The howl should have warned me
but first it did not register.
That day amazingly tranquil
not a cloud polluted the blue
The sky high above my head
that's when I should have fled.

Miles of moorland was the scene
freedom had a fresh meaning.
Sheep and ponies roamed freely
without pollution I carried on.
Then the illusion was shattered
when the animals scattered.

A violent blow struck my back
falling into the course grass.
Blood tainted the spot where I fell
it was mine I realised then the pain!
What had attacked me had gone
but it was vicious and strong.

I must have passed out now it was dark
yet I was still alive but hurt.
Cold very scared oozing and sore
it was hard to actually move a tall.
Again I heard that pitiful howl
or as I hoped only a lonely owl.

As darkness blanketed the moors
the moons glow lit up my path.
Now knowing werewolves existed
those gashes in my flesh so sore.
Unable to go on any further drained
somehow my sanity was maintained.

I awoke once more to warm daylight
how I walked was just a blur.
Arriving at a clump of trees by a stream
there I saw a young woman.
Surprised to see me she sat quietly there
with a hidden dread I could only stare.

Before I could speak she had gone away
on the ground my torn jacket lay.

I now dread the full moon each month!

The Foureyed Poet.

I seem to wander like a lost soul
no longer knowing what is my role.
Divorced and alone it must be said
with a deep seated sense of dread.
This mood has started to linger
the reason I'm unable to finger.

Not able to settle whatever I do
at home or out always being blue.
Alone and unable to be at rest
it feels like I'm losing a test.
Lost not synchronised out of tune
in a never ending sand dune.

I want to engage in what's around
lack of passion like a restless hound.
All I wanted to achieve is in the past
as the days are rushing away too fast.
Panic has set in where do I turn
in the end to be wanted I yearn.

I seem to wander lost within myself!

The Foureyed Poet.

Life was hard in those early days
in Swindons rail work shops.
Where conditions were basic and harsh
working long hours in the heat and noise.
Furnaces blazed to create the power
forging the steel needed to mold.
Magmificent living steam engines
made with passion and skill its told.
Workers couldn't watch the clock
wages were only counted in shillings.
The Great Western railway the employer.
new Swindon was born out of the works.
Stone iron and steele covered the land
at the bottom of Kingshill.
Industrial progress increased sharply
where the land once laid still.
Rows  of houses were built for the toilers
and a hospital soon rose from the ground.
The church of St Marks so they could pray
a park to unwind in their limited leisure.
In a community of people helping each other
located by the main London to Bristol line.
Enjoying their annual holidays together
when the steam works looked fine.
Nineteen eighty five the gate shut for good
a retail outlet now where the works stood.

The Foureyed Poet.

That familiar sound of a helicopter approaching
out of nowhere its search light focused.
Down onto a desolute and lonely moorland
quickly joined by a second one.
But what is the true intention of their task
as a figure looks up wearing a mask.

No ordinary being sitting there in isolation
as soldiers approach with guns.
Nearby a circular craft of unknown origin
lays damaged amongst the grass.
Away from the view of a watching public
the covert operation is slick.

Taken alive the alien is roughly removed
put into a third chopper nearby.
Two other bodies are bagged and tagged
the sight is cleared of any evidence.
Reports of an object seen falling denied
once again the military have lied.

How many incidents have really occured
the public know nothing about?
The real truth of an extra terrestial existence
rather than endless misinformation.
Was Roswell fact or fiction what is area fifty one
when will the real truth be done?

The Foureyed Poet. The Foureyed Poet

From the shore line two young lovers
were stunned to see a light.
That shot out at very high speed
from the wide open ocean.
Then hovered high in the night sky
vanishing at the blink of the eye.

No time to speak or run very far
when another rose from the sea.
Not a chance of getting to the car
nor seen anything like this before.
The water lit up in a dazzling glow
it became the main show!

On a ship others watched the display
coming very close to the deck.
They could clearly see below the surface
many lights moving quickly about.
Unidentified objects what was going on
aliens are here right or wrong?

Is this a mystery to only the public
and the conspiracies are true?
They have been on earth all along
co existing known by few?
What is the truth how I'd love to know
but honestly can you see it so?

Too many have witnessed these sights
not all are natural or man made kites!

The Foureyed Poet.

Behind the glamour and blinding lights
of the vast entertainment industry.
With these so called beautiful happy folk
is there a sordid and bleak underworld?
As each one thinks they are certainly the best
surely time is the true quality test.

Vast sums spent to create the perfect image
the creators shown as almost godly figures.
All trying to grab the money and true fame
how many fall by the wayside in this quest?
In hard times the public have so little cash
to splash out on an even bigger bash.

Television pushing the seekers of their fortune
while the mentors strive for their own goals.
A false image is created for these large audiences
who to need a focus and images to contemplate.
Performances that for some takes a high cost
as the hopefuls fail their dreams lost.

There are of course winners and losers
but as you watch and read the news.
Filled with the exploits of these artists
spending and living lavish lives.
That most of us can only ever visualize
what really lays behind the lies?

The Foureyed Poet.

Has that dark feeling come over you
when a veil clouds your mind.
A depression mode out of the blue
alone no hope you can only cry.
That empitness you cannot fill
a moment you lose all will.

On your own with no good thoughts
asking yourself what use am I?
Dreading the future you have ahead
nothing uplifts your mood.
Then it's gone your better again
you have you're life to maintain.

Pressure is put upon each one of us
fighting to survive not wanting to fuss.
But there are those who can't cope
and succumb giving up hope!

The Foureyed Poet.