvas grazed once by colour
can never again be pure;
Such is the mind of a self-saboteur;
sensitive to all but myself.
Afraid to ask for help
to drown out that word

and chase my reprieve,
as the bare walls
which bear my regrets
pick me apart
piece by piece.
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