For, a four legged companion,
A solitary
Gravel smoked voice clips instructions,
Harsh sharp whistles echo cross the valley floor,
Emitted by crag worn features.
Piercing eyes, sun bleached.
Skin hewn by dry stone walls.
Hands created by granite.
Coarse tousled hair guards against howling winds.
The hardworking man at peace with his surrounds.

©  Nick Strong 2014

When the smoke and the mirror clears,
The reflection left,
Is not what's expected.
I haven't come here at all,
There's no shadow staring back at me.

©  Nick Strong 2014

They carved a monument out of stone
Made it stand so proud,
Down by the coast,
Fishermen drowned.

They erected a monolith,
In the heart of town.
For local fallen lads,
In bitter conflicts.

They laid a stone flat,
At pit entrance where,
Miners had gone one morn.
Never to return.

A brother worked that boat.
An uncle fell in that war.
A father left down the pit.
A family’s history drawn
By sorrow and tragedy.

© Nick Strong 2014

This blank page was given to me,
To do with whatever I please.
All I do is sit and stare.
Ponder and mull is all I do,
What to write?
What to draw?
Where will my imagination go?

This blank page was given to me.
I am driven to fill it, to make it mine.
Fill it with the world around me,
Show it as it’s meant to be.
Maybe I’ll just doodle,
Or scribe a piece of prose.
Then again,
Maybe I should leave it.
Nothing but perfection,
Pristine, like snow.
Fresh frosty clean and ready …

© Nick Strong 2014

This is my November Rain,
When tears splatter the paper.
Laid my heart on the floor,
Then walked out the door.

Don’t think it will ever recover,
From the mess within.
This my November Rain,
Sealed by love with pain.

Said without thought or consequence,
Through November Rain.
No time to take stock,
Hearts now on the chopping block.

This is my November Rain.

©  Nick Strong 2014

Black crows circling wildly
Above trees silhouetted
Beneath darken skies
Swirling clouds, towering
Static charged excitement
Ripples cross the air
A wave of heat blown
Across the ground,
By a dry breath, of
Unseasonable wind
Bending saplings to
Kiss dusty, dry earth
Time stands still poised
Restless, wild world
Waiting  
For Odin’s hammer

I sit in this place, surrounded
By a storm tossed sea
Of torn, crumpled A 4
An ocean of words,
Floating cross the floor
All the words I meant to say
Lost to a tide of despair

Maybe tomorrow,
When a new tide rolls in
I’ll ride the poetic crest of a wave.

They said
We were to tip toe through the tulips
Waltz, glide across the dance floor of life
I haven’t a chance
My size twelve feet and three inch toes
Clatter, batter and splatter
Through life’s brambled, grotty hedgerows
Toes are a magnet, for that rusty nail,
Or any broken pipe left on my trail
Oh what use are my toes,
Now I’m no longer hanging upside
Down from branches
They’ve been broken, twisted,
Stomped on hard
Nails that have cracked,
And bleed some more,
Before being shed.
Now I’ve looked at other’s toes,
And seen what toes could be,
All brightly coloured
Polished to a sheen,
Tended to like beautiful topiary
Maybe that’s what I should have done,
Instead of kicking a ball
Clomping cross those tulips
Spent sometime buffing, making them look clean.
But then I’d look
And miss my battle worn scarred tootsies
They may be old, crooked,
And not quite glamour ****
But then they have walked a million,
And will do for a million more.

A kindly comment
Or a deadly thought
Can equally be delivered
But take a moment
A pause of time
To remember
How each one felt
When dealt

Aching twisted limbs, gnarled and torn,
Wind battered, weathering and worn.
What stories can it tell?
Through generations of sunshine,
Through decades of rain,
Storm battered, weathered in pain.
What stories can it tell?

    ©  Nick Strong 2014

Bratus
Standing
Tall
Fingers
Caressing
An
In
Visible
Caesicius
Ce­iling

Two Words

For all the laughter
For all the images
For all the music
For all the days
For all the nights
There are two words

For the sunshine
For the flowers
For the rainbow
For the smiles
For the frowns
There are two words

For the inspiration
To carry on
For the support
To tackle everything
For you
There are two words

Thank you!

    ©  Nick Strong 2014

Breathing fire, from below,
Spitting a molten soul skywards,
Flinging pumice, ash, and fear,
The angry Vulcan casts,  
His ever darkening shadow cross,
As the timely reminder , of
The fragility of this existence.

© Nick Strong 2014

I ought to say,
That this day,
I opened my heart.
Cracked it in two,
For you.

©  Nick Strong 2014

Tell me who do I see?
When I look in the mirror.
Cos I don’t know,
Feels like the boy I was,
Is looking at the man,
I swore I’d never be.

©  Nick Strong 2014

When the world fell apart, no-one listened
To the splintering timbers, to the cracking ice,
When the world fell apart, no-one noticed
The carbon tasting water or the smoke filled air
When the world fell apart, no-one spoke,
Of rancid, rotting plastics, or net drowning dolphins.

When the world fell apart, everyone forgot her name,
EARTH.

    ©  Nick Strong 2014

When the world smiles,
The Sun shines,
When the world cries,
The rain falls.
When the world hiccups,
A volcano erupts.
When the world feels alone,
The snow blankets.

Do we ever listen?

    ©  Nick Strong 2014

Silently spoken words
Softly caress the ear
Uttered in a precious moment
To be shared, never to be forgotten,
But where do the whispers go
After they leave your soft lips?
Do they float gathering  
Other softly spoken moments
To make a light breeze upon
Which to flow gently
Till they reach another ear
Oh where do the whispers go?

The cherry blossom falls,
From the trees.
And I drop to my knees,
Winter is done.

©  Nick Strong 2014

Broken heart on shattered stone,
Frozen feelings on cracked ice.
Like the leaves falling from the trees,
The winter returns once more.

    ©  Nick Strong 2014

Today it starts,
A game of two halves.
Shame no one told us.

They will play,
We will watch
With one eye half shut

They will talk,
Another good game.
But fail like 1970,
To claim a prize,
We think of our own.

I was two the only time,
We raised a trophy,
That my father saw,
Being held aloft in ’66.

We claim our three lions roar,
Only they whimper out of tournaments,
With nothing, but a story of penalties,
And another cross bar denying.

So I say what will be different,
This four year cycle?
I know that the pain will be the same,
Angry words chanted, and dreams shattered

But then there is always
A spark of hope…

Or the next time.

©Nick Strong

I am a worshiper of the moon.
A seeker of the darkness of night.
A creature that side steps light.
A keeper of the shadows .
Watcher of silver moon streaked meadows.
A subservient to the crepuscular goddess.


© Nick Strong 2014