Scarlet cinnabar
wanton reds and ***** you pinks
Vermilion is a libertine
a go it alone chancer
who lives free and to hell with the consequence
condemn him if you will
for he is already ******
The devil has his own team colours

Teeth in jaws that snap

Beyond the tongue that twists and winds

The trap that binds you to your word

Once beyond those tombstone markers to the world

All hope is lost for yet another lie uncurled

To wind itself like smoke

To choke and wrap around your slender throat

To make you wish you never spoke a single scarlet word

And those you hurt had never even heard!

Word spaghetti, thin lies that twist and tease
studded with tiny meatballs of truth
covered in a thick sauce of deception
and served with too much cheese

I have this friend
her rage
at the world
is her cage
she won’t turn the page
or try to fly
to a brighter sun
in a bluer sky
a sad little bird
who constantly weeps
for the memories
she clings to
and keeps
clutched to her chest
ignoring the rest
of her life going by
and the scars
that she’s given herself
through the bars

Lift the lid of life
plunge in
enjoy it
embrace it
because you can't replace it

Look at any window

lights without blinds

other peoples tables

snatched fragments of their lives

gone in a moment

forgotten

maybe they wonder all about you

in the reflection of your passing car

caught in the tail lights of a memory.

Drink and love and laugh,
talk and cry and eat your fill
do as you will, but be kind
embrace the light unbending,
for we never know when life is ending

Fingers of fire
Flaming desire
Flirting with strings
Melted angel wings
Acoustic profanity
Electric insanity
Liquid bricks in your heart
Tearing you apart
A nuclear star
Now that is the sound of a proper guitar!

Little bird
come inside
shake the chill
cast winter from your mind
let fall that cloak of grief
pooled around your feet
dark moss
old and dry
trampled to dust
watch me kick it away
forgotten in a corner
stay until the sun returns
let spring be your saviour

Today
I gave away your cocktail dress
it was black and fitted
I kept it for thirty years
but I never found the shoes
they were too big to fill

I feel its living breath
close now
scented soft upon my shoulder
shivers the breeze
every lamb,
every flower,
every blossoming tree
I do not walk through spring
it walks through me

The lonliest people
push away arms that care
they kick at gifts of comfort
as if the lonliness itself were a grey woollen blanket
wrapped tight around themselves
protection against feeling anything at all
except lonliness
because that would make the blanket fall
and leave them cold
naked in the light
and vulnerable
to vicious attacks of kindness

The sun a golden earring
The moon a silver penny
The earth a marble
Lost down the sofa of the universe

You irritating ****!
Somehow you got yourself under my teenage skin
and you stayed there for thirty odd years
with the stubborness of a tick
we have grown up together
and old together
dynamite wouldn’t shift you now
you are a part of me
as I am a part of you

You are lovely
full of birdsong
and not much dew
was there ever a morning
such as you

Low tide
the sea has retreated
leaving  behind a keepsake box of **** and shells
spilled out across the beach
hidden watery things
drawn from the deep
they melt as footprints
when the sea returns
gathering her chicks
to rest below the waves
in sandy contemplation
of the world above

Magpie sitting in your sorrowful tree
go find a friend, or let me be

A borrowed  knife without a blade

The sharpest sting

Slices deep and plunges in

Down through mango stone and bone

Soft beneath the outer skin

Reveals the running juice within!

The definition of a maniac
someone who shares
the same locked wardrobe of dark thoughts
that you do
but they found the key
tried them on for size
and wear them to dance in the streets

Margaret's fingers clasped and still
white birds upon her window sill
silent doves that came to rest
sleeping now upon her chest
each settled bird that came to land
will fly no more from Margaret’s hands

Not everyone can be a star
no matter how we wish for heavenly light
most of us will not illuminate the night
those who burn and seem so bright
will oft ignite and fall
burning cinders
merely human after all

Marilyn's easel
a Madonna displayed
celluloid goddess
of the temple of the silver screen
we worshipped
ignoring the cracks and the obvious fact
that the woman behind the art
was slipping
slowly dripping off the canvas
now she is no more
we still adore
the puddle on the floor

My name is Martha and I'm very tired
my patience as such has long expired
so you don't want my brown skin next to your white
well madam I'm tired so I'm sitting tight
it's hot and I waited my turn in the queue
and I paid, just like him, just like her, just like you
you can carp, you can moan, you can cause all kinds of fuss
but lady I'm keeping my seat on this bus
because I'm tired

Writers and Poets

We knights of broken sleep

Are we masters?

Or servants?

Foot soldiers

Willing slaves to the word

Without you,
there would be no smoke to fill the empty heart with clouded joy,
no birds to sing and beat their wings to flame upon the fire
no melancholy note
which plays upon the heightened tightened string of deep desire,
no skies which fall and leave us chained
imprisoned on the altar stone, vaguest remnants of the fall,
we cannot know, we cannot tell
as the Master said when he was young
‘hey-** if love were all’

After many near misses
sweet thunderbolt kisses
explode upon my lips
heady molten sips
which burn me
turn me to matchwood
incendiary splinters
ashes of desire
a willing victim of flame and fire

Mayfly
all snowy white wings
delicate fragile things
that dance and skim the summer air
hardly there
a second of modernity
to experience eternity
what if a penultimate day in May
to play and love & live
was all you had to give?

Gathering sky,
heavy folds of white and linen grey
wrap the day,
tight in a nettle scented breeze
a blanket with no escape
song birds call, sharp to each other
hidden in the hedgerow
where the cow grass grows
thigh high by the gate,
pierced by spears
of meadowsweet and celandine
and so we wait to look for rain
allthough the weather may turn fine
who knows which way the season blows
in British summer time

A torrent of rain
flick end of a storm,
we danced to kitchen jazz
safe and dry and warm,
wolves came to listen
more than one or two,
circular howling
maybe they were dancing too

So falls the willow,
splits among the calling green
those fronds which clasped the years are flailing,
trailing soft, where once you fought against the stream.

Thistledown light

Released and surfing the breeze

Up into a cloudless sky painted memory blue

Dandelion puffs

These are the fairies

At the bottom of a suburban child's garden

Soul flame

Flickering  life

A gentle burning

Smouldering until the end

When the light fades

A tiny glow

Then out

Leaving only smoke

And the essence of memories

Hills can be short

And they can be tall

Some people make them

From nothing at all

The climb’s not a question

Of strength or of will

It’s always the climber

That makes the hill!

Midnight is a blade
cutting the cord between tomorrows
Midwife to the newborn day

End of the food chain

Tasty for lunch

There's a good reason

We swim in a bunch!

How many missing sons and daughters
buried with tears and a folded cloth
dead pride of a nation
how many banners raised in triumph
lowered to half mast by the grieving
in the name of patriotism's flag
a highly dangerous piece of rag

In the year of missing kissing

it was masks for simple tasks like queuing for bread

ditching foreign travel so we all stayed home instead

we swapped hugs for elbow rubs and waves from afar

coffees in the car instead of drinks with a friend

oh the fun of this year

Will it never end?

music and movement
pretending to be a tree
in your pants and vest

Candles light the dark
They illuminate a room
So monsters can see

The moon
a silver sixpence
loose in the pocket
of the universe