Sadness is a burden
Sadness is a weighted rope
Sadness is a black hole
Sadness is the absence of
all joy and hope
Sadness is a moth fluttering
inside the darkness of a broken heart
Sadness is a crawling centipede
its seemingly endless creeping feet
tearing your insides apart
Sadness is a leaf left
to rot upon the earth
Sad ness is a fetus never
given birth
Sadness is the absence
of softly shining light
Sadness is the need to flee
with never the chance to take flight
Sadness is the rose
with no perfume and no petals
just a broken stem of thorns
Sadness is the lonely bird
that sings a plaintive song
in the darkness of a thousand
winter dawns

Capture me
with your voice
let it to my ears
instil a thrill
let it wash my soul
with its timbre
let its strength
calm my fears
in its tone I hear
all that a voice could
ever contain
the sun’s warmth
the soul’s wash
of the gentle rain
capture me with your voice
hold me
enthrall me, captivate me
thrill me now

send not a cold stare
to freeze my soul
send me the warmth of your smile
and your voice
to once more make me whole
you have the power
to stop the rain
dry my tears
and ease my pain

the cosy little nest that she had made
of their relationship is empty
the straws at which she had
one clutched
strewn all around her
now she runs around as
a headless chicken would
trampling on the empty eggshells
she now recognises
as his promises of eternal love

Not of this Earth's manufactured light
but surely of a Heavenly source
steadfastly sparkling and bright
distilled into a perfume that,
unbottled by my trembling fingers
touches my soul
for breathing in starlight
that is born from your love
gives me the oxygen I desire
makes of me a Galaxy
a world apart, eternal, and whole

Too soon, what will be left in Oceans emptied
of their brothers' and sisters' songs?
there, where their pale, phantom presences
in their chorussed schools once thronged?
We humans think of ourselves as Kings,
Emperors, Rulers, Overlords of all
expecting other species such as theirs
to be held captive forever, to be in our thrall
We watch them from afar on Tourist dinghies
on TV whilst eating fast food, faces fixed in ghoulish grins
never acknowledging our human interference
for the plight these creatures of spectral white are in
dismissing in disgust their now scarred and fungi'd skin
The mourning songs of the whales are surely
those same songs born of centuries of human slavery
though their words are alien to our human ears
we are told that they are intelligent,
wise beyond our puny human years
but soon, too soon, shall they fall silent
their shapes mere shades in the depths
of the litter strewn seas
in dried bones on every plastic polluted shore
upon the bleached and barren reefs
from which colour, just as their songs have faded,
has faded too, forever, forever more

Close to the gate
you lay
there, on the pathway’s edge
all blue bone
unopened beak
and closed and sightless eyes
your fragile legs forever fixed in death
your tiny body unfledged
fallen  offspring of some
now forlorn and feathered songster
I could not resurrect you
so with my  foot
I simply nudged you
to lie beneath the sheltering hedge
hearing inside my soul
your unsung song
seeing, that night with
the dreaming eyes of mind
your feathers fully fledged
your exultation in soaring flight
towards a sunlit dawn

Let yours be the voice that awakens me from sleep
Let yours be the arms that me from danger keep
Let yours be the body that forever me shields
Let mine be the body that to your gentle touch yields
Let yours by the eyes that smile through my tears
Let you be the one who stays by me through the years
I love you my Darling as I always have done
For you are the sun that throughout my life has shone

It is a fine, fine line
we use to place
good and evil apart
a fine, fine line
by a quill sharpened to
draw on vellum creamy white
a path hewn between
the road we should take
and the undergrowth of doubt
impenetrable and dense
and dark, so dark and deep
dream on it
draw in your mind
that fine, fine line
slide the golden nib of imagination
across the  parchment of your conscience
free and clear of prejudice
free of ideas preconceived
free of what others will
invariably choose to perceive
draw the fine, fine line
and use it as a guidance
for your continuance
the fine, fine line
free of suggestion’s nuances
draw or paint
with pencil, pen or brush
that fine, fine line
between the music of life
and Death’s deep, undreaming hush

The strings he once had held
to control her have snapped
She was Judy to his Punch
her every movement
hung from his fingertips
Once she was strung tight
a glove upon his hand
now she moves to her own music
now no other frames the words
that from her lips are spoken
the Puppet Master is no more
the spell of his control is broken

Silence, there, where the snow has crystallized,
closing the world to footsteps, tyres on tarmac
flap of towel or sheet on washing line
A sad refrain whispering in the rain’s furtive whine
Once-green spaces magically transformed,
Strange silhouettes, the once familiar trees
Now stand mute sentry in swift polar’d grounds
Where the shining dead men’s diamonds lie scattered all around
In a dark, unsheltered, corner of the park
Where rhododendrons threw squat shadows on the ground
The dead man lay, seeing nothing now through sleet swept eyes
In death he claimed the dead men’s diamonds as a shroud
‘Though his pockets were empty,
His final meal, not the prisoner’s extravagant last request
But a single cup of tea, over-brewed
And a single sandwich, unappetizing, far from fresh
His name to be just a memory on some faded certificate
The frost his shroud, a kindness done by death
For those who his body found
There, where the dead men’s diamonds lie
strewn in derision by skeletal jeweler’s fingers of frost upon the unyielding ground

they do not see the differences
beneath the fine cloak of skin
the brain that is wired a different way
so altering the thoughts within
the eyes that look seemingly far beyond
those of others e-en face to face
the legs and the feet that,
though seeming fine
hurt to keep up the pace
they choose only to see
the outward appearance
not what can lie beneath
all the daunting differences
that the body can bequeath
nor do they hear the
weeping
when nastiness is heard
and they cannot comprehend
how cutting can be
the unthinking word

Endless thinking..thinking.. thinking.. thinking..  thinking
******, this is how thinking can far, far, too often feel
as if one's poor head is spinning around and around
or as if one's a poor dizzy gerbil imprisoned in a wheel
it's as if one's poor old mind is far too full of thoughts
with far more crowding in on it than they really ought
And, why, oh why, to further blight one's piteous plight
does thinking far too often plague one very late at night
for when one's about to drop off into much-needed sleep
come silly sneaky little thoughts suggestive and too deep
That's why  if  I am  struggling to settle down late at night
I save myself from going crazy and lots of poems write!

Around his shaking fingers he wound that single, silver tress
that cord of silken silver that her beloved face once caressed

He could feel its softness around those quivering fingers
as, upon the coffins satin lining, her scent still lingered

He wept, recalling the dark nights when for her warmth he longed
seeing her face amongst those of the mourners who thronged

And knew, as his tears fell, that that single silver tress of hair
it would bind him to the one who lay forever sleeping there

Hands reach out
digits intertwining
flicking upon the mind's
dark consoles of thought
desperately imploring
searching for answers
needing to express and explore
wanting a hands-on approach
to the endless dilemmas of life

Everyone said that he was a wastrel
that was because they never
knew the power of his smile
felt the touch of his hand
felt good listening to the timbre of his voice
he was never rich
never "made good"
never owned a big house
drove a fancy car
or lived the high life
in fact they said he'd wasted his life
but there was one thing he never wasted
and that
was
happiness

I offer myself as willing prey
catch me with
silken words
and in your web
of lasting love entrap me

Twist me around your little finger
so your kisses may longer linger
twist into long ropes of happiness
the strings of my heart
twist into an epic tale those words
"until death do us part"
twist my hair into a love knot
to last our whole lives long
twist me your zest for life
into a cocktail sweet and strong

words are as worms digging deep into the loam of my mind
fertilizing its sterile soil but leaving too many weeds behind
My hand is the ***** that digs deep into my heart and soul
my ink the deep dye of metaphor that makes of imagination
a garden, scintillating in its beauty, breathtaking, and whole

You want so desperately to believe
that this
so carefully ruled white line
fresh as ****** snow
pure against the silver
browning to the lighter’s flame
this first ignited onrush of confidence
emboldening you
with the awakening you dream of
will open up
take you into a land where
you will be the ruler
but
here is the base line
it will ultimately lay bare
emptiness
a white yet colourless
sterile salt desert of numbness
and you will seek
that white line
forever more

Memory will not serve to soften
or to erase the spikes of anger
sorrow, sadness and grief
the trembling hand that wields
this brush cannot revive belief
he who was there in childhood
who laughed, loved guided and consoled
who through the path of life
was there to steer, to hold
with a hand with fingers gnarled with age
that were with wisdom formed to calm
he is gone away into that other land
now there are only these grey spikes
these shards of what was
the love we built together
and these are not grief's needed balm
but with the months, years, decades
that shall pass away I hold to hope
that by my memory of him and all he held
the spikes shall be smoothed and brushed away

You look at me like I'm stupid
ignorant or just plain insane
and try to remember my name
but don't you dare to forget
this sodden hunched old busker
squatting huddled in the rain

I hear you comment on how I smell
of cheap cider, bitter and strong
but don't ignore me
as I sit here with my guitar
on the street corner
amongst the hurrying throng

You, who pass me by
trampling on my old cap
with a single coin in it
looking down on me,
who was once a household name
as you munch on
the sausage roll
the Big Mac the slice of pizza
or drink the espresso or latte
then toss the dregs
at my sockless feet
and light up a ciggie
as you hurry down the street

Before him, the Cave, like a great toothless mouth yawns open
and the vessel that is his inner self is caught up in its breath
where the deep waters of a lifetime's voyage flow into death
he has travelled far, and wide, and has seen so much of life
he has been stilled in the calm and azure waters of happiness
he has been tossed in the turbulent waters of personal strife
he has been caught up in the whirling eddies of youthful romance
the slithering serpent of poverty has fixed on him its empty glance
his children were as bright angelfish born to enchant and amaze
In a loving woman's eyes he has seen the siren's steadfast gaze
through calm clear harbours of sufficiency, he has slowly sailed
yet the ivoried tusks of Narwhal'd grief have oft his heart impaled
the voyage has been a long one, the cave before him now yawns
he is Jonah, yet fears not, for he knows that a new voyage dawns

You are a flower of many names
Woodbine twisting around bright haws
Irish Vine with blarneyed whispers of sweet scent
Honey bind and Goats leaf
and Faerie Trumpets with a call to reassure
that steadfast in love shall admirers be
I shall welcome you into my humble home
that you might bring gold into my coffers
and into my garden to give protection from evil
In my hair shall I wear a wreath of your florets
that I might of my future true love dream
around my doors to cultivate good fortune
your tendrils I will surely wrap
my children to be shall bite off your flower ends
thirsty as they will be for drops of your honeyed nectar
come, let me bind you into ropes for pack ponies
to carry sweet cargoes of you to colonise
all of the fast fading and forsaken hedgerows
my Father and my Mother forbade me
to bring you into my Garrett bedroom fearing that
your heady perfume might young untested passions ignite
but now I will pluck of your sweetness
and will your honeyed sweetness into my home invite
to make an elixir for the rasped throats of Preachers and such
I will seep you in fragrant oil warm and soothe coldness with you
Now I beg of you to bring all that you own to me

Words are crimson threads spun by my pen
needling my woolly soul for expression,
each a stitch in Life's tapestry
my thoughts long and steely bodkins
I scatter words as sharp and shining pins
each sufficient to raise red upon
the flaccid fabric of empty minds
pinning ideas, often controversially
averse to neither comment nor complaint
I am a human wheel of spin,
pricking consciousness
threading with thought empty consciences

Chaos came creeping into the unsuspecting world
Invisible, except beneath the microscope's lens
borne upon the breath of old injustices, and rage
a crazed creature creeping out of Nature's cage

No-one saw the escape, no-one suspected
no-one could see its spiked and viperish visage
born coldly upon a sneeze, a cough, a breath
such was the fetid face of this unseen death

No continent, powerful, wealthy, mighty, rich or poor
witnessed chaos come unbidden through the door
but it is here, and continents and countries fall apart
Experts no protection can from their theories impart

Chaos is not always the detonation of bombs or guns
nor is it born in the blinding blazing of exploding suns
chaos is here always, watching and waiting to pounce
An unseen Terrorist that does not its arrival announce

A  terrible tapestry woven of empty skies
above a stark and brooding emptied land
sewed with needle and threads of gold
by the Mighty Earth Goddess’ busy hands
who sat and sewed this her winding seam
of orange and gold from creation’s dream
but who possibly now return to talk of this
landscape created from a Goddess’s bliss
a place seldom seen, if not only in the mind
somewhere in a dreamland lost to humankind

shewereasnarrerasanarrer, but with cleavage to die fer
so she dressed in fancy spanks from Marks ‘n Sparks
‘cos she’d gorra job as earned hersen a bucketful of dosh
typing  jobsheets fer the Faktreh’s Senior Clerks
Now one parky Sat’dy neet,
our Peg the padgeowl chanced to meet
an Irish navvy wi a twinkle in ’is eyes
and ‘though Peg judged him as a Yokel
still she took ‘im dahn ‘er local
where they podged theysens
on stout and chips and pies
but Paddy got right larroped
‘as down the jit they galloped
and, chucklin’ sed  “now gisagleg
what’s behind them fancy skanks
did yer gerrem from them Yanks?”
but Peggy only showed a little bit o’ leg
but the navvy cut up ruff, and said “that’s nor ennuff!
I’ll ‘ave the rest – and I’ll ‘ave it right ere!”
but Paddy, tight jobber, never bought a dobber
and as weeks passed it soon became clear
to Paddy, the digger, that Peg’s waist  was gettin’ bigger
so, when Peg said, with a tear and a sigh
“There ain’t no bloomin’ daht
that you’ve got me up the spaht!”
Paddy skanked ‘er
- dahn the jitty - by and by!

Calm, clear, or stormy
Gray, green or blue
the sea reflects
the feelings that lie
deep within me and you

Kindness calms a cry
it is the smile that turns tears to laughter
the caress that wraps a warm duvet
around a cold, cold world

As with mosquitos, horseflies
and most bloodsucking parasites
he was spawned in stagnant water
to explore the world of man on evil wings
she had wanted a man who
would love, would care
but soon she would discover
he owned to neither of those things
Rather, he bit into her as would a mosquito
raising a sickness deep within
then as a leech he bled her
dry 'til she was a husk of pallid skin
he spawned in her a ****** dysmorphia
so that she, when he finally left, could only feel
a kind of distorted euphoria
that allowed her to shut herself off from a world
that she saw as a stagnant pool

A river moves through me
guiding and shaping the amoeba in me
that rises from the soul's
ebbing and flowing tides of life
making me human

plastic cups and bottles
cigarette stubs and ash
and scattered powder
heaped as white as snow
amid bunched and ***** bank notes
and piles of wine washed cash

Upon a cracked and half-full crystal glass
A smear of lipstick flashed as red as rubies
and there, upon the littered, dusty floor
lay banana peels and half-eaten apple cores

The blonde girl, with the ashen face
painted nails, and scarlet bee-stung lips
lay there amid the crushed potato crisps
and the flattened curry sauce smeared chips

Her eyes, dilated pupils shrouding grey
stared upward at the rain washed light
of Wintery day, filtering through each
hand -smeared cobwebbed window pane
at light that she would never see again

That morning, after the party, the room was quiet as death
disturbed by a black moth that flew from behind the curtain
settling upon her face, brushing lips parted with her final breath

Just maybe darkness is better than light
for they, the wild and animate ghouls
that desire your soul merely stalk
and softly growl but do not bite
surely darkness is better than light
being a shield that you can hide behind
a barrier beyond which the anxious onlookers
cannot peer, and so pierce, your clouded mind
surely darkness is better than light
light that too much reveals
light that shows the stains of life
that darkness so well conceals
they are multitude those night things
the arachnid spinning a web of dark comfort
the moth that shreds the brains dead cells
with softly soothing wings
the centipede sweeping away negative thoughts with swift legs
the unseen bird that cries, that for peace and comfort begs
surely darkness is better than light
a harsh and unforgiving light
where the stranded vessel carrying your dreams
is forever fixed in a glacial world of wicked white

Now only the heavy stickiness of sadness
adheres to her lips
she tastes bitterness
where once she tasted the
warm concoction
that was Love
she wipes her fingers
across her face
still hungry

Woodlands light up, the tree trunks glow red
as rambling rays filter through emerald branches
embroidering leaves with Sunset's crimson thread
All around, the skies erupt with an amber blaze
and the clouds glow in a hot cotton wool haze
As across the far off and fast darkening hills
an unseen hand scores fast fading far horizons
with sharpened and invisible scarlet inked quills
Birds script their black inked V's across the sky
and beneath the shuffling feet of weary travellers
the first of fallen leaves in mouldering muffling lie
and the sun lowers its face before the coming night
in subservience to Sunset and the dying of the light

For us two hearts as one together beat
For us two minds as one together meet
For us two as one together always will be
I for you and you for me
For togetherness is sharing
togetherness is caring
nothing else between us
ever comparing

A deeper remembrance
not photographs in silver frames
not letters in their familiar hand
not mourning brooches of darkest jet
nor their golden wedding band
not  cut flowers
in vases or on graves
nor  elaborate words
on slate or stone
but, engraved
instead,  a deeper remembrance
that,  as the flight of a snow white bird
in loving hearts has grown

High on the swift swaying swing, I flutteringly fly
am I bird or wandering white-winged butterfly?
Do you not ponder upon just what it is you see
Do I not cause you to heave a wondering sigh?

Teasingly turning, twisting through the air I fly
and thus all moribund earthly origins do I defy
I am of mere humble, too human form no more
transformed into an air-born angel swift to soar

they do not see the differences
beneath the fine cloak of skin
the brain that is wired a different way
so altering the thoughts within
the eyes that look seemingly far beyond
those of others e-en face to face
the legs and the feet that,
though seeming fine
hurt to keep up the pace
they choose only to see
the outward appearance
not what can lie beneath
all the daunting differences
that the body can bequeath
nor do they hear the
internalised weeping
when nastiness is heard
and they cannot comprehend
how cutting can be
the unthinking word

It is Christmas Eve, the family is asleep, and my bedroom is empty
but for the fleeting image of her little face before my sleepless eyes
I turn back the blankets, and quietly put on my dressing gown
to make my way downstairs where the house in silence lies
My key turns in the lock, the air is cold, an owl hoots, a fox barks
the first snow falls as a thousand icy tears, her face glimmering
her lips smiling, her hair curls under the bows of scarlet ribbon
that hang inside each silently memoried falling flake, and the
night is silent and cold, and my heart within me lies hushed and dark

I just need to kick over the traces
break the bank place a big bet
and win a ** fortune on the races
I want to break a lifetime's habits
stop keeping to every rule
stop the Universe
and all that's in it
for taking me for a law-abiding fool
I want to stop seeing that pile of washing to be done
I want to stop being straight-laced
and start to have some fun!

We fear, yet respect you, as diminutive determined invaders
nibbling like too eager lovers at necks, faces, arms, and skin
invading our fragile human air space like sneaky chinooks
your poison injecting into all the cavities that lie deep within

We bow to your humming, into our eardrums eerily drilling
dreading the cratering with your probing insectile missiles
as you target the ****** territories of our all too human flesh
your determined approach that old instinctive fear instilling
knowing nets do not dissuade you no matter their size of mesh

We praise you, as shrilling, chilling choristers of the Tropics,
admire you as enemies, secretive, invincible, secreting unease
recognizing your sustained mission to dominate humankind
as you move ever Northward with an invading army's expertise

sharp was the kitchen knife,
dull metal flashing in slash of light
sparking further the embers of evil
that long had been dampened by life
lived in derision of normality
she was nothing but trash
picked up from a back street alley
£20 a time, yet fetish unsatisfied
hands plunged
skin parted
red hole opened, sticky red tide
flowed beneath full moon's rays
mouth opened, teeth gleamed
reddened, her nails clawed at him
as he clawed at ******* exposed
to rain of blows
he saw himself reflected in irises dilated
breath ebbed
slowed
stopped
kitchen knife washed and dried
returned to kitchen sink drawer

Check the photos on her phone
with your footsteps echo hers
watch through her window
is she really alone?

Listen to her plundered playlist as she mingles
with the nightlife's busy, chattering throng
does it still play your together song

Your face, your smile, before my eyes
your voice constantly whispering in my ears
bewilderment, anger, despair, tears
resounding, repeating, needing release

It has long been a distant dream
this dream of a roof over his head
he used to sit on the worn down pavement
beneath the monument to some long dead
and long forgotten Monarch
and watch the ones he
called the walking dead
who traipsed along the crowded street
all the weight of their greed in
their shining, well shod, feet
A hand would occasionally
toss a single coin or two
into the guitar case by his side
passing City types would  show derision
their  haughty features could not hide
it is still  a distant dream
this dream of somewhere
to call his home
it haunts him even more
as now through the dark
deserted  streets he roams

mere separation cannot keep us apart
for your voice is in the song of every bird
your warmth in every  beat of my heart

My Love, stay with me until
my arms cannot hold you
my eyes cannot return your smile
my heart beats its final goodbye
then, keep me close in your heart

once it was the bouquets
the dark red velvet roses
the white ghosted Arums
then the chocolates in elaborate
be-ribboned boxes
the creme centres, sugared almonds
the ginger tasting on eager tongue
aah. but those never lasted long
then came the jewellery
necklaces, bracelets, rings,
and those other not so mentionable things
and him, his lips upon hers
his fingers fastening, unfastening
buttons, then stroking, skin to skin
but she was aging
voice and looks no longer appealing
rouge, mascara, henna, greasepaint
non of her imperfections now concealing
neck, shoulders, back, aching
those once nimble fingers
fast becoming thumbs
and all was vanishing
that illusion of perfection
that enviable slice of all that was good
fast becoming
simply
crumbs