My new neighbour depression,
lives in a house rotting in the ground,
scarred wood torn away and roof tiles scattered,
with garden flowers withering away,
trees cracking at the slightest move of the wind.
Ever since he moved in a storm cloud
hangs low over the neighbourhood,
soaking my lawn and treading on my grass.
My neighbour depression
throws heavy stones to crack my windows,
leaves untidily scrawled messages of hatred in my letterbox,
leaving a trail of black paint up to his backgate.
My neighbour depression
takes advantage of my protection of thin walls,
and each day attempts to crash through them like a wrecking ball,
slowly dimming my lights and making shadows in my room
appear darker and bigger.
My neighbour depression
walks down the street like a black hole,
******* out all the sound around him.
And my neighbour depression
is starting to make me forget what my voice sounded like.

My chin rests on the dent of my palm,
I am hopefully staring into space
where the blur of the white wall that is before me
becomes an empty palette for me to draw on
to paint a map of the future,
of the roads and paths and routes
untidily scribbled on the
blank canvas plotting my dreams
with sketchy untidy thoughts with blurred out edges
of a vision full of innocence and lack of experience
but making the raw marks easily amendable
leaving room for mature modifications
as my dreams ripen
I am dreaming of days that will come,
Dreaming of ways that will let me become
But our dreams are like clouds,
They are made in the air
They keep floating with time
Further from us
To distant places where they will be lost
And we will be left staring at an empty sky
Not knowing in which direction to go.
If we sit idle,
Lying in the grass, staring away
expecting the cloud to descend one day
We are mistaken
because dreams are meant to live in the skies
high up above which is why we strive
and achieve for higher ground
because if they were as prevalent as the flowers
on the verdant grass
anyone could pluck it without any stress
but like clouds our dreams travel with time
mature with wisdom and age
the further they blow away
They become faint distant memories
so don’t just sit and stare
and always be aware
gather pieces from your life, and create a platform
pieces of experience
that will stack up to create
a stairway bringing you closer    
to help you attain your cloud shaped dream
and when you are near, hold it close,
nurture it and help it grow
and never let it go

It started at the beginning of adulthood
where the wandering into the new house
became a chore. The doorway greeted me
by snagging my woollen jumper.
The motorway was screaming, the battered gate happily hanging from its hinges.

His image first flashed into my sight,
And when I stared through the fogged up windows
I could still figure out his figure.
Loutish, he sauntered past
On a hillside, desolate.

He didn’t move for three hours.
He was most probably entwining the thorns from the bush
into his complex mind. Maybe
the boy with the thorn in his side
Had been brought to life by this mystery animal
With a mass of unkempt mane.
Unruly, unnecessary, untouched.

The notebook on my kitchen table lay untidily
waiting to be roughened up. I picked it up
and cast light over the paper.
I imagined him doing the same
But his art was thunderstorms
And mine merely a drizzle of rain.

I made progress
and the flowers were growing from my fountain pen.
Confidence developing, I invited him inside
And there were still no words from his unfathomable jaw.

A month later, we became one
and I still didn’t know where his intentions were lying.
I’m a girl afraid, does he even have any?

Ink *** after ink ***
I ran even further in this marathon of confusion.
I slowly slid from his dismissive grasp, his matted paws light
I had drawn graffiti over his portrait.
a permanent marker changed beauty into art.

I crept before his wake, into his sleep
And his lyricism lay imbibed in the walls, the desk, the door.
I felt the gale force energy cry inside
Which erupted like a volcano, turning remnants into ashes.
Face down, mane rough, scars bright, fur singed
Interior managed.

In the morning, I lifted his heavy paw away from me
And placed it peacefully beside him.

Early July
and Judith sat
on the wooden fence
beside you

over looking the pond
which she called the lake
dressed in a plain grey skirt
and green blouse

her brown hair
brushed untidily
as was per norm
her hands beside her

balancing her
on the top beam
mum said men
are not to be trusted

Judith said
me included?
you asked
you especially

she said smiling
she didn’t mention you by name
just said men in general
and my dad looked at her

sideways on
pulled a face
then carried on
with his breakfast

a jackdaw flew across
the pond noisily
making Judith jump
****** bird

nigh on made me
wet myself
she said
following the bird’s flight

what made your mother
go on an anti men campaign?
you asked
watching two ducks

move across
the water’s skin
I think she saw us
coming through the woods

behind your house
yesterday after school
Judith said
we were too close together

mum said
but where she was
to see us I have no idea
hanging from a tree maybe

you said
don’t think so
Judith said smiling
maybe she’s spying on us now?

you suggested
Judith looked around her
then back at you
don’t say that

I almost had kittens
it’s not kittens
you have to worry about
you said

sunlight flickered
through high branches
birds sang
white clouds

moved slowly overhead
you touched her hand
with yours
felt her warm skin

her fingers
her short fingernails
she looked at the flickering sunlight
I know

she said softly
come on
let’s go near the lake
she said

and jumped off the fence
and so did you
and walked over
the grass

to the pond’s side
under a vast sky of blue.

Elaine never told
anyone at home
over the weekend

about the boy
who spoke to her
at school on the Friday

that some boy
spoke to her
without verbal abuse

or name calling
was quite a phenomenon
in itself

and if she told
her sister
she would have guffawed

and her father
would have said
who's speaking

to my squat hen?
and her mother
would have looked at her

as if to say you
and that imagination
of yours

so she kept it
to herself
tucked it into

her small *******
next to her heart
and repeated

what he had said
when no one
was around to listen

even in the bath
sitting there
breast high

in soapy suds
(borrowed
from her sister)

she went over
his words
and how

he had said them
and how
she had blushed

as he came up to her
on the sports field
as she stood

by the wire fence
away from others
hands in pockets

snuggled up
into her black coat
her head down

her black hair
center parted
untidily hanging

and said
most birds
have nested by June

but you can still see
where they've nested
she looked at him

wondering if it
was some kind of joke
and that others

may have put him
up to it
but none was there

he stood alone
his brown
brushed back hair

his hazel eyes
gazing into her
as if they saw

her soul
and were feeding there
o I suppose so

she said
her features she knew
had reddened

her words came
out of pitch
do you know much

about birds?
he asked
she gazed at him

standing there
one hand of his
on the fence

by her head
the other in his pocket
she fumbled

for more words
opening up her mind
from its exile

not really
she said
thought not

he said softly
girls don't tend to
I'm John by the way

he added
pointing to his chest
moving back

giving her room
to move
she hesitated

wondering if
she should tell him
her name

she bit her lip
then said
I'm Elaine

he smiled
nice name that
think Tennyson

wrote a poem
about a woman named that
or was it some other?

he looked distracted
for a moment
anyway that was

way back
he said bet
no one has written a poem

about you yet have they?
she looked at his forehead
there were lines there

as if he thought a lot
or maybe too much
no they haven't

she said
shame
he said

you look like
the type of girl
who needs a poem

written about them
she looked over his shoulder
a group of boys

were kicking ball
a group of girls
further over

were sitting on the grass
laughing and talking
but were not

looking her way
but seemed
other wise engaged

shouldn't think anyone
would write a poem
about me

she said
looking at her
black scuffed shoes

course they should
he said
I would

if I was that way
inclined
but I'm more a reader

than writer
she wondered why
he was speaking to her

why he was there
standing in front
of her

staring at her
with his hazel eyes
you've nice eyes

he said
chocolaty brown
and warm and deep

she felt out
of her comfort zone
as if she wandered

into someone else's head
the bell rang
from the school

lunch recess was over
and the boys
kicked the ball

into the tall grass
and the group of girls
rose up from the grass

and walked school wards
like cattle
at milking time

she looked back
at the building
through the wire fence

at the returning pupils
best get back
to being brain washed

he said
see you around
and he touched

her arm gently
as he moved away
walking in a slow

couldn't-care less
-if- I-go- there-pace
she watched him go

her feet
seemingly
rooted to the spot

and her body
was tingling
and feeling hot.

death and dying

is there love still in the air?
does anybody anymore care?
------
forget? how dare,
our moral
despair.

a hundred years later,
we still won't repair
the tear stripped too
bare. ever too soon. i can
feel it you in my arms.
swooning you a tune.
our tune, our time.
infantile. without a rhyme.
what is the reason?
that you have been chosen
for leaving? why did God chose
you. over the fight...
I struggle
and always lose
as the ties come
untidily loose

i never had
time to share
one last cuddle.
so shy as you were
we never did speak
but those marble blue
brilliantly hued always
drew my heart weak

I think of you, my Jay
in the dead of night,
i think of you
with every butterfly
that flies in my sight.

what you might
with your might
you are might;
my might:
looking death
without fright.
i look at you.
my guardian cherub
born and true.

i await the next time
you come four your due.

In a dark alley
Behind The Rex
Mary Carey executed her ex
Dumped him by the side of the street
Revenge was sweet
She cut off his head
Collecting his thoughts in a black plastic bag.

Took it home and showed her Mother
Who took Mary to the attic
And showed her the others
“You did all this?” gasped Mary Carey
“No, some of them are Nana’s
And Great-Grandma’s too
There’s allsorts here
*****, ***** buggers every one
Christian, Jew and Hindu.
Men, they’re all the same.”
Which would be nice if you were talking world peace.

Mary Carey had a daughter
And, in an attempt to break the family tradition,
Gave her away to the nuns at the Mission
Grown, they sent her to Rome.
Where, in St Peter's Square
She bedded
Deaded then
Beheaded every man who tried to kiss her
Leaving behind a trail of bloodied mitres
And a pile of bin liners that might have been tied tighter.
“Can’t stop
Myself.”
And off she popped in search of other buggers.

But the plastic bags in St Peter’s Square are suppurating
And, far away from the Catholics,
The collected thoughts of de-bodied Protestant
Muslim, Hindu, Rastafarian and Jewish men
Are flatulating through the puckered ***-holes of untidily tied knots.
Some smell of roses
Some of Forget-Me-Nots
Of Valentine’s bouquets
A lot of them smell like old ashtrays.

And one or two of rotten apples.
These waft across the polished toecaps of young girls
And leave a nasty stain.
***** minds:
They're all the same.

The poet sighed,
took out paper and pen
and waited for inspiration to come.
Nothing.
He stared at the blank page
for hour after hour,
like every day
for the last month,
nothing came to him.
“There is no poetry in my anymore.”
he mumbled weakly,
as if there were not strength in him,
but he hurled the pen across the room
hard enough to gouge the wall.
He got up, went about his day,
he had a lot of things to do,
later, he took up the paper and pen again.
“There is no more poetry in the world.”
he wrote, the words scrawled
untidily across the page,
“No more words
of love or passion,
no more pretty phrases.”
He went on at length,
describing his lack of feelings,
his inability to express his pain.
After a couple of pages he paused,
with a steeling breath
he went on.
“I’ve found a way out
of the pit I’m trapped in,
this empty, emotionless void.”
“I cannot make it out myself,
I will need a ladder.”
“A ladder is a wonderful device,
able to help mankind
rise above troubles,
to lift them up
when their own abilities
fail.”
He put his pen down,
walked out to his garage,
in there, he looked upon the ladder
he had placed under his way out,
a noose.
He stood there for a moment,
thinking about his lack of feeling,
his failures,
the people that betrayed him.
He looked down at the pages in his hand,
placed them carefully on the workbench,
the would be found there,
read and examined.
Thereafter people would understand
why he took this route,
why he could no longer cope
with his inability to write.
He climbed the ladder,
put his head in the noose,
his portal out of the pit.
He stopped for a moment,
looked down at the pages,
then it hit him.
These pages he had written
were his finest writing in months,
perhaps in his life.
Thinking about what he wrote
he realized,
there was the emotion he hadn’t felt,
the words that wouldn’t come.
Startled by the revelation
he stepped back,
off the ladder,
his mind ablaze with ideas.
But the noose, that was his way out of pain,
was still around his neck.
As he hung there,
helpless,
slowly fading away,
he cursed himself.
Why hadn’t he paused
at the base of the ladder,
reread the pages he carried.
Now, it was too late,
everything he still had within him
would die with him.
People would read his words
and never know,
that he had found his voice again,
had come to understand
that numbness and pain
don’t last.
They would read his words
and think less of him.
As these thoughts faded
and darkness claimed him
a single tear crept down his cheek.
A final testament
that he had,
in the end,
regained his humanity.
But sadly,
it would dry and disappear,
long before he was found.

Facing It.

Lonely black places engulfing the mind
in caverns of glistening fear.
Phantoms arising from pleasanter times
tauntingly whisper his name in my ear.

Afraid of seeing that smile in my dreams
willingly I lie awake.
Facing relentless ticking of clock keeps
me clocking minutes for sanity's sake.

Ducking below lonely duvet once more,
with broken resolve it is plain.
Sobs fill the space of what life has in store
which will undeniably not be the same.

Words sit in succession inside my head,
spelling clearly the fact he is gone.
But half-empty cupboards untidily left
beg me soon to dry tears and move on.

You rifle through cupboards and drawers
Like some baby grizzly bear:
Bits and pieces pulled out and thrown across the floor
Untidily and indifferently
All in a search to find what you are looking for
A bra perhaps or pair of warmer socks in winter
Clean pants after showering