Below early morning grey, footsteps echo through structures
as
reflections glisten and soft rain fills my face.

Alone but for my dog, the chorus of birds and the soft rustle of bare branches, shadows of trees portrayed on whitewashed walls
and the soft rumble of water trickles by in the kerbside.
I think of Dylan for a moment, seeing the darkened windows and the silence of the dumb found town.
Then, as I turn the corner
the beacon of home sits waiting at the bottom of the hill.

dew patters
upon the chestnut carpet
autumns melody

all was dark and eerie
as the ghouls came out to play
pumpkin stew and play foam
all bagged and ready to spray

it was All Hallows' night,
when glee was heard,
as hands were filled with sweet delight.
the tiny glowing faces, the pleasures this night ignites.

the clock ticked round until the bats were seen, the children now in bed.
the lightning started shrieking,
then thunder shook fear into the little mites heads.

screams are heard quivering
as grave stones creaked and cracked.
mummies hands now rising up grappling with what's living,
grasping in the black.

creeping up slowly, the stench of yesterday
straggling bits of material, holding you at bay.
jaw bones drooling, dribbling with froth
ear splitting cries for help,  all sanity is lost.

the steady patter of footsteps
heading to your door
the tiny little nightmares
the kids have got for you  in store.

(c) Robert Kingston 31.10.15

into me
your sticky end
fear not
your spirit transcends

below wild oaks
on a autumn night
the wind  whispers

Amnesty.  the 11th hour, the 11th day, the 11th month, the year 1918
A knock upon a large closed door.
A lady awaiting news on her son.

Seven days pre before was the time he was no more.

Flags and banners waving fiercely,
Horns and whistles, shouts and cheers.
A welcome end to the bloodiest war,
Celebrations for peace, we’d won.

But for this fine lady, of a fine young son,
On this fine day for some.
She had waited, then through post discovered,
her son was lost to war,
Just seven days pre end before.

A man of the field he had been,
Reporting in words all he’d seen,
Gruesome accounts of the highest scale,
Not no tale,
But truth and sincere his word his actions, his doing.
All in order to settle a score and record what happened through four long years in war before.

My pen my gun, my ink my bullets,
I fire onto canvass to create an image,
Of four long years of the gruesome war
and all the gruesome scenes within it.

And upon reflection on your completion,
Please remember our finest sons.
Of which Wilfred Owen was one
and as a wartime poet was penning,
as he was fighting in it.



Robert Kingston 17.10.14

****** lines paint pictures on the road side of their hell.
From the first day they bleed as the key is turned for the final time.
Not dressed for the journey, each step harder than the one before.
Each sunset sees the reaper, his call, the devils smarting roar.
Every new day like no other they will have experienced,
Each new dawn the mist of many spirits aloft,
those remaining, feeling that no one cares.
Aspirations gone,
Dignity lost
Food,water and shelter scarce,
The queue lengthens
The questions get louder
The queue lengthens the questions
Get LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER.

Fences erected,
Borders closed,
Armies lined ready to stall the flow,
Humanity lost !
Hidden in a politicians pack.
The questions get louder.
There's no way back!

(c) Robert Kingston 19.9.15