Tick Tock Tick Tock,
What time is it?
How long do we have?

Can't wait for the weekend,
Is it really only Monday?

Holidays in a few short months,
Then Christmas, then Easter,
And another birthday!

One more lap of life's track done,
How many left?

If I live to be a hundred,
Just 100 sun-kissed circuits,
Less the one's I've already squandered;

If I live to be a hundred,
Just 36,500 sunlit days (give or take),
Less the one's I've already wished away;

That doesn't seem like enough
To do all the things I want to do,
Even if I reached a hundred;

I think the weekend can wait,
I’m going to enjoy Monday while it lasts,
Because when this day is through,
It’s gone forever;

One less chamber
In the barrel of life;

One more chance
To pull the trigger on life’s roulette
And hope to hear a click.

LOVE, the greatest gift,
Lies disguised astern cold eyes,
Lost alone adrift.

My love, I long to hold you, how I miss
Your gorgeous smile; how sad I feel today,
Your zest for life, your tender loving kiss,
The pain within me never goes away.
Depression eats my soul, drives me to drink,
And through the drunken haze, I dream of death;
The poetry I write just makes me think
Of you, my love, with every waking breath.
I write you this, a final poem thus
To tell a tale, my heart so full of woe,
A dull heartbreak for memory of us
As sadness leads me to my final throe;
Here at the end, my thoughts are all of you,
I hope, my love, we'll soon be born anew.

A darkness crept into my waking crypt,
Its tendrils coiled to grip my tortured throat,
Till retching, retching, gurgled on a rote,
Prostrate, held in its clutches, tightly gripped —
No eye perceived this devil as it slipped
From day to blackened day inside to gloat;
An instrument was I to sound its note,
A plaything used, discarded, broken, stripped —
The world became a window; The outdoors
Turned alien; The beast remained inside,
Content to keep the prison of my mind —
From time to time I dared unto the stores,
        But ever on returning I would find
        The nightmare waiting where we both reside.

We sat atop the remnants of a spire
That counted once the heavens its domain —
The storm that laid it low no more held claim
Unto that heart, that served still to inspire,
And we — we sat beneath a sky of sapphire
Inlaid with gold, a ring of Helios flame —
And ghosts passed by, and curious spirits came
And flickered over our hill like lilies afire

And leaving hence, I felt a bitter chill,
The numbing frost-touched fingers of the dead
That rent my soul and tore my heart asunder —
Such wounds infect the heart, the soul, the head,
And evermore resound inside as thunder —
Their chattering grating voices haunt me still.

Would that a recollection could expire;
Not in the fuzzled hedgerows of old age,
But here amidst the furrows of a sage
And active mind -- A rustle of attire;
A scent, familiar, quickening desire;
A voice as soft as silence on a stage --
Unbundled straws like kindling to the page
That sets this enigmatic heart afire --
Would that I could entreat vacuity
To bar a thought, to keep it squarely shuttered,
Preventing it from creeping back inside --
The vacant plots might cleanse my memory,
Might numb an ache and leave a mind uncluttered --
The healing of a vast unfeeling void.

Ambition breeds strife --
The arm draped round your shoulders
Often wields the knife.

Verily I say
To thee of TRUTH — Long she lay,
Libelled as uncouth

Star-crossed lovers died,
Upon a blade and poisoned,
At each other’s side.

Woeful was the bride,
At peace where two unseasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Taken by the tide
Who named two lovers treasoned,
At each other’s side.

Speak their names with pride,
For in that crypt where reasoned
Star-crossed lovers died,

Love does still reside,
In lovers lain imprisoned
At each other’s side.

Love dies not denied;
It dwells ‘twixt where garrisoned
Star-crossed lovers died,
At each other’s side.

If “content” is the narrative,
Wee daubed lines on a page —
A book without superlative
Would fill the content gauge

And if “content” is bits and bobs
Left in your grandpa’s trunk —
A pair of broken door knobs
Would serve as content junk

But if “content” is happiness,
The peace of being whole —
One errant daub, or bob the less
Denies a content soul.

If truth divine be all I sing,
My love for thee would surely ring
Tall bells aloft cathedral spires,
Inspiring poets with their lyres,
Melting snow to drip and bleed
The lifeblood of all earth and seed
To call the spring to rise to rouse
New fruitlings on the greener boughs!
O! All the truth my heart desires
Would kindle sun to blaze her fires!

How Morrow weaves her evensong
For buds, unwary, sweet and young,
Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees,
Still blissful in their infancies,
Beguiled by wind and rain and sun
To crawl to stand to walk to run!

And Oh! How Morrow ever-long
Shall pluck with purpose from the throng
Aged thorny vines on withered knees,
Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease,
And all betwixt whose yarns have spun
Out from the void whence they begun.

And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long
Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas,
Thy cold enticing webs are strung
On oceans calm and careless leas;
A twilight rests on mountains flung
Unto the heaven that oversees
A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow
For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.

If cold I awake from the depths of Dark Hollow,
Where Faeries dance gaily around pole-lanterns blazing,
To bathe in the gloom of a Bright-Star lain shadow
That flits through the room like an eye steadfast gazing,
I’d suffer no comfort, till the fanfare of morning,
And my shivering spine, and my blue-blazoned skin
Would abide uncomplaining, till the Dawn light swept in.

And the Morrow would find me still gripped in Night’s pale,
And the Sun fail to warm me, and the Air would not move me,
And the feast laid for breakfast would wither and stale,
And my eyes transfixed open would gaze around blindly —
And the Sunset would follow, and Twilight would find me
Awash in the gloom of a Bright-Star lain shadow,
And thence to Lone Splendour of the depths of Dark Hollow.

To own a house has always been the dream,
Or so the kids are told — And so they yearn,
And enter servitude to pay to learn,
Amassing debts that pile up till they seem

As tall as any townhouse — Graduation
Goes by, and now they need a car to ply
For work to save to buy some old pig sty,
And banks will lend (subject to valuation) —

And so, kids born with nothing now have less,
And toil their life to pay the debts they owe,
And teach kids of their own how they should go
To lend to spend to learn to have success,

And buy a house to live the American dream,
Or wake from debt-fuelled nightmare with a scream.

Poor Spider!  Engineered her nets
To cast among the eaves –
And now her silk supports the nests
Of enterprising thieves!

A Roguish Bird with yellow smock
And beak like crooked spear
Crept up upon the wing and took
His pick of all her gear –

Poor Spider! Crawling home to scour
Her bastion torn to shreds –
She sets to task , and in the hour,
Hangs dew-kissed curtained webs!

The ocean beckons with its calling,
A siren song from distant shores -
Beguiling me to greet the dawning
Far beyond our uncharted course,
Until old mountains fail below
The lost horizon drowned to view,
And onwards then anon to flow
Up over the waves to ventures new.

John Keats
Didn’t write any Tweets
Nor ever undertook
To post on Facebook

Percy B. Shelley
Sailed the Don Juan to sea
Where a monstrous storm seen rarely
Robbed Frankenstein’s Mary

His friend, Lord Byron,
Watched the beach with his pyre on
And then, on a whim,
He went for a swim

William Shakespeare
Loved his wife so sincere
That he willed her when dead
His second best bed

Sir Wilfred Owen
Wrote a **** spiffing poem
And he might well have wrote more
Had he outlived the war

Robert Frost
Got hopelessly lost
When for giggles and a laugh
He took the wrong path

Emily Dickinson
Needed hope to cling on,
So for lack of lucky heather
She clutched an old feather

William Blake
Saw the tiger, too late,
And he felt a cold shiver
As it ate his liver

If love was meant to be,
What fool would carry flowers?
Or moonlit stroll beside the sea,
To pine away their hours?

If love was in the stars,
A birthright freely given,
What Venus would be wooed by Mars
To forge a path to Heaven?

In passing fancy,
I netted a man
Long departed

Such honours bestowed
On this artist,
Born here
Died there

His greatness
Told in few words

Quick to anger?
Passionate?
Unkempt?

I know of him
And know him not,
And never shall

And what stranger
Could know me
From my epitaph?

She smiled awkwardly, too young to drink,
And I wondered was this her first time,
As her muddled words tumbled out,

    “It’s not bad news.”

She looked at me, half-expectantly,
Like a child on Christmas morning,
And I wondered was she silently
Counting to 8, or 10, or the exact seconds
Some think-tank had determined was
Right, under the circumstances.

    “Do you want to see the body?”

I shook my head, as the image
Of my father, ever a thin man in life,
Sat up on a gurney, bare-chested,
Wired up to bleeping machines,
Flooded my inner eye.  That was
The last time I saw him, and the
Last time I ever would, and that
Is how I always remember him.

Five and forty hands
Crucified democracy
In these harrowed lands

Tis her eyes that I remember —
Intense as sun upon the frost,
Intent in spite of all they’d lost,
Invested in their task

They smouldered like an ember —
And there she sat, her table lade
With baubles bright and trinkets made,
Her face a stoic mask

Her fingers moved like grains of sand
Let loose within an hourglass bell,
And nimble as each grain that fell
They harnessed beads with thread

Her needle flickered as each strand
Stretched forwards like an uncoiled spring
To form a pretty Dragon wing
Beneath a Dragon head

And whilst she toiled, I read the card
That lay amongst her trinket faire —
“I am blind” — The words hung there
Heedless to my approach

Unseeing eyes wore no regard
For awe impaled upon my face,
As on she went to stitch and lace
Her pretty Dragon brooch.

Sudoku Simon
Plays “The Witness” — Beams switch on
For mental fitness!

The mountain's spine does shiver
At the first kiss of the quake,
And the wayward roving river
Sends a shudder through the lake;
The birth of Spring plays fanfare
To rouse the fledgling flowers;
And thee, embraced, released despair
That trembled from thy towers.

What shook thy strong foundations,
Like a quake unto the mountain?
Were thy wayward contemplations
Like the lake unto a fountain?
As Winter spreads her wedding gown
And the weary flowers wither,
Let thee embrace thy walls of stone
And what peace they may deliver.

Betwixt rock and sea,
Three Hundred haunting poems
And one melody.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

For I mingled grateful as the fountains
Borne through cracks from ocean waves,
And sought for Heaven amidst high mountains,
And spent my grief at familial graves,
And shared of myself, not a silent stone,
And kept thy faith in spite of all,
And for this and more, thou bade me alone,
Unanswering thy call?

Now, the fountains dried and the Earth may mourn
And the ocean flooded from salt-cracked skin,
And the flowers have choked to the strangling thorn,
And the ossuary opened, and beckoned me in,
And the sun has waned, and the clasp of night
Had me bound in a beam of the moon's device,
And these lips felt the kiss of the barrow wight
As thou denied me thrice.

A chill wind shivers o'er Tempest Sea,
One final breath that lingers on;
A lost voice beckons to his Deity,
Why unto me thy will was done?

Love weighs on the heart,
Music lifts the soul —
Life is à la carte,
Morsels of the whole

Spring to each romance;
Summer in the sun —
In the autumn, dance —
Let winter never come

Our lives are as the raindrop to the river —
We falter, and we tumble; We are lost
And in the tumult cling to one another —

Enslaved by riverbanks, the river roiling
Is rain-lashed in a torrent — We are tossed
And buffeted amidst the turmoiled boiling —

Atop the foaming surface, battles rage
As brother battles brother for the sun —
Relenting, flowing, falling to a cage

In murky depths, with blissful recollection
Of cloudless skies afore the rivers run,
We cling to hope to someday rejoin Heaven.

Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold --
Heedless be not or headless be thy trim;
How thin a strand to bind the downtrod bold
Is law's decree?  It quivers at their whim,
Like dusted snow that grey's the mountain's locks,
Each flake unseen, a pauper, cold and damp,
Wherein the voice of scorn, the hand that mocks,
May shove these brothers down steep mountain ramp
And each to each must cling and garner speed
As sisters, mothers, fathers, join the throng,
Their flags unfurled, their voices raised in song,
Onwards unto one prophecy, one deed --
    Marie knew'st best the wont of blood and gold;
    The time is nigh her tale shall be re-told.

Witches at your door —
With Frankenstein and Batman?
Candied gifts galore!

I am — You are — He is — She is — We are —
A populace of conjugated verbs,
All congregated like a bunch of herbs
Wrapped up in twine, with never thyme to spare —

And Basil is too busy now to care —
He roots around the meters at the kerbs
For fumbled coins lost by “them from the burbs”,
And on a lucky day he looks to share

With Rosemary a coffee and a cake,
Always a takeaway, they daren’t go in
For though their coins are welcome, not so they,
And so, like king and queen, they leave the din
And hold their court in subways to partake
Of feasting on their banquet, out the rain.

Life without regrets
Defeats the point — Place your bets,
Risk the whole **** joint

A crowd to me is a watery grave
Where chatter consumes the air;
Where sharks that circle with canapés
Are eyeing up the faire —
And I, the morsel they all crave
To drag unto their lair

Give me the deck of an ocean queen
When the daily feasting is done;
When the midnight sea flows by unseen
And the guests are all but gone —
Give me the peace of a night serene
And a place to be alone

How poor votes are sold —
Dreams of rainbow unicorns
And a *** of gold

Bitcoin wallets fold
Without a din — Alms of old
Rattle ne’er a tin

Winds from the mountain sail in ‘cross the sea,
Tree tops are whistling a wild melody;
Time, the old fiddler, has struck up his bow
As Summer flees south with the waning Sun’s glow —

Lock up the windows and seal all the doors,
A red mist is rising on these hallowed shores;
Shelves full to bursting and no one let in,
A storm is a-looming about to begin —

Footprints still rest in the places we’ve been,
Faltering short of new pastures unseen;
Untrodden pathways lead yonder away,
Unto an horizon, unto a new day —

Mist hides the morrow that lingers in wait
To greet weary travellers who pass by its gate;
Night is the shadow that cloaks all in fear,
Dawn is the beacon to beckon light near —

Out from the mist, from the dark, shall arise
A halo of sunlight to brighten the skies;
Sunrise and sunset shall be bookends, no more,
For days long since borrowed, and days still in store.

The living Land of Gold lays desiccated,
Wept dry to dust for thee — Along its West-most
Rim, thy last sunset waned like a ghost —

Who carved thy sacred stone? Who decorated
Thy mortal tomb?  Who but for thee was lost?
Who worshipped thee above all Heaven’s host?

I eyed dismayed thy cold bones desecrated —
Mayhap the Sun reborn shall raise thy spirit,
As we raised up thy tomb to look upon it.

Painter and poet,
Artists, both — One doth show it,
The other doth quoth!

Depression is a flat and empty road,
Gray bitumen against a dull gray sky,
No pit stops to unload a heavy load,
No off-ramps and no stop signs by and by,
A shadow etched upon its lifeless face
From clouds that blot affection from the sun,
Loping alone through endless open space,
Unpurposed hitherto when it begun —

It stretches like a finger pointing forth
To where the earth and heaven press their lips,
A mocking jest to whom may seek its end,
And on its back we mortals weave and wend,
A conga-line of self-absorbent trips
We weigh as gold, yet tally not their worth.

Could I conduct you with a flute?
Could you play trombone sans a suit?
Is baton waving with my arms
Necessity for Bach and Brahms?

Would jeans or tracksuit so offend
To cause the notes to break or bend?
Do shiny shoes impact the pitch?
Do taut bow ties do aught but itch?

Could one less trumpet cause the brass
To sound too hollow, weak and crass?
Would changing colours of their strings
Impinge the sounds of violins?

Would triangles still work as squares?
Do snare drums also work as snares?
Could pins be instruments, if dropped?
Is it not time this nonsense stopped?

O Mistress Moth! Leap not unto the flame;
Fear not the night that cloaks prey from its foes —
Light is the unforgiving dais of fame
And seeking of its joys unveils its woes —
The pointed pyramid has but one capstone;
Yet many storied stones may crave its peak,
And trampling underfoot the very backbone
That urges strength may make the structure weak —
Be guided not by falsehoods ever bright;
The fairest candle lit beyond a pane
Of crystal glass may dream of freedoms flight,
Imprisoned in its lonely lead-lined frame —
        Be at peace —  Night demands no keen redress;
        And suffer not through fear of loneliness.

O Mistress Moth!  Too swift the curtain came
To billow through a broken pane the throes
Of light and life anointed on your name —
A miscreant by each appointment grows
Until upon a trove it stands full-height,
And towering hence commands with regal reign
A Queen’s demise — So was it done this night —
Let all who bore their malice wear this shame,
For in their hands this sin will not atone;
It grows as shadows lengthen in the wake
Of shuttered light — To be as one alone
Was much to bear, too much this one to take —
        So by this end an end we now possess;
        Our trial to bear this loss for loneliness.

O Mistress Moth!  A clamour and acclaim
Born of deeds born of sadness softly goes
On — On with gust and grateful to remain
An itch to tease far far beyond repose —
A single truth makes many falsehoods moan —
And some that made your vow no longer speak,
And some that speak speak things to them unknown,
And who knows true the boldness of the meek?
Yours lives eternal blazing in the light —
A hope borne beacon fated to retain
The dreams and fears of one short mortal plight;
A star that echoes like a lost refrain —
        If light was all your heart sought to caress,
        May boundless light repeal your loneliness.