Wreckage
Slow-motion blood
Aging carcass
Pain strewn
All well earned
No station missed
Time sodden gift
Rumour laden
Balancing the edge
Twisting the knife
Flashing backwards
Fun on the run
Stand and Fight
Following the way
Way of the wayward
Aimed at the graveyard
Hammered to hardness
Til nothing breaks
Nothing matters

                      By Phil Roberts

The Sun will not swallow my non-existent offspring.
No child will claim me as their ancestor  
no dog eared photograph will immortalise
my features, either to curse me for their birth or show me off to their families.
That Sun that knows me, knows I will not be leaving her any flesh to burn in her final burning of the Earth. She knows I get her benefit without any future promise of fuel.
I will live and die with my secrets, my stories, my songs, my poetry, and my intimate knowledge of that finite Sun will sleep in the grave with me until she finally explodes.

I didn’t have much to put down… He said,
‘You wouldn’t get much with that.’
I’d wanted to buy a cottage while
The housing market was flat.
With prices as low as they’d ever been
I thought I’d be in with a chance,
‘Unless you go to that rustic show
The village of Experance.’

‘The place has been empty for thirty years
With cottages up for a song,
There is no power, no place for a shower,’
But I thought I couldn’t go wrong.
He drove me out to the village green,
Each garden was choked with weeds,
I’d buy most anything, sight unseen,''
As long as it suited my needs.

I picked one out with the roof intact
And the walls preserved with lime,
Some of the window panes were cracked,
I could fix them anytime.
The rooms were small, but overall
It would suit me down to a ’T’,
I didn’t have anyone in my life
I was single, young and free.

I brought what furniture I had left
And settled it down inside,
Then spent a week with a cleaning brush
It was just a question of pride.
I finally had my home sweet home
But lit with a paraffin lamp,
The water I drew from a well out back,
The walls were a trifle damp.

There wasn’t another soul to be seen
They’d all moved away, or died,
I felt a little bit lonely there
But I walked the countryside.
I checked each cottage, the ancient hall
And the church, way down in the dell,
Someone had painted a cross on the door
And underlined it with ‘Hell’.

One night I listened and heard a step
Out there on the path outside,
Got up and walked to the window, and
Out there was a beautiful bride.
She stood uncertain, unveiled her face
Her make-up was streaked with tears,
But when I opened the cottage door
The woman had disappeared.

I saw the groom on the following day
He stood by the next cottage down,
I waved, and thought he would look my way
But all that he did was frown.
He turned and entered the cottage door
But it didn’t creak, or slam,
And when I looked, the weeds on the floor
Said empty, no sign of the man.

One night, I heard a sound in the hall
Like music and shuffling feet,
So wandered down, and stood by the wall
While lights shone out in the street,
But when I entered, the place was grim
And shrouded in silence and gloom,
I stood there shivering, on my own,
It felt like the depths of a tomb.

At night, I finally started to dream
And I saw the bride in her lace,
She came and tapped on my window pane
With tears streaming down her face,
‘You have to come, a man with a gun,
Has shattered my wedding dream,’
I tossed and turned, until I awoke
Then pondered on what I’d seen.

One Sunday late, and fully awake
I wandered down to the church,
And by the time that I stood outside
I could hear the wedding march.
I pushed the door and it swung out wide
As I entered there in the gloom,
Then heard the sound of a pistol shot
That echoed across that room.

And just for a moment, they were there,
The spectres of what had been,
The wedding party standing in shock
As I looked at that terrible scene.
A shape ran past me, out at the door
As the bride let out a cry,
And there the groom, lay dead on the floor
With blood running out of his eye.

It faded then, and I was alone
In this dreadful church in the dell,
Where someone had painted a bright red cross
And underlined it with ‘Hell’.
A curse must have come on the village that night
When the villagers all had cried,
For all that was left were the ghosts of death
From the night that the bridegroom died.

David Lewis Paget

What will I miss the most, I thought,
Now that she’s not around,
I walked back slowly to the Port
With my face turned to the ground,
Would I miss the incessant chatter that
Would drive St. Peter mad?
Or sit with a sigh of pure relief
At the absence of it… Sad!

And what of the silly songs she sang
When I often used to curse,
Telling her that she’d got it wrong,
Forgotten the second verse,
For then she would just ignore me
And go out and feed the birds,
Singing the same old song again
But making up the words.

I’d ask her to wear the blue dress
So she’d go and wear the green,
The one that had such a diving top
That her cleavage was obscene,
She’d only do it to thwart we when
We’d visit with my kin,
Annoying my strait-laced mother,
‘How on earth do you keep them in?’

She was just the size of a hobbit, or
A tiny little sprite,
Would lie with her back towards me
When we cuddled up at night,
Those were the things that I would miss
I thought, with just a tear,
Why did she have to leave me at
The turning of the year?

Christmas never would be the same,
She’d decorate the tree,
Getting the lights a-blinking which
Was more than they did for me,
I entered the door at home, and listened,
Nary a single sound,
And never would be again, now she
Was planted in the ground.

David Lewis Paget

The life and the soul of the party
He was always cracking jokes,
Ever so hale and hearty
When he hung with other blokes.
We all thought he had a funny name,
Have you heard of Astrakanz?
Neither had we, but joked that he
Had an uncle, Cola Cans.

We didn’t know where he came from
He was mute when we asked him that,
Somebody said a planet which
Had been known as Astrakat,
All that he said was, ‘What of you,
Have you read Omar Khayyam?’
When we said no, he said, ‘I know
Exactly who I am.’

He came across as a mystery
But he made it sound like fun,
And though he often was wistful, he
Would carry an x-ray gun.
He said that he used it only
For looking for kidney stones,
And sometimes checking for aliens,
For aliens had no bones.

He seemed a favourite with our wives
Who said that he was well hung,
Then somebody said that he should be,
From a maple tree, or gum.
When he passed the cake at parties
He would say, ‘from Astrakanz,
This is the only cake you’ll get
Not touched by human hands.’

And then one night at a Barbecue
There had been a Moon eclipse,
When out of the sky from nowhere
Came a couple of alien ships.
He said, ‘Well fellas, I have to go
Now they’ve come for me, my fans,’
Then waving, as he clambered aboard,
‘All the best, from Astrakanz!’

David Lewis Paget

The Cormorant was the darkest ship,
As dark as a ship could be,
Not only the paint was pitted black
From the funnels to the sea,
But deep inside in its rusted gloom
In the echoes from its shell,
It was like a monster roamed abroad
Released from the depths of hell.

It roared and echoed by day and night
As the boilers turned the *****,
Lurching across every wave that might
Try to break its hull in two,
It was laden down with a thousand tons
Of a cargo that made it groan,
While breakers slapped its quivering sides
As it made its way back home.

The Captain stood on the shuddering bridge,
A man with a heart of steel,
He tried to control this raging beast
As he lashed himself to the wheel,
He gave no quarter to any man
Who would shirk, avoid his task,
But called the crew to witness his due
As the man was soundly lashed.

Down in the depths of the engine room
The firemen shovelled coal,
Each shovel sprayed like a black dismay
In the light of that glowing hole,
And steam built up on the pressure gauge
Of each boiler, one and two,
As men would fret, while running in sweat,
To do what they had to do.

The seas built up and the rain came down
As the Cormorant rolled and swayed,
Then lightning flashed and it ran to ground
Like an imp in a masquerade,
It left three dead on the afterdeck,
They hurried to help them there,
But the captain roared, ‘Throw them overboard,
We’ve more than enough to spare.’

A mutter grew up among the crew
As dark as the bosun’s hat,
I never knew what the crew would do
So I wasn’t in on that.
But the Captain disappeared from the bridge
And the wheel was swinging free,
With the Cormorant broadside to the waves
At mercy of wind and sea.

They said it must be a miracle
When we finally entered port,
The bilge half full of water, they said,
And the Captain fell overboard.
But the ship was done, had made its last run
As the fires went out in the hull,
Then raking through the mountain of ash
I found the late Captain’s skull.

David Lewis Paget

The cumulus clouds built overhead
But were dark, and filled with rain,
They brought to the sky a sense of dread
Of the storm to come, and pain,
The wind picked up in the barley fields
And the sea beat in to the shore,
‘If you don’t go out and anchor the boat
It will land on the rocks, for sure.’

I didn’t want to go out that day
But my father said I must,
All that my brother did was play
So I thought it so unjust.
‘Why is it always me,’ I said,
‘When Fred’s as handy as I,
He only goes when the weather’s calm
With not a cloud in the sky.’

It made no odds so I had to go,
They didn’t give me a choice,
I was the child of the family,
The one with the weakest voice.
I took the skip and I rowed on out
Where the Huntsman strained its chain,
With the breakers crashing across the prow
On top of the driving rain.

I seized the rope and clambered aboard
Then tied the skip to a post,
It was only held by a slender cord
To the Huntsman, as its host.
I went for the starboard anchor then
And slipped it into the sea,
That would give it a second hold, I thought,
But in truth, there should be three.

The waves were crashing across the deck
And the Huntsman wheeled around,
Now side-on to the waves it heeled
With a rasping, creaking sound,
If only Fred hadn’t lost the anchor
Chained up close to the bow,
I would be able to hold the swing
But it wasn’t likely now.

The swell was something tremendous and
The rain came down like sleet,
What with the sway and the decks awash
It was hard to keep my feet.
Slowly the boat had begun to drift and
Drag its chains to the shore,
Down in a trough, and then the lift
As the swell built up once more.

Making my way to the cabin door
I locked myself inside,
Then started the Perkins diesel and
Prepared to go for a ride,
I thought that if I could turn the bow
And point it out to sea,
We might be able to ride it out
The boat, brute force, and me.

I didn’t know that my brother Fred
Had borrowed somebody’s skiff,
And now was heading on out to help,
My father had said ,’What if?’
The diesel roared into life and tugged
The anchors in its wake,
But wouldn’t respond to the rudder
I had made my first mistake.

Borne on the swell, the Huntsman roared
And headed in to land,
Nothing I did would turn the bow
Though I had the wheel in hand,
I’ll never live down the Huntsman’s loss
Or forget that awful sound,
That terrible scream like a nightmare dream
As I ran my brother down.

David Lewis Paget

Can you feel the ache in my chest?
Can you touch the cracks in my heart?
Can you tell where my soul begins,
And where it's been torn all apart?

I'm made of sharp edges and pieces fit with super glue
Can you feel it?
I'm a heartless enigma and a soulless slice of truth
Can you feel it?
Enemies make the best friends and now I hate you
Can you feel it?

Lies are like a bullet to my heart, filling me with holes
A feeling of emptiness overwhelms me, a space too bold
Trying to hold on tight to a tangle too tied to unfold
Lost in a web of pain too damaged to be controlled

I'm made of broken glass, chipped and shattered
Can you feel it?
I'm an empty shell of something that once mattered
Can you feel it?
Pieces are falling, a love now bruised and battered
Can you feel it?

The harmony of injustice is ringing in my ears
A lullaby of sweet nothings and my childhood fears
A common trend unfolds, a chorus of chants and tears
A pain ripples through my body and the monster finally appears

Can you feel it?

My brain is uninhabited by rhyme.
No words swirl 'round, no thesis comes to mind.
How can I write a masterpiece sublime?
How can I do this work I've been assigned?

You've formed one verse. Continue at this task.
Don't think. Just write upon the barren page.
Perhaps some Truth, in whisking off its mask,
will encourage the struggling pen to engage.

Epiphany! That's what I'm yearning for,
emerging from this verse and scribbled here,
an extraordinary insight, nothing more.
And yet, the chance deserts me fast, I fear.

I've filled up all the lines in front of me,
*But look! The sonnet is fait accomplis!