Star jump
Slide to a bump
Mini Jeep driving
Forever striving
To win a race
Tie your shoelace
Stay on your feet
You won't be beat
Determination
No hesitation
Single-minded
Laser-guided
You won't conform
Not one for Unicorns
Find your voice
Beat the boys
You'll sprint through life
Overcome strife
Become resilient
Just be brilliant.
But, just for now,
No need to wow
I realise
I idealise
So go wild
Be a child
You know you oughta
My darling daughter ;-)

Some seize on death,
Just as they seized on a siblings' toy,
They want it for themselves.
No one else should possess it;
It must be about them
And the validating sympathy that it elicits.
    
But, ultimately, which is sadder?
The death itself?
Or...
The looting of grief?

The grip of sleep holds him tight,
He'll never know he died,
Never know he did not wake.
Such a fine line between life and death
Never knowing which might be your last breath.

Voyager of 40 years
Escaping the pull of planets
Drawing on my urge for independence
Until, finally,
I leave the heliosphere
And all my thoughts are now mine to share.

Just as a frog cannot relate to a tadpole,
He could not recognise his younger self.
No retrospective map of life had he,
No string-tied bundles of diaries
Or heavy-hearted Journals
To reunite him with the naïf
Who floated along life's river
Unaware of being navigated by others,
Others who rowed but did not instruct
And abandoned ship on the stroke of his eighteenth
Leaving him overawed and falling overboard,
To eventually flounder upon the shores of independence
Until he was forced to stand on his own two feet of clay,
Like some evolving amphibian
Waddling into life,
Stomping and stumbling in the quagmire of society.
A faux pas here, a faux pas there,
Slow and painful lessons
That built resilience and self-reliance
Resulting in a proudly self-made man,
Now unaccustomed to failure
And whose memories of humiliating failure
Have sunk to the bottom of the river of his life.

Pigeon in my loft
Shelter turned into a cage
Hence this sad high coo.

Wild Honey Badger:
The Punk Rocker of the wild.
Fight for your right to party.

Wild Honey Badger:
The Chuck Norris of the wild.
Fear itself fears you.

Wild Honey Badger:
Comedically psychopathic,
Like Frank in Blue Velvet.

Respect the Honey Badgers
and they will, most likely,
Still not respect you.

Dry husks on close inspection.
Deadish, brownish black,
Plucked from petaled homes
Bagged in airless packets,
Left desiccated in a supermarket,
Their blooming potential undervalued.
No seed of resurrection, surely?
And so, this doubtful, non-starter gardener,
With nothing to lose but a pound,
Purchased and potted and planted
And watered and waited
Until the miracle of green emerged.
A determined rebirth
Sprouting from apparent death
And from the curiousity of a man
From whose soil those seeds found purchase.
Happy now is that newly-qualified gardener,
Surprised at nature's resilience,
And who declares to young and old
"Behold my Marigolds from B&M"

Two of you,
One in a lunar limbo
And billions of us.
Armstrong and Aldrin
And Collins
And Earth.
One small step
Two deep breaths
A billion or more gasps.
Mother Earth, Module and Moon:
a human constellation.

And so we sat, as you directed:
The window seats you always liked,
(a most desired spot from which to spy)
For you seek out distraction,
And shun focus
(slight of hand to avoid scrutiny).
As I settled in my seat,
I spied the scarlet and gold lining of your jacket;
A rare display of your heart and soul
Told me all I needed to know:
It's neither of us,
But it's both of us.

A forgiving tree draws tepid water
From its pitifully small patch of earth
Set amidst a barren desert of asphalt.
Its indignity is furthered still
As its leaves drop, not on the floor,
But on the bonnet of my Ford.

The Narcissist's roof caves-in as delusions collapse into reality.

When has this man-child ever had to face reality before?

I love the smell of inevitability in the morning.

On the breath of twilight's yawn
Rose the star of dawn
Tireless in its cycle.

I've never owned a freezer.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm not a tight geezer,
I guess I'm just chilled
When it comes to use-by-dates.

Something high in the sky is superior
It views me as completely inferior
I fear for my soul
Lest it fall down a hole
Into a fiery Lake Superior.

Our bed, a family fortress.
Your mother and I
- Puppet King and Puppet Queen -
Surrender our thrones each night
Lowering the drawbridge,
An open invite to you junior marauders,
Swordless and wordless
As you slowly storm the ramparts,
Kicking and flailing,
Before you fall asleep between us.

Thirty feet of benevolence
Born of serrated, sharpened
Surrendered wickedness

The Angel's redemptive gaze
Fixes like a bayonet
On those who leave an offering

Partly made of blooded knives
Mostly made of amnestied knives:
Behold the alloy Angel saving lives.

An ancient language,
Perhaps the oldest,
But still a target
And the **** of jokes
From many many English folk.

Chest hair is really useful for creating a lather quickly.

Dead leaves drowning
Leaping like Lemmings
From Tree to Sea

You wanted to spare the blushes of the little boy
Who had ordered the book with the explicit cover
So you called him into the privacy of the corridor:
"Dyra fo yn dy ***"* you suggested gently
Handing over a book warm to the touch,
Wrapped in sellophane (as if to try to contain its power).

I've never forgotten that one-act play, nor its elements:
The subject compressed within its covers,
Your understanding and thoughtfulness,
The bewilderment of my ten year old self,
The discernment of Sbondonics**
But mostly the Hellfire unleashed by Little Boy fifty years prior.

Little ugly pond
had its moment of beauty
in the glow of dusk.

You, the unlucky ones, not cared for in your early years,
Your resilience fails to blossom like the lucky ones
Who know little of your pains and fears
But ask what you would do if you had a magic wand
As if that will provide them with solutions to you, the problem.

 “Why us? Why no normal boring ****?”
The miraculous odds that you were conceived
Offset by the misfortune of love unfit,
A birth with much promise but ultimately deceived,
To fend for yourselves like moths and butterflies.

Trust takes time and is quid pro quo,
You need lessons in attachment and love,
But this is something that most adults don’t know.
Instead they humour you or treat you with kid gloves,
Meaning that your adolescence is a bitter surprise
When you’re no longer the person they can infantilise.

Has anyone seen my wallet?
I left it on the roof of my car
And drove my Christmas drive.
If you find it you can keep it:
I'm moving on.
Driving license,
A ton of reciepts,
Ten Euro note,
Maybe eight pounds cash
And a book of stamps.
Mostly a reminder of a dreary life,
Heavy, not with cash but ****** expenditure.

Go ahead, steal my ID,
Who'd want to be me?
Not I!
But, drawing a parallel
Between my wallet and I,
Deep in a quagmire,
Weathered by winter,
Waiting to be found.
Not very subtle I know,
But here's my rebuttal:
A seemingly tough exterior,
Vulnerable to stormy weather,
Stitching that will fail the test of time,
Spilling out its contents,
Laying bear all it once held in.

But if not found presently,
Maybe in time it will be,
And be of some passing interest
To some far off future finder,
Who'll wonder for a second who I was,
And ask, "how did it get lost?"
And "what became of those two children in the photo?"
And "what the hell was diesel anyway?"

Love's expressions hide deep within my mind.
I lack a link from mind to mouth,
Dumbstruck whenever I am lovestruck.
My Cupid is mute and wears a Dunce's cap,
His hands quiver and his arrows blunt.
Despite this, I long to steady myself,
To sharpen my wit,
To hear my own voice tell of my love.
But this is too much, too soon
So I took to ink and paper to put words to feelings.
The pen hovered, frigid, not wishing to kiss the paper
But muscle was mightier than the sword
And with touch achieved, my love bled onto the page.
Finally, expressions of love were conceived.
Overcome, I tore out the page,
Read and read again
And vowed to read aloud my words.
However, it was not to be,
Shame, being my Nemesis,
Struck me dumb once more
And guided my hand to an old shoe box
In which I deposited this bill of love.

My my, your royal Highness
How your drug of choice
Overcomes your shyness!
We haven't seen you in a while,
We've missed that wicked smile.
Stick around, take a seat
Take that weight right off your feet.
We were just saying,
There's no point complaining;
Old habits will never die,
So sit back and let's get high!

Sat alone in my car
High above the forest line,
My Sat Nav tells me:
"Make a U-Turn when possible"
(Funny how a soulless voice
Can give the perfect advice).

I feel so far from home:
I'm a cheap Chinese lantern
Drifting on the merest wind.
Am I near my destination?
I do not know...
Which way did the wind blow?