An arctic wind is blowing not only by natures fury
winters getting more unpredictable.
Reflected in the uncertainty of human attitude
towards even their own families.
The chill spreading like an invisible veil
upon on the humanity of man.
Causing a depression amongst every culture
above us awaits the hungry vulture.

The usual story material gain is all that matters
wasted misspent squandered.
Why worry its public funds don't spend wisely
it could have given better roads.
Certainly prepared us for harsh winters today
more salt and gravel to spray.

The early freeze weather patterns changing
quality services not given.
Nature is in command man is powerless
to halt natures will upon us.
This does not deter some causing more woe
wanting to see nuclear mushrooms glow.

Increasing around the earth an arctic wind is blowing
the weather and economic depression is growing.

The Foureyed Poet.

There she layed alone in the snow
many people were searching.
Her name and image everywhere
silent frozen on the verge.
Somebody had ended her lifeforce
murdered with no remorse.

Evil person loitering in the shadows
waiting to pounce on others.
Destroying a precious living spark
for thier dispicable reasons.
Thrown aside like unwanted trash
a future wiped out in a flash.

Loved ones left with unspeakable rage
a Christmas day tragedy.
That will haunt them each festive season
always on hold without them.
Not opening thier presents but in a grave
a daughter you could not save.

There she layed on her own in the snow
taken cruelly and young.
Life should have been plentiful and long
knowing you can't right this wrong.

Hoping you're at rest in that long sleep
forgive us if we quietly weep.
    The Foureyed Poet.

Behind the wall three lads hovered
with intent on stealing petrol.
Ever ready to take rather than pay
it was more than two pounds!
For just a single litre of unleaded
could it be jail they were headed.

Not new at this dangerous business
risking not only being caught.
But the chance it could catch fire
they didn't care it was free
Fancy paying that much for car fuel
stealing now that was cool.

Motorists sruggling to fill their tanks
the cost was far too high!
But the government kept putting it up
the gangs adding to the misery.
As the population began to really tire
their patience about to expire!


A time comes when the limit is reached
the human spirit is breached!
To much is taken with little given back
then society is on an unsafe track!

Criminals always ready to con and steal
the public always losers in the deal!

The Foureyed Poet.

I saw the thousands of students gathering
peacefully protesting on the whole.
Until the small radical elements arrived
not being in a distant country.
But on the streets of old historic London
and spreading to other cities.
An underlying current of frusteation
denying the stability of a nation.

Taxes rising the lowering of living standards
the future generations angry.
With more elderly living and far fewer young
a small core of the mega rich.
Fuelling anarchist to violently show their hand
governments not setting a good image,
As promises made to voters are totally ignored
the people tiring of politicians has soared.

Companies allowed to make vast sums of cash
passing on the costs to the public.
Boosting profits and shareholders balances
multi levels of bitterness develops.
Each thinking they are the ones oppressed
creating resentment and envy.
Splitting a struggling society into fractions
determined to take drastic actions.

Rebellion and anarchy not new to man
destructive elements that don't achieve.
In the end our race can only last if it's one clan
working together because they believe.

Or is this another cycle coming to the end?

The Foureyed Poet.

What about the victims in violent crimes
gone forever as life is taken away.
Murdered never to be with the families
their suffering rarely remembered.
What of the partners and children's grief
who at this awful time need belief.

If their perpetrator does get caught
what punishment do they receive.
No sentence can compensate the loss
yet too often it seems far too short.
A life sentence for the families to bear
the guilty often a few years is this fair?

How many heart wrenching stories
of cold blooded assualts or ******.
Merciless violence and shocking brutality
attacks on unsuspecting people.
Trying to help or quietly walking out
alone and in terror nobody about.

I cannot imaging how much they suffer
what justice can repay the horror.
Thugs who simply do not give a ****
not botherd at the misery caused.
Thinking it is fun a laugh often drunk
maybe on drugs or smoking skunk.

No excuse or lame reason that is given
can give those left behind any comfort.
watching them go free with no remorse
able to inflict more cruel misery.
Loved ones only have memories to keep
empty nights and lonely sleep.

Life never forget how pressures and fragile
think of those suffering for a while.

    The Foureyed Poet.

Was that a knock on the bedroomj door
in fact two he was sure.
A chill ran through his body instantly
sitting up in bed instinctively.
Not a believer in spirits or any god.
thinking he was a silly old sod.

Staring at his own white painted door
he placed bare feet on floor.
Putting dressing gown on feeling cold
moving forward rather bold.
In the dim light did the handle turn
the stomach acid began to burn.

This was daft for the first time afraid
wishing in his bed he had stayed.
With a deep breath ****** open the door
in the dark a shadow he saw.
It vanished with no sound being heard
then noises in the kitchen stirred.

Turning every light on he could reach
there came a high pitched screech.
Yet still nothing was at all visible to him
now the mood was getting grim.
As he stood shocked in the well lit room
in the roof space came a boom.

At this point he could take no more
and ran out the front door.
The night was warm as he looked inside
a figure stared out he cried.
It was himself a dark shadow came behind
then he was gone phasing his mind.

Shouting out he awoke shaking in bed
staring at the door was he dead?
Soon it was obvious he was definately not
as up in his bed he shot.
On the painted door there was a knock
frozen in a state of shock.

What will happen next?

The Foureyed Poet.

As she sat in his favourite worn chair
the expectant mother became aware.
Of a soft touch on her pale cheeck
reading a letter sent that week.
Crying their baby born without a dad
what was the point of being mad.
    Lonely now she felt an unseen force
on her aching shoulders easing remorse.
Standing up aware of an uninvited guest
though not afraid she had been blessed.
Since her husband had died he was near
this gave her strength there was no fear.
    How their baby kicked keen to be born
her senses even now frayed and torn.
Happy they had created their first child
though in her mind her spirit still wild.
Part of her almost died answering the door bell
two soldiers said they had bad news to tell.
    Andy had been shot while on duty abroad
any help and support was assured.
The early weeks just one long depressing blur
then everything changed for her.
His after shave and essence wafted in the air
and now Tess had become aware.
    Dad would be there at the baby's birth
even though not alive on the earth.
    Was this just a desperate wifes vivid imagination
or actually a new form of creation?
    The Foureyed Poet.