Last year my head was empty
but my bin was overflowing.
My hair was grey with stress and fear,
my sanity was going.

I went to see a doctor
who'd learnt neurology.
He took one look at me and cried,
"Why, this is just too easy!

At least give me a challenge
and some research work to do
I can instantly identify
the problem ailing you."

He sat me down upon a chair
(to counteract the shock)
and told me it was just a case
of Common Writer's Block.

Despite my huge sigh of relief,
the fear did still remain.
For what was I to do now my
ideas had all been slain?

The doctor was not fazed by this
and gave me purple potion
and to this day, I've found no cure
that beats pure Inspiration!

Bill Watson was an average man
Had a wife and just one kid
He always gave top effort
At everything he did
But, one day, Bill was shaken
He was taken by surprise
By a visit from the heavens
And it was right before his eyes
Bill, went out into his backyard
And the sky lit up so bright
It could only be an angel
Come down to him that night
He looked, but couldn't make out
the shape that  came down  from the sky
He thought what was the reason
And he found no reason why
That he should get a visit
From an angel of the lord
His life was not of great importance
He was just one of the hoard
He believed and read his bible
But didn't quite live by the word
He went to church each year at Christmas
Although his sins could not be cured
But, here in his back garden
On his knees before the light
Bill Wilson confessed his sins to god
In the dark, this  Christmas night
He told the angel of his feelings
Of all the sins, of thought and deed
And he knelt there before the angel
waiting for the penance that he'd need
But, nothing broke the silence
Only Bill there in the yard
He couldn't quite make out the angel
though he tried so very hard
Then from behind the illumination
Came the word he waited for
"You've tripped the motion light, you *****"
"Now, come in and close the door!"

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.

Capitalism swings securely
from the crook of her arm
while Slavery  gently
coils itself
around her
beautifully damaged waist...

Racism coats the
soles of her
brand new shoes
and leaves print print print
on the harsh
unforgiving
unemployed pavement.

The world cried, died
as she dyed her hair
to Honey Suckle Blonde.
It hangs: drab, limp,
strangled by the Ignorance
sitting firmly
on top of that
pretty little head.

Jagged, matted wrists
rattle around inside
imported bangles
(or manacles)
of Oppression and
Depression and
Suppression
They're in fashion.

Her eyes are drowning
in Jealousy Mascara (new)
and I Hate You shadows (old)
and, together,
her weeping heart
and painted nails
claw at Fame and Fortune
but the new shoes
and gorgeous boyfriend
just aren't tall enough.

She limps
past shattered windows
in which she glimpses a girl,
or rather, a young lady
who is very much a
prisoner of today and not
A Leader Of Tomorrow

the way he wears his words
must be the way he wears
his clothes, in few but many
not so much so that I still
can hear his heartbeat
pulse between the lines

The morning mist
that hung over

the pond (or your lake
as Judith called it)

had moved away
by the time she came

and stood next to you
wrapped up in her

Sunday best
waiting until the time

for the bus to take
you both to sing

in the church
her breath flowing out

on the air
like cigarette smoke

her eyes focused
on the skin

of the still water
I dreamt of you

last night
she said

you and I
were snuggled

together in my bed
having made love

you watched
a magpie take flight

over the water
nice

wish I could
have been there

in person
you said  

more breath
left her lips

and rose upwards
maybe next time

you can
she said

turning her head
spreading her lips

into a smile
just be my luck

your mother
will invade the dream

and catch us
you said

yes
Judith said

that would
spoil the dream

some what
there was a mist

over the pond earlier
you said

it looked beautiful
she turned

and stared
over the water

I missed that
as you missed

making love to me
in my dream

she whispered
drawing closer

her hands
taking hold

of yours
what did you

dream about?
she asked

an empty bed
and cold sheets

and a space
where you should

have been
you said

she smiled
and said

I couldn’t be
in both beds

at once could I?
once more

there was the rising
of her breath

you couldn’t tell her
you’d seen

an image
of her death.

I watched you lose yourself that summer,
heard you curse as you stumbled through brambles
and blindly crashed into trees.
I saw you fading from the map you had drawn for yourself,
forgetting which direction was North and which was Nothing.
I felt you move further away from the center of your earth;
I fashioned a compass with my hands,
the needle pointing back where you'd come from.
I slipped it into your pocket as you blindly passed me by,
then wandered off my own path, mapless,
no needle to point me back to myself.