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Paul M Chafer Apr 2015
Whenever thinking on you, it is fair to say,
Daydreams race, they pulse, and they thrive,
For I am thinking on you, every single day,
My soul singing, soaring, feeling truly alive.
Sometimes, I visualise us hugging; kissing,
Rocking you in my arms, holding you tight,
I shed no tears for the things I am missing,
Comforted by cuddles, deep into the night.
Imagining you, gives me enormous pleasure,
Sensing how love has flourished, and grown,
You might always be, unobtainable treasure,
My constant companion, I am never alone.
Sweet dreams my Muse, love endures, tis true,
I have hope, within hope, I always have you.

Copyright with Paul M Chafer
I am trying to write a set of sonnets, I know, I should wait until they are completed, but could not help myself. The idea came from reading Shakespeare, especially sonnet 18 'Shall I compare thee to a summer's day' when I saw there were not many of Will's that are wholly positive. On discussing this with my writing partner, I decided to write the following verses, it may take me sometime, but anything worthwhile is never easy.
Paul M Chafer May 2015
Beyond compare, so readily springs to mind,
Whenever considering, the essence that is you,
To say, you are easy on the eye, is not unkind,
Possessing exotic darkness of an intriguing hue.
Though, I am referring to the you, deep within,
Your heartfelt desire, such delightful appeal,
The sultriness of the tales, we choose to spin,
Heated illicit whispers, making the mind reel.
Deeper still, untouched innocence revealed,
Yearning to be loved, cherished, yes, found,
Fondness for literature, art, barely concealed,
Cultural spool, becoming lovingly unwound.
These words do not begin, to show why I care,
I need you to know, you are beyond, compare.

©Paul M Chafer 2015
This is the second sonnet in a series of sonnets I am writing, mostly about, love and affection, friendship and relationship. Anyone reading this may wish to go and read 1 first. I am planing these to be a continuing development of a relationship, not sure how it will go, if it will even work, but it's a challenge.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2015
They are a part of you, those scars,
No denying that, how can there be?
You are not alone though, never alone,
and there is no shame, not one iota.
Any who judge you, find you lacking,
Are not worthy of your time, nope!
They will never understand; never!
Not advocating the cutting, nah,
Just accepting it that it happens,
Just like it might rain tomorrow.
Accept yourself and learn, love,
Find ways to cope, to push through,
Know that you are all right, yes?
They are a part of you, those scars,
No denying that, how can there be?

©Paul M Chafer 2015
Queen Bee. This is a poem inspired by your poem, Thin lines. I know you wrote it in April last year, but it is new to me. I will make this public only with your given permission, Maybe next week. I will also remove any links to you if you so wish. I will also not post the poem if you woudl rather I did not.
Paul M Chafer Oct 2019
Imagining you standing, watching the ocean,
Our bare feet pushing into the soft sand,
The setting sun warming our backs, pleasant,
A gentle breeze trifles with your wayward hair.

Waves rush in, foaming, churning, tickling,
Then pull away, sand shifting beneath us,
Losing our balance, ‘ah,’ we adjust, ‘yes,’
Seeing things differently, altered perspective.

We stroll along the strand, quite content,
Sun kissing the mountains, whilst to the east,
The impassive moon rises with stolen light,
You exclaim, ‘look, they share the same sky.’

I nod, knowingly, squeezing your fingers,
‘There’s a name for that,’ I say, ‘I forget though.’
‘They name everything these days,’ you reply,
‘But they know nothing, not really; just names.’

I sigh, happy with our friendship, so good,
Forged across the ocean, solid, dependable,
Wavelets erase our footsteps, yet we walk on,
Our past resting, but always with us: always.

You look at me and smile, tears in your eyes,
I try to brush them away, you clasp my hand,
‘No,’ you say, ‘I’m fine, please, just let them be,
The tears are part of who I am; I accept them.’

I know you are right, I understand now, I do,
You’ve shown how not to let go, how to hold,
I awaken on my side of the world, smiling,
Imagining you standing, watching the ocean.
A poem about friendship and mutual respect, written for Tonya Riddle, finally, after almost a year of trying to script a poem of 21st century connections over the ocean between two people who have never met, and maybe, never shall meet. After speaking with Tonya, the essence of how she feels about her two lost boys, is present within metaphor. Thank you, Tonya, for the inspiration and permission to publish.
Paul M Chafer Apr 2016
Fight, always fight, always,
One must never yield, not ever,
For I have kissed death, yes,
Lift the veil, the hidden truth,
He is not welcoming, he lies,
He is rotten, corrupt and stinking.
I have felt that cold embrace,
I shuddered, choked, rejected,
Came screaming from its pull,
Denied the dark allure, so cold,
And reared to confront my end,
I fought back, struggled, kicked,
Punched, bit, clawed, wrestled,
Until I was free, heated breath,
And now I know, understand,
We must always fight, always.

Inspired by a writer on HP.

©Paul M Chafer 2016
#fight # death #resist
Paul M Chafer Jul 2014
A ****** Of Crows is the collective term for a group of crows. A term I have taken full advantage of in my prose poem. I rarely post prose, I rarely post Dark writing, so as a special treat, I offer the reader both.

Neighbours should cherish peace,
I thought, taking my seat for the show.
Psychopomps were gathering, fluttering, cawing,
Not on my roof though, not in my trees,
On Varley’s premises, my bad tempered neighbour.
I observed, shaded beneath my garden umbrella,
The sun bright in a blue sky marbled with cloud,
Sipping my tea, quintessential Englishness,
Brewed from the leaf of a China plant,
Sweetened by the pith of an Indian cane,
But English, all the same. (So I told myself.)
On hearing Varley clattering around in his kitchen,
I flicked up the music another notch, then another,
Black Sabbath’s Damaged Soul, pumping out,
The heavy beat thundering across my patio,
Through the picket fence, into my neighbour’s brain.
He deserves this, he truly does. (So I told myself.)
A wife beating pig who terrorizes children.
More Psychopomps came, pecking at each other,
Waiting eagerly on the fence, telephone wires,
Soon my feathered friends, I whispered, very soon.
I flicked up the bass another notch, sipped my tea,
Then he came, roaring out of his kitchen door,
Stamping down the yard, apoplectic face, so angry,
Almost purple as he bawled at me; screamed.
‘You half-blind ******! I’m coming for you!’
From my stash I pinched up the dried leaves,
A dash of hemlock, deadly nightshade, perfect.
I dropped them on the small brazier by my side.
As he reached the fence, shooing birds away,
Giving him my best smile, I told him. ‘Goodbye!’
Hairs, taken from his comb, fell from my fingers.
And as they crisped, Varley’s face froze in horror,
Instantly coming under siege from a ****** of crows,
No ordinary gathering of birds, these Psychopomps,
But more akin to the Hitchcock variety of bird.
I turned the volume up full, chanting quietly,
While the birds pecked out his eyes, opened his throat.
A mass of black menace, fluttering in a frenzy,
Brought him to the floor, wailing and pleading.
(So, Varley, I’m a half-blind ******, am I?)
It was soon over; the birds took flight, so noisy,
Leaving Varley to perform one final twitch.
Silencing my music, Varley’s dance of death done,
I gave his wife a wave as she walked down the path,
She smiled her approval, nudged Varley with her toe,
Just to make sure, then sighed with obvious relief.
‘I owe you,’ she mouthed, blowing me a kiss.
‘Call it a gift,’ I mouthed back, finishing my tea.
(One can never accept payment, it corrupts the magic.)
Varley’s wife laughed, I smiled, so darkly sweet,
All was well with the world, as it ought to be,
Neighbours should cherish peace.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
Inspired by the writings, and dedicated to, Sharon Robinson.
Paul M Chafer Mar 2014
Hazel often wonders,
What it would be like,
Watching an orang-utan,
Riding on a motorbike.

Such unusual images,
Always bring a smile,
Like seeing a milk-float,
Driven by a crocodile.

A camel steering a tractor,
A fish flying a plane,
Or a big African Elephant,
Trying to drive a train!

So if you see Hazel,
Daydreaming with a grin,
A donkey might be taking,
A double-decker for a spin!
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
I ask you all, everyone,
Who knows anything?
Oh, we think we know,
Some of us know lots,
Some think they know it all,
But we know who they are,
Price of everything, value of nothing,
That’s who they are,
Know-alls and blow-holes,
While most of us, hmm,
Well, we do the best we can,
We learn from our mistakes,
Howlers and horrendous errors, some,
But, tis the only way, for us,
To get through life; enjoy life,
For truly, what else is there?
Not a lot, sorry, one ride only,
Freedom and fresh air, only for some,
So appreciate what you have,
Before spiralling down to death,
While hoping, just hoping,
To leave a smidgeon of legacy,
An echoing simple truth of ourselves,
Something from which others may take,
Something to make a difference,

© Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to Emily Jones and inspired by her poem, Questioning: Thank you Emily.
Paul M Chafer Nov 2013
I just don’t understand,
How can a man live among us?
At work, play, passing the time of day.
Normal – tinker.
– ****** a child, abuse, ****** –
Normal – tailor.
So, there are monsters: truly!
Vile depraved horrors masquerading as people.
At work, play, passing the time of day.
Normal – soldier.
– *****, evil, scumbag –
Twisted – killer.
Take care, always be aware.
An unassuming face, in or out of place.
I just don’t understand, cannot understand.
Soldier – Murderer!

© Paul Chafer 2014
Written shortly after April went missing, in memory of April, and all children who suffer.
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
I did not want to know him:
Mr Bone-twist.
I feared him, feared his fire, his pain,
Sadly he became my acquaintance.
My health cracking beneath the strain.

It was difficult to accept him:
Mr Bone-twist.
He hurts me, hurts my legs, my pride,
A specialized, sensitive, suffering,
That penetrates, deep down inside.

I must resist and fight him:
Mr Bone-twist.
Preparing, feeling strong, keeping going,
A war of weary, mind-numbing attrition,
Unceasing, unfaltering, never slowing.

He is trying to steal my life:
Mr Bone-twist.
But I am determined to stop this thief,
My weapons of courage, faith, self-esteem,
Buttressed by strength of true self-belief.

I know he’ll fight to the end:
Mr Bone-twist.
With savagery he’ll hack and he’ll hack,
I’ll never yield beneath his punishment,
Instead I’ll rise and fight him right back!

On crutches I walk over him:
Mr Bone-twist.
My family’s love, now urging me on,
Closely allied with doctors and nurses,
My battle turns and is there to be won.

© Paul Chafer 2014
What can I say, the fight goes on, it will not be over till I am over, then he'll win, but by fighting, I can never lose. Despite, or because of illness, my happiness remains buoyant.
Paul M Chafer May 2014
In my sleep.
Between the hours of twelve and one,
You came to me, you were hot,
So very hot, so arousing,
While a Stateless voice sang,
I think I inhaled you,
You linger behind my eyes,
I feel you in my bloodstream,
We touch, hold each other,
Body against body, so natural,
Your scent threading the air,
Yes, I think I inhaled you,
While a Stateless voice sang,
We snuggled up close, hmm,
So very close, caressing, ah,
You look up, I see you smile,
We kiss, so sensual,
Then you are gone,
But I felt you, yes,
Or imagined you,
Dreamed you,
In my sleep.

©Paul Chafer 2014
For my Muse and the band Stateless and their song 'Bloodstream'
Paul M Chafer Oct 2010
As I wander down, twisting paths,
Low leaden skies, threatening rain,
Leaves drift down like confetti,
As winter awakens, once again.

Trees, their branches almost bare,
Rake and claw, at a heavy sky,
Thrashing impotently to be free,
As searching winds, rustle on by.

Bracken, faded yellow and brown,
So cloying with the scent of death,
A decaying, withering, tangled mass,
Autumn steals a last, silent breath.

Frost creeps in, coating the ground,
Painting trees and hedgerows white.
Woodland life, skulks and hides,
Avoiding the snap of winter’s bite.

Shortening days: lengthening nights,
Are forcing temperatures to fall,
A babbling brook becomes silenced,
The Ice-queen spreads her shawl.

Rain soon becomes transmogrified,
Within raging blizzards of snow,
Winter heralding an early arrival,
With a cool, breath-taking show.

Oh so cold, but I won’t complain,
For merciless winter simply laughs,
My breath pants in foggy plumes,
As I wander down, twisting paths.
© copyright with Author
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
I have seen,
Yes, I have seen,
Deep inside your mind:
The dreams, such wonder.
Forces, some, your own design,
Are trying to break you,
Destroy you mentally,
Making you afraid,
Making you cower,
Making you cut, and cut,
And bleed, blood, red blood.
Then blame yourself,
So you give up on yourself,
Give up on life, hate life.
I suspect these forces,
Some of your own design,
Desire to make you weak,
Make you lose hope,
All hope, all joy, all love.
In your dreams, such dreams,
I know you are strong,
I know you can fight, will fight,
Given a chance, save yourself,
Then; given a chance,
Save others, truly,
Save us all, this,
I have seen.

© Paul Chafer 2014
If the hat fits, wear it. Poem taken from a paragraph of my first novel, Dark Dragon, released on Amazon April/May 2014, price 95p
Paul M Chafer Mar 2016
Purring, the big cat, prowls though the city,
Her grace resonating in the words of youth,
The rhythm of life beating within her heart,
Pulsing in the melting ***, of cultural truth.

Unwholesome disenchantments; dispelled,
Crushing obsolete views of old generations,
One World, concepts, sweeping all before,
Welcoming the progress of mixed relations.

A Bohemian feline of change, so constant,
Wisdom, truth, acceptance, riot in her roars,
New wave embracing, all colours, all creeds,
Bigoted ignorance fearing sharpened claws.

The multi-faceted face, of free London now,
Don’t hate those who sneer, offer them pity,
Their time disperses on Thames ebbing tide,
Purring, the big cat, prowls through the city.

©Paul M Chafer 2016
I recently performed this poem in the Chocolate Poetry Club In London and it was warmly received. (They are kind people.) It is how I view the city whenever visiting, how it makes me feel.  - I am writing poems, just not good enough to post, but thank you to those of you for your support, novel writing is going well, third book published this summer, hopefully.
Paul M Chafer May 2014
Often, the shallows are a good place to be,
Once out of there, no going back, not ever,
Once noticed, return is virtually impossible,
And all pedestals are shaky, no roots: none!

Ensure buoyancy, for one must sink or swim,
So much expected, so much demanded,
One may think shallows are unkind, a waste,
They are safe, though, friendly, pleasant,
Conducive company encouraging creation.

Once out of them, away from safe shores,
New challenges arise, new horizons, all new,
Making one desperate not to fail, not to sink,
One must swim, swim for your life; swim hard,
For it hurts to disappoint, it hurts so much.

Without the grassy bank and sandy bottom,
Creation is difficult, beware the sharks: teeth,
Scoot around the crocs, teeth snapping: biting,
Desiring your tender unsuspecting flesh!

See the glory-hogs wallowing, laughing at you,
Howling with derision; they know nothing,
Stupid hacks, every one of them, frolicking,
Performing in the deep, dark, dangerous-depths,
Unaware their blood will soon feed others,
The swirling waters running red: eventually.

Safer here with golden fish and humble toads,
Prometheus swims here as well as anywhere,
Savour the shallows, dance with creativity,
If you must leave, identity switch required,
Even then, watch sharks and crocs: teeth biting,
Often, the shallows are a good place to be.

©Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to Victoria and inspired by her poem, Hindered
Paul M Chafer Mar 2014
I see her, sleek and black;
Proud machined perfection.
I imagine her power, throttling back,
Gears engaged for swift attack,
Ignoring society’s rejection.
Dark curves tempting, unsuspecting youth,
Lusting eagerly; her cold, dangerous, truth.
An old one of mine, written in 2000, dragged out of the shed as I'm writing one about *** and motorbikes, two of my favourite things, rock music goes with them both.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014

Beautiful Blackbird,
Take heart, take flight,
Leaving all the hurt behind,
Upon the wing, you can sing,
Allowing troubles to unwind.

Precious Blackbird,
Be strong, be brave,
Be unafraid, just to fight,
Forever free, you shall see,
Blue skies, clear and bright.

Sweet Blackbird,
Know faith, know hope,
Sharing dreams, everyday,
Knowing inside, no need to hide,
Trust guiding you, all the way.

© Paul Chafer 2014
For my friend
Paul M Chafer Mar 2016
Are we to blame for what we do?
Can we help what we do? Can we?
Maybe, maybe not, we would suffer,
Oh yes, you think you miss me now?
You never know love, not really,
Until it is removed, forbidden,
Taken away far beyond reach,
Only then do you see, finally see,
Once you have lost that which you had,
Or even imagine you have lost it,
Only then do you understand,
How much you cared, cherished,
Adored, depended upon, needed,
That illicit love, that yearned for love,
The kind of love that is so rare,
It comes only once in a lifetime,
If one is lucky, very lucky,
So, even though, we do what we do,
Have changed who we are, irrevocably,
I doubt we will ever stop, not ever,
And there is no blame to apportion,
No disgust, no reprehensible behaviour,
There is just us, us, and how we feel,
Are we to blame for what we do?

©Paul M Chafer 2016
This is the middle part of a much bigger poem, but I deplore reading long lengthy poems  on poetry sites, so refuse to post the whole thing. I will share the whole thing with any who message their email address. The poem is about love, how we love, in the 21st century - and it has changed with the advent of the internet and mobile phones - why we love and who we love and why. Is there any choice? Is there? If not, then infidelity must be a thing of the past, either that, or some folk need to climb of their pedestals and accept that the human spirit is not something we can ever control: it just is.
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
Blithe Spirit,
I sense you.
Your gentle form
Caressing my mind,
Touching my heart.
I stir in my dreams,
Yearning to break free
From restricting earthly shackles:
To be with you.

Blithe spirit,
I know you.
Your tenderness
Reaching out, a
Rush of spiritual energy.
I drift, languidly,
Into your ethereal world
Where cool blue peace
Soothes away, all distress.

Blithe spirit
I feel you.
Your being coalescing
With my inner-self,
Infiltrating my very soul.
You take me beyond mortality,
Beyond explanation,
Where Earthly desires
Simply, cease to exist.

Blithe spirit,
I accept you.
Though your
Very presence defies
Reason and understanding.
You infuse me with
The gift of celestial knowledge
And I know, my destiny is:
To be with you.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Just a fantasy write, alluding to flirting with strangers who will never meet, just a literary-make-out with poetic intent, nothing more.
Paul M Chafer Oct 2010
We stalked hawthorn hedgerows,
Backyards our battlefields,
Wielding wooden swords,
Dustbin-lids, for our shields.

We scouted railway cuttings,
Long abandoned and disused,
Where friendship’s blended alloys,
Were cast, forged and fused.

We patrolled village streets,
Marched along muddied lanes,
Proudly defending ‘our land’,
From raiding, heathen, Danes’.

We boldly challenged Vikings’,
Beneath a Sixties-summer-sun,
Bonding loyalty, faith and trust,
That will never, come undone.

Those days will not return,
Recalling the fallen heroes,
Fighting follies of our youth.

Protecting imagined Kingdoms,
Lost in time, for evermore,
Boy soldiers standing guard,
In Castles built from straw.
written for boyhood friends, Graham and Michael Tune.© copyright with Author
Paul M Chafer Sep 2010
Be brave,
You have no choice;
When trying to change the world.
People cannot, or simply refuse to see,
New ways forward, promoting harmony.

Inevitably, others will always ridicule,
Their ignorance blocking your path,
So solidly entrenched, unchangeable,
Pouring scorn over radical ideas.

Beneath their mockery, they sense,
The Border fences are breaking,
Chains of Religion are snapping,
Unshackling, Political manacles.

Revolutionary meeting of minds,
Sowing seeds of the unknown,
Voices unleashing subtle energies,
Diminishing established power.

Reveal to those, now choosing to see,
New ways forward, promoting harmony.
When trying to change the world.
You have no choice:
Be brave.
Inspired by and written for, D, Gary La Buda, and Irwin. © copyright with Author
Paul M Chafer Oct 2014
We build the best prisons for ourselves,
Knowing the truth, is a form of escape,
Until we see, our incarceration changed,
Still, knowing is the universal key,
The sure way to unlocking those doors.

We need to scale the walls of emotion,
Tunnel through our lack of self-belief,
Ignore mocking ignorance of others,
Who would trap us behind bars,
Willingly dump on us, on realising,
Our future looks better than theirs,
So sad, our persecutors, so very sad.

Remember, you can break out, yes,
Taste freedom, if you only try, yes,
Just be the best you can be, and rise,
Soar, be alive, and never, ever forget,
We build the best prisons for ourselves.
Inspired by the poem 'I'm my own prisoner' by Louise.
Paul M Chafer Sep 2016
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
Henry had thought, not so long ago,
As birds, looped, swooped and soared,
Flocks of starlings, offering a show.

Jen and Olly, were Henry’s best friends,
Three ghostly bunnies with nothing to do,
Then Olly twitched his wispy whiskers,
Until large mushrooms suddenly grew.

Mushrooms so nice, they sat upon them,
And despite what they had been taught,
It seemed, within this, imagination world,
Creation occurred, with a single thought.

Jen giggled, wiggled, her delicate nose,
And three pink kites appeared overhead,
Swooping and soaring, just like starlings,
But held from a silken, gossamer, thread.

Henry’s turn, so smiling at his friends,
He performed a funny ‘bunny-like’ hop,
Creating a bracing, fresh, gusting breeze,
Making their ears go, all-a-flippity-flop.

On mushroom seats, ghostly bunnies sat,
Their minds twirling with kites, so high,
Henry recalled thinking, not so long ago,
What a wonder, it must be, just to fly.
This poem was inspired by a piece of art created by Clare Lindley, a talented artist from Yorkshire in the UK.
Paul M Chafer Jun 2015
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.

I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.

©Paul M Chafer 2015
After meeting my muse, I wrote her a villanelle. Not easy to write, but a step up from the sonnet, methinks, if only in difficulty. As always, anyone brave enough to try one, be true to your thoughts, allow yourself to flow forth and it will be good, it will be you, nobody can argue with that.
Paul M Chafer Aug 2014
Cruel nuances of misplaced futures,
Arc far beyond time’s twisting fabric,
Spiralling across splitting ends of reality,
Teasing the churning moments that are now.
What will be, will be, shadows within shadows,
Shimmering, through subtle shades of life.
Shifting, fading before finally blossoming.
Then it burns, shakes with unleashed rage;
Whilst on a whim, sharing of a gentle smile,
Glance of a stranger, an inappropriate kiss,
Promises in dreams of unchained desires,
Ride free on dark horses, wind in their hair.
Bodies limned beneath a harvest moon,
Nakedness admired by breathless lust,
Sated innocence writhes, dances as one,
A pleasurable alloy of heart and soul,
Blended within imagination’s crucible,
Cruel nuances of misplaced futures.

© Paul M Chafer 2014
Paul M Chafer Nov 2013
Sitting alone: gently poking the embers.
Outside, children shriek in the street,
The dull thud of many running feet,
Go unheard by this child of the blitz;
His mind chained to the horrors he remembers.

Remaining locked inside his terrible fear,
From the Luftwaffe flying overhead,
Their murderous drone, his worst dread.
So run, poor child of the blitz,
And pray you receive the all clear.

Shunned by those who can’t understand;
This boy in the shape of a man,
Surviving the best way he can.
A forgotten child of the blitz,
Searching for his lost Wonderland.

People see it, plainly written in his eyes,
Passing him by; passing the blame,
Another victim for the war to claim.
A shell shocked child of the blitz,
When death rained freely, out of the skies.

Forever alert for those dangers long passed,
Listening for the sirens shrill whine,
Is their silence a very good sign?
For a terrified child of the blitz,
Continually bombed, and burned and gassed.

He desperately wants to forget, and has tried!
But the memories hack, and they hack,
And the terror comes creeping back.
So remember, this child of the blitz,
Who once lived, but who’s life sadly died.

© Paul Chafer 2014
My uncle,recently deceased, lived in Hull as a child during the war, was bombed, saw death first hand, suffered terrible things from which he never recovered: this is for him. Goodbye Ernest x
Paul M Chafer Apr 2015
Even at my age,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Languishing among towering clouds,
A lofty empire, lost kingdoms,
Perhaps a strange magical realm,
Thriving with dwarves and giants,
Maidens in towers awaiting rescue,
Where lone horse warriors wander,
Maybe observing us, far below.

Must be a poetic creative thing,
Or simply the child deep within,
Viewing through the eyes of the man,
Dreaming ancient days of long ago,
When the child yearned to be grown,
To know all there is to know,
Never appreciating escapism,
The chance to drift within time,
Ponder upon distant, aerial, worlds.

Or maybe I’m just a dreamer,
That and nothing more, hmm,
Telling myself, I am a poet,
A procrastinating creative spirit,
In love with the trappings of art,
The child asleep within wisdom,
Languishing among towering clouds,
I see mountainous lands in the sky,
Even at my age.

©Paul M Chafer 2015
Inspired by the poem ‘A Procession Of Days’ and dedicated to fellow visionary, friend and poet, W L Winter.
Paul M Chafer Jun 2014
When mighty symbols clashed
The Universe was born
The Minstrel Strummed
The Piper Hummed
And the Wizard blew his horn.

The Great Game had begun
Chaos burst onto the stage
To the tune of war
Peace reigned no more
Space and Time, came of age.

Kings, Queens and Bishops
Seek a sacrificial Pawn
A Rook, a Cosmic Knight
Darkness against the Light
When the Wizard, blew, his horn.

© Paul Chafer 2014
From my novel, Dark Dragon, suggesting the nature of the story about to unfold. Read first three chapters for free, simply go to Amazon, type Dark Dragon Paul Chafer into their search engine and enjoy.
Paul M Chafer Sep 2010
A late summer sun, sinking in the west,
Shimmering, ablaze with fiery colour,
Appearing suspended above the trees,
Greens transformed to reds and golds,
Summer’s daughter, borne on a breeze.

As I wander amongst treasured places,
Copses, glades; peace of a woodland path,
Breathing subtle scents, pollen filled haze,
Nature’s unstinting magic edging change,
Accepting the shortening of summer days.

Barely escaping before lengthening shadows,
Race to the door of my countryside home,
Animal calls echoing, preceding night’s rest,
Autumn shakes out her gown; smiles to see,
A late summer sun, sinking in the west.
Inspired by Pat D’Arcy © copyright with Author
Paul M Chafer Jun 2014
We conquer all worlds,
Sweet creature: melt my soul,
freshly thawed, vulnerability exposed.
Eager for unbridled wickedness,
within lilting rhythms of your magic.
So inviting, such interwoven seduction,
I discover that you are indeed, She.
The Mistress who cannot be denied,
so take my hand, I shall guide you,
while you, Dark sweet demigod,
Guide me to intoxicating magic,
magic that is you: and you alone.
Pour your evil charms upon me,
Stoke dying embers of my neglected power.
See the flames rekindled;
feel the comforting ice of my being,
savour my destructive cold fire.
Let me soothe you in return,
offering delicious despicable deeds.
Havoc wrought in your name.
The demonic glow inside grows,
until I fear nothing, Dark Mistress.
I am exalted in this vile inferno,
A conflagration of our own creation.
Dark destiny shall not desert us,  
but shall become the favoured guide.
I shall never be without you,
Dark Mistress, and together,
We conquer all worlds.

© Paul Chafer 2014
From my second novel, Wizard's Wrath, released mid-augst 2014. This is a poetic cantrip spoken by a wizard in the thrall of a Dark Mistress.
Paul M Chafer Jul 2014
Hmm, Christmas season has gone, good:
Presents shoved in drawers, some used, some abused,
Some never to see the light of day, until thrown away,
Others worn with delight, played with, till dawn’s first light,
We never even saw church, or thought of god, any god.
Why should we? Religious? Nah, not us, Darwin rules,
We had science in schools, we mocked the fools,
Who even imagined an all seeing deity, with awe,
Punishing and rewarding, everything he saw,
But we ate our fill, partied with skill, just avoided,
The need to ****, especially to ****, so messy,
Never allowing our own family blood to spill,
The clean up is swallowing, such a bitter pill.

Hmm, Easter approaches, we do it all again,
Stretching our family, what an awful strain,
Pretending we like, adore, the snidely sneers,
We just ignore, avoiding the drunk, such a bore,
While those of us, who are close, watch the chaos,
Feel the undertows of love streaming among us,
Binding the salient parts, making a family work,
For the kids, you see, a duty we, must never shirk,
Our only legacy, from the lives we have built,
Making us continue, regardless of the guilt,
Emotional alloys in alcohol flux, so easily spilt,
Another religious festival, who gives a toss?
A land of empty churches, not such a loss.

Hmm, Whitsun lies beyond Easter: what?
What is, Pentecostal; exactly? More rot?
Fifty days, oh yeah, makes sense, sure,
Makes nonsense, have faith, no defence,
We don’t care: get it! Got it? Well good!
No nailed-god; for heathens like us; we hijack,
As Christianity hijacked our paganism, yes!
Copied and pasted their festivals over others,
Took our sacred places, chanted in dulcet tones,
Where we gathered, running naked around stones,
Leaping cleansing fires, bumping ugly bones,
How’d you like that, preacher folk; in shock?
Burn in your created Hell; let heathen Earth rock.

© Paul M Chafer 2014
Written for one of my favourite poets on here, he knows who he is.
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
I once found that,
Elusive, 'silent blip',
It was deep inside,
Hiding all the time,
Lying in my mind,
As I lie to myself,
What a fool I am.

On realization,
It pops, vanishes,
The feeling remains,
Demons, those emotions,
Haunting, wracking, savaging,
Biting at the soul,
Hacking me to death.

Please, give it back,
That inner-silence,
I’m sorry, so sorry,
I was young, stupid,
Welcomed seduction,
Now though, older,
Wisdom exposes truth.

No going back,
Nope, one bite only,
When passion screams,
We hear nothing else,
We choose not to hear,
I once found that,
Elusive, 'silent blip'.

Goodbye everybody.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Inspired by the poem Meditation by, Steve, aka  Sjr1000, with sincere thanks. Not goodbye, really, everyday is a 'sweet hello': live and learn.
Paul M Chafer May 2014
Will I ever define love?
The trouble with this, twisty-fickle-phenomena,
This, celebrated emotion – and it is just an emotion,
This, elusive heart-thrumming, head-spinning, pleasure,
A pleasure not even eclipsed by unmatched wealth,
Not surpassed by the most prized possessions.

In fact, even prized possessions, coveted things of beauty,
(Insignificant as they are to the wise and knowledgeable,)
Have an attachment akin to love, a kind of love, I suppose,
At least to those dumb enough to think possessions are special,
Who no doubt gaze longingly at what is simply ‘a thing’.

Maybe a rare ‘thing’, but ‘a thing’ all the same,
No, I’m talking of love for another, caring affection,
Adoring eyes for a living breathing creature,
Maybe even an animal, a pet, but more so,
The love of another human, a special person.

This is a little ‘tricksy’ is it not? Hmm? Yes,
For such a love encompasses many things,
Often runs riot in the mind, tingling the nerves,
Experiencing loyalty, betrayal, honour, slyness,
Sacrifice, greed, trust, duplicity, selfishness, sharing,
Because, well, one never knows, not really, no.

This magical dreamlike emotion, and it is an emotion,
Is different for us all, for one person's love,
Can be another’s flight of fancy, an escapism,
For some, it is a lethal weapon, so deadly, so cruel,
While for others, it is the most beautiful thing on Earth,
Yet, it inspires the most horrendous fits of jealousy known.

Love, real love, imagined love, astral love,
Consummated and unconsummated love,
Love of the heart, love of the mind, love of dreams,
All, are in reality, true enigmas, beyond explanation,
I am in love, I am a lover, I adore love, all kinds of love,
I fall in and out of love, as do many, I know love,
I can sense, touch, taste, even smell love,
And yet, for all of this, I wonder,
Will I ever define love?

©Paul Chafer 2014
Inspired by discussion of the excellent poem 'Defining Love' by Sjr100 aka Steve and dedicated to him, his poem and of course, Love, that greatest of all things.
Paul M Chafer Sep 2014
So deliciously dark,
The sultry taste of pure lust,
Lingering upon my wet tongue; so hot!
I smile, lapping up your slinky essence,
Writhing, twisting, arching, resisting,
Attempting to deny my devilish charm,
Hiding behind flimsy veils of innocence.
Only, I know, deep inside, you burn,
No chains, or bonds, could ever hold you,
Knowing you want me, so very much.
Parting your hastily erected defences,
I ****** you up; we plunge into the fire,
As one, the flames consume, seared raw,
Forging an emotional alloy, thrashed out,
Hammered upon the anvil of sheer pleasure,
Quivering, breathless, enraptured and blissful,
Again and again, leaving us both sated,
Still tasting of sultry lust,
So deliciously dark.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
Paul M Chafer Apr 2017
An intrepid outsider just visiting London,
Smitten, dazzled, by stunning illuminations,
From within a black cab, transporting me,
Not only weaving in present day airy streets,
But through stacked layers of storied history;
Some dark, treacherous and dastardly sinister,
Some light, celebratory and blithely triumphant.

On alighting from the Hackney Carriage,
(use of the word ‘carriage’ emphasising
a vivid stretch of a willing imagination.)
Museum of London beckons, offering pleasure,
Absorbing a tableau of delightful treasure,
Engaging unfettered thoughts and feelings,
Absorbing echoed cries of distant past eras,
Reminders of who we were and who we are,
Plunging archaic depths of vicarious displays,
Delicate fingers pressing upon vibrant pulses,
Within this webbed tomb of sanitised decadence.

In the coolness of encroaching night,
She slumbers, this anchored sprawling behemoth,
Suffering barking dogs, wailing of infants,
Sweet kisses of lust in cardboard-strewn alleys,
Screeches from a gaggle of hen-partying girls,
Screams from urban foxes, cries of a feral cat,
Curtailed by hurried rumble of clattering steel,
Train arteries busy pumping, wheel to wheel,
Ferrying the masses, crammed together classes,
Silent tubes exposing the numbness we feel,
At destinations end our tensions slyly unpeel.

Busy pedestrians skirting human detritus;
Shunning, vagabonds, tramps and thieves,
Amidst intermittent beeps of frantic car horns,
Squealing brakes and hot roaring engines,
She encompasses this amorphous miasma,
Towering skyward, snaking deep underground,
A blaze of coloured light, her own silent sound,
Inhabitants ‘pigged together’ the majority above,
But many, ignored and mistreated, surviving below,
Recognised, yet avoided; pretending, not to know.

Ancient sewers, dead rivers and even deader bones,
As far back as hunter gathers, howling and rutting,
Stout wooden pilings, now sodden river sentinels,
Whilst fire-blackened-pain from early conflagrations,
Blaze through time, ashes of destruction, no deterrent,
Romans plying trades in walled Londinium’, aye,
Emotional fingerprints etched into carved stone,
Resilient through Viking and Saxon times alike,
She survives, strives and thrives, our proud Lady,
Welcoming all, galleons, tea clippers and schooners,
Surging through her carotid artery, such spoils,
For the Big Smoke, tea houses and coffee shops,
Parks and palaces, bridges, tunnels and hovels,
Where now, the bedecked Town Crier? Is all well?

Brash glitz and glamour of threatened Tin Pan Alley,
Cultural elite behind facades of Doric columns,
While Roman foundations bold form, hold firm,
Twisting through the underneath, far beyond forever,
London crunches into the future, unstoppable,
Embracing humanity in a technological fervour,
She adapts, snarls, struts, proud and confident,
Akin to a sentient beast lapping up our needs,
Feeding desires, never judging, only accepting.

My very being saturated within this teeming city,
Of the city, I’m now enmeshed in the infrastructure,
Heart, mind and spirit willingly shackled, captivated by,
Cold agglomeration of steel, glass, concrete and stone,
Wreathed in transient emotions of warm flesh and bone,
Giving and breathing life unto all, even me,
An intrepid outsider just visiting London.
Subject: to write about London as an outsider. This was accepted and published in the Wells Street Journal - issue 6
Paul M Chafer Apr 2014
Wandering aimlessly,
Through life, hurt, because,
I had loved and yes, lost,
Accepting my lot with dignity,
No shame for me, none.

When Death called, I smiled,
Ignoring his cursory glance,
No thin red line for me, pal,
No ‘final-flower’ blossoming,
Pooling around in warm water.

Broken, hmm, perhaps,
Heart forever scarred, yes,
But I know inside, deep inside,
My resilience is fortified,
I will never yield, not ever.

On the very edge of my desert,
I fleetingly admire a single rose,
A lonely brave flower, neglected and alone,
In need of nourishment, but like me,
Just like me, strong with self-preservation.

I reach, connect, touch, feeling,
Becoming instantly touched in return,
Cherishing the vibrancy of soft petals,
Inhaling intoxicating subtle scents,
Knowing I’ve found, a true friend.

I return again and again,
Savouring this rare bloom,
Sharing all I am, all I can be,
Loving my, Desert Rose,
I have come home, yes,
I won’t cry, bah, no,
I’m no longer drifting,
Wandering aimlessly.

©Paul Chafer 2014
Paul M Chafer Sep 2010
It is strange, sad, but true,
I now have a disordered mind,
Reasoned coherent thought,
All replaced and left behind.

Things I have to do: or not;
Run away as if to escape,
The day’s events rerunning,
On a deceptive loop of tape.

Mismatched memories amass,
Flickering coloured thought,
Unfocused faded imagery,
So stressed and overwrought.

‘Because of age’, so I’m told,
Golden years such a silly sham,
Knowing then what I do now,
I might even know who I am!

Alas I don’t: not anymore
Neither do I really care,
When not myself I’m someone else
Together, we do make a pair.

I am content, nothing matters,
As I reach life’s setting sun,
Basking in the happy memories
Of things, I’ve never done.
Just an exercise casting my mind forward: or it it?  © copyright with Author
Paul M Chafer Sep 2010
Do you hear the deep silent oceans?
Heed the unending silence of space?
Listen to the multitude chattering.
Voices competing in our human race.

We yearn for the silence of serenity.
Peaceful oasis within the shrill clamour.
Seeking harmony, calmness, tranquillity.
Amongst the glitz, the greed and the glamour.

Inside my temple, forever under siege.
The persecuted and downtrodden plead.
Never accusing or begging: simply asking.
Do you hear? Do you weep for their need?

The lonely, the destitute and homeless.
The cold and the hungry, calling for aid.
Are their cries lost? Or do you hear them?
Does the tragedy hurt? Do their pleas ever fade?

Imagine one quiet moment: one still minute.
And for that minute, hear the suffering and pain.  
The distress echoed through deafening silence.
Misery of innocents heard, again and again.

Silent white clouds drift majestically by.
A noiseless dew-drop, sparkles and glistens.
Eternally hushed, the faintest of whispers.
Do you hear? No one hears: unless someone listens.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Commisioned and written for The Right Honourable Mo Mowlam.
Paul M Chafer Oct 2014
Prophecies of the Ancient’s decree,
Dark Pariah shall face the dragon,
In the Universal arena, heart’s quail,
Worlds tremble as giant forces clash.

Cloying Darkness is stirring, awakening,
Shadows shifting within Darker shadows,
Snake-like tendrils slithering, pulsing,
A menace daring to reveal true purpose.

Brandishers of Light must stand and fight,
Resisting all temptation of offered power,
Battling against foul corruption: death,
Halting the slide into dank, filthy, pits.

Monsters stalking the innocent; feeding,
Drenched in blood of pain and suffering,
Spawn of Dreadnoughts bring carnage,
Will any stand against the slaughter?

The fabled sword twisted in torment,
Calling, calling; seeking a champion,
Searching out those who would dare,
Questing for the brave of the Light.

Light heeds the need, offers strength,
Dragon heart’s beat, Champions arise,
Drums of war, thunderous, deafening,
As the Clysm screams to be birthed.

©Paul M Chafer 2014
Lead poem from my second novel Wizard's Wrath. These novels always begin with a poem. There is usually a poem or two in the story. Please see my profile page for more information and links to the books. 99 cents and first three chapters are free.
Paul M Chafer Mar 2014
You know, dreams do come true,
And of course, dreaming is free,
Rowan dreams of dolphins,
Swimming in the bluest sea.

She would ride upon their backs,
Crashing through wave after wave,
She would not even be scared,
The dolphins would make her brave.

They would chase schools of fish,
Go leaping into the sky,
Fins flashing, water splashing,
A happy twinkle in her eye.

So every night Rowan dreams,
And no other dream will do,
But swimming with her dolphins,
You know, dreams do come true.
Paul M Chafer May 2014
Dreams are free,
We can all dream,
Taste love during sleep,
So inspiring, so sweet.

Love swings around,
Eyeing your choice,
Man or woman, both,
However the wind blows.

For some, it never blows,
For others, a constant gale,
Storms are vivacious,
But blow out too soon.

The trick is, to adapt,
So I feel, like love,
Never plan, not ever,
Let love be, patiently.

It will come, yes,
Sweeping you up,
Making you dizzy,
Tingling your soul.

Sharing all you are,
Accepting your love,
A swirling dream,
Dreams are free.

©Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to Aireen Rosemarie and inspired by her poem, Maybe.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014
By the shores of the Dry-sea.
Beyond salt-crusted sands,
In deep, deep, caves,
You will find dragons.
Long ago, in ages past,
Men and women were selected,
An honour to ride these great beasts.
Winged creatures of giant stature,
Sharp of tooth and talon.
Then foolishly, the dragon-riders fought.
The battles, ****** and deadly,
Swooped across scorched skies.
Then the dragons took their leave,
And burrowed deep into the earth,
Where they slept away the centuries.
Occasionally one would surface,
In a lake, a fjord or a loch,
Emerging by secret ways,
To see if mankind still made war.
Until at last, mankind has long gone.
The Earth is dry: blisteringly hot.
Perfect for dragons to bask,
Upon the salt-crusted sands,
By the shores of the Dry-sea.

© Paul Chafer 2014
I just enjoy the notion of dragons, in our vast unfathomable Universe, they are sure to exist: somewhere.
Paul M Chafer Jan 2014
During dark hours,
Turning in sleep, restless,
Edging from a dream, so soft,
Cosseted, warm, gentle, loving,
Till the memory spike ravages, savages,
Piercing deep, deep down, grimacing,
It hurts; crushing tears, salty, warm, stillborn.

During dark hours,
Absolving her of blame,
Shedding the need to punish,
Unwilling to chastise my darling,
Far easier than forgiving oneself,
And yet; I struggle, so difficult,
Because of Love? Yes, yes of course.

During dark hours,
She sleeps; peaceful soft snores,
Unaware how, forgiving her,
Forces, unbidden, an angry sadness,
My word is true, honourable, my bond,
No regrets, revenge unthinkable;
Still; I’m good at fooling myself.

During dark hours,
She slashes my thoughts,
Undignified imagery, thousand fold torment,
I do forgive; I have; just punishing myself,
What is forgiveness anyway?
Death, springs readily to mind,
We all forgive then; at last.

© Paul Chafer 2014
The question remains unanswered, what is forgiveness, really?
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014
I glimpse her, as wearily,
I tread upon the stair;
Brief flickering movement
Which really isn’t there.
She taunts, and teases,
Never showing her face,
Drifting along the landing,
With ballerina grace.
Quite often, whenever lonely,
Her sibilant voice calls;
A lingering shallow whisper,
Echoing softly from the walls.
She sounds, so haunting,
Like tinkling silver bells;
Ringing enticing incantations;
While casting ghostly spells.
Hairs bristle, on my neck;
Spine becoming trembling ice,
Freezing breath inside my throat:
Heart trapped within a vice.
We touch, I am afraid; but
My fear is that I’ll find,
This unearthly spectral visitor
Is an unkindness of my mind.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Paul M Chafer Jun 2014
Indeed, everything is stardust,
Yes, you and I both,
The chocolate wrapper blowing down the street,
The cat arching its back as I walk by,
The child skipping, and the rope,
The watching dog, licking its paw,
Nonchalant to the whole world.

The tree in the forest,
The axe ending its life,
The startled squirrel escaping
The grubs feeding on its leaves,
(Visible and invisible)
Land ocean and sky,
All are, and forever will be,

© Paul Chafer 2014
Inspired by several poets on this site, too numerous to mention, they know who they are.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014
Faces, shiny faces
in a shiny magazine.
Face of a gypsy girl,
the face of a queen.
Face of a princess
regal and fair.
Face of a rich girl
caught in the glare.
Face of a film star
captured in a dream.
Face of a model with
skin smoothing cream.
Faces on beaches
soaking up the sun.
Face of a beauty with
the potential to stun.
Faces draped with jewellery
and make-up to ****.
Alluring expressions
intended to thrill.
Observe ****** glamour,
young fresh and bright.
Drown in the images
reflecting your delight.
Absorb the pretty faces
of perfect colour tone.
Identity assimilation
won't leave you alone.
Forever trapped by faces
in a faceless prison.
Individuality lost in
a nightmare vision.
Faces commanding
the commodities of life.
The looting of pockets
both legal and rife.
Faces of power corrupted
through and through.
Keep checking out the faces
who are checking up on you.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Written while thumbing through old magazines in a hospital waiting room.
Paul M Chafer Nov 2013
The world’s, most
Wise unicorn,
Is known as
Falling Snow.
Lizzy rides
Upon her back,
The world passes
By below.
The night wind
Flows freely,
Through Lizzy’s
Unruly hair,
Holding tight to
Falling Snow,
A friendship made
To share.
See them leap
Through clouds,
Star shine guides
Their flight,
Sleeping safely with
Falling Snow,
Lizzy dreams,
Away, the night.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to a girl who looks like she might need a 'pick-me-up' as my own daughters around her own age often needs the same.
Paul M Chafer Apr 2014
Was life truly; ever so sweet,
As in the sun-worshipped, One World,
Beneath feathery banners, all unfurled,
Celebrated rhythm of the Mexica beat,
Applauding the gods with dancing feet,
While eagerly anticipating the final breath,
Of the honoured warrior’s, flowery death.

Lost ancient world, carved in stone,
Temples and plaza’s of grandiose plan,
Before the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan,
From lowliest slave to the highest throne,
Gathered before gods to whom they atone,
With obsidian blade priests begin the flood,
Of a sacrificial ceremony sealed with blood.

But do not weep for the ritually slain,
Or condemn this misunderstood race,
This culture both in and out of place,
Who flourished before interference from Spain;
Immoral inquisitions wielding torture and pain,
Led by Cortez’s murderous gold greed,
Condoned by religion’s, fanatical need.

A pyrrhic victory for invading Spanish-whites,
Conquistadors, who murdered, pillaged and *****,
A savage slaughter that not even children escaped,
Brave Mexica vanquished in the one sided fights,
A nation revelling no more during hot sultry nights,
A lost civilization weeping for countless lost lives,
And yet, and yet . . . Mexica spirit; forever survives.

©Paul Chafer 2014
Dedicated to and inspired by Gary Jennings, author of the novel 'Aztec'. Sadly, Gary is no longer with us,  his book enlightend me about Aztec culture, which I had wrongly thought dark and brutal. Nothing could be further from the truth. There were dark aspects that we would frown upon today, but 500 years ago, far darker things were happening in Europe sanctified by the Church, so don't judge: learn.
Paul M Chafer Feb 2014
I had not planned on dying today,
It was not on my list of, ‘things to do’,
How strange, I think, eyelids crushing tears
How very strange, body crushed beyond repair.

Splattered beneath a split-giant-oak,
Its yellowish heart, splayed open,
Pretty though, gleaming in a lightning flash,
The remaining upright, sentinel-like-spike,
Illuminated, so bright, so very bright.

Rain, lashing rain, mingling with my tears,
Thunder rumbles, tumbles, fades away,
Pain, clashing pain, surging with my fears,
Heart thudding, the beat, slowly fading away.

Breathing laboured, chest collapsing, beyond aid,
My groin slaked in blood, **** and stinking ****,
Hips; that will never again gyrate with pleasure,
Speared by a branch through my lower gut.

An ‘unmentionable wound’ so unbecoming,
The real smell of death, the smell of war,
Upon a medieval battlefield, minus the ale,
Typical, eh, could use a drink right now.

I mange to draw one small breath, a gasp,
But I know it’s my last, my very last,
Darkness pressing in all around, so cold.

I even manage a smile, thinking,
This was not on my list of, ‘things to do’,
I had not planned on dying today.

© Paul Chafer 2014
Written over the weeknd after sitting on a fallen tree from the recent storm in UK.
Paul M Chafer Apr 2014
In the summer of my life,
When I swore, promised, even,
If only to my sad-broken-self,
Nurturing a heart beyond repair,
I would never venture abroad,
Never again sail from safe shores,
I awake, open my eyes, smile,
I am in love, and I’m not afraid.

Beyond anything previously known,
A new experience, fresh, bright,
A meeting of not only hearts,
But emotionally bonded, strong,
Immeasurable depths, mind, spirit,
Two coalesced as one, bliss,
Forging a blended alloy of love,
In the summer of my life.

©Paul Chafer 2014
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