A Little Green

A time of truth encompassing the winds of change

sometimes it remains the same

there is no help for a dog with mange

laughable it may seem for a teenager with a dream

youth has an expendable strength to rule the world

though in our hearts, we were all a little green

golden summer days exhibiting muscle and rage

spectacles of love arrive with the joys of spring

‘the young don’t know they’re born’ 

the words my nan spoke, I hear myself bring

to be young can seem obscene 

though in our hearts, we are all a little green

If only we could to feel youth again

wake up not feeling sickness and pain

the daily struggle of perpetuating age

being able to turn a new page

the winds of change are hardly ever seen

when they do they are almost never seen

 they can leave one feeling a little green

Sinking low

The hurt in you I cannot undo although,

It is of my making, a horrible person I can be

decisions made for small victory

I weep deeper with a drenched heart

a fail stench of misery is within

failure as the day that should not begin 

but alas the torment goes once more

can I not rest in bed and snore

close eyes and sleep forevermore

hurting you it wounds me deep

to see you cry and never sleep

I am not worthy of forgiveness 

the evil within passes into deep

I want you so much yet, your not mine to keep

The Dark of Day

In my mind I travel

the galaxy here I go

I like to see planets with an orange glow

Stars flicker in a pale moonlight

emblems of the sun shoot out

colliding nebulas have a secret spout 

there are twinkles of mystery all around

possible life in an unknown shroud

covers of blanketed pearly clouds

the light of day has to come 

presentation of our only sun

exploding colour of autumn trees

beautiful sight of bumble bees

not seen often in my shrouded life of dark

unless I am walking in the sun lit park

mostly move through the long hard days

until the clear night shows the stars at bay

I know I am not considered insane

tho’ the struggle in life has always the gain. 

Universally

Little boxes of architectural perfectionism 

Picasso cubism with a mathematical correctionism 

closest to intricacies developed from Marxism

palaces scraping high in the sky as byism 

conglomeration of structurally built colonialism 

colourful spectacle observed as stars by alienism 

reaching creationism of planets in a solar system

rewarding with humanistic caring from planetariums 

saving earth by reaching out to unique worldisms

twinkles of light across planets of spaceism

reaching communities as complete peacefulism

Bitter to the end

The shiver reaches your soul when you are alone

It cuts right through you in the damp crisp air

too long have you felt the icy wind

may you strive on in vain nothing will change

you never wanted anyone 

so no one is what you have 

alone you are until your death

Not so long after, you died alone

broken hearts stand aside to watch your going

lowering your ropes with tears in their eyes

looking into your life as through a bunch of spies

hoping to hear you say “I was wrong”

but like your life it was in vain 

for you died as you lived, all alone

everyone went away shrugging off the pain 

there you still lay in the icy cold day, alone yet again

Baggins from the Shire

Protected from a vest of Mithril, glowing sword warns of orcs so close to you, Sting’ in the hand of a brave warrior to slice the few, never before had a hobbit oh’ so brave, taken a ring of power to rule the slave

a screaming menace grasps the precious so tight

until lost in the mountain on one dark night.

The ring called the bearer in need to be free

it chose its host wisely for a greater need

a master is calling for the power to feed

One ring to rule all; the masters greed

he will look everywhere with his wandering eye

he will send kings thus slaves across the sky

on land to find the ring for the power is nye. 

he feels it and sees it, the hobbit is close

the one true precious he desires the most. 

a goblin or dwarf or twisted from the shire 

Sméagol’ called to him other self G-G-Gollum 

whichever his loss his precious is stolen! 

to follow and have at the end of day, to be with the precious for there is no other way.

He hates the baggings the conniving thief

will strangle and grab the hobbitsies’

dragons breath and fire of gold

accompanied few with adventures told

desire to sneak fore-warned a thief 

Bilbo Baggins, master mischievousness 

takes the precious and gambles stone

gives up the portion that belonged to him

Thorin Dwarf, king under the mountain 

angered to hurt beyond belief

receives a blow, the dragon gone; overthrown 

killed with the black arrow pierced on the patch

he once and for all had met his match

this story ends for now ere’ is born

the future belongs in another mighty yet small.

Happy Teenager

There you are racing happily in your vehicle of two

enjoying what life offers with your friend and you

observing your struggles of health then not

still you are young, enjoying all you have got

compared to others you have not a lot, true

cheerfully happy and often not blue 

Though a smiling teenager with all your life to give

not a care in the world for how long you could live

I have only one prayer for a child that is true

I wish all children that struggle, could be like you

keep cheerful for sad times and a day that’s blue

racing the corridors in your chariot of two. 

Always has a say

Contemplating life, it’s devastating in store

I cannot tell, for I’m not wishing to bore

thinking of a history where hurt shows no bounds

damaged with a heart that is openly found

some say I am at fault, some are correct in thought 

a fragile individual, emotionally caught

on the outside strong yet, do not belong

enough, has been said, it’s time now for bed

to crawl up the stairs, resting a buzzing head

reaction to the words, once or twice said

speak can be bitter, it is a cut like a knife

sticks and stones could take a persons life. 

forging ahead is the only way

depression dredging on, it always has a say

The book

I wrote a book about 10 years ago 

although unlike my life it’ll never end

unlike my life it’ll never be broken

never need to mend

it’ll sit on the shelf next to its friend

never alone with only itself to fend

I wrote a book 10 years ago

it’ll never be fake, decieve my heart

it’ll never be finished although it had a start

never have reason to leave the shelf

what’s the reason to read a book 

without a finish never requiring a second look. 

Winds changing chill

Whisper goes the wind in the wild fields of grey

the bitter Icelandic cold is calling to say

“better get home quick with no delay” 

“It is going to be cold until may”

“the chill is hard, the snow lay thick”

“lucky for you, your house is brick”

In a changing world for boys and girls

drains are clogged with fattened gel

seas destructive plastic waste

pour down sinks your mouldy baste

wipe the smirk right off your face

I’d rather not be here in this place

Ignorance is bliss without a kiss

never forget it could be missed

or bomb the world and wake up pissed

if it’s dark is there nothing to see?

a tree falls in a forest, it’s just a tree

when everyone dies, will Jesus see ? 

You were there

The darkness passes over a static moment

crumbling rock of volcanic liquid  in history 

forgiveness is a difficult duress within a mystery

good for the soul they say perhaps another day

pause, allow oneself to breathe, wipe it off your sleeve

soon I will be dead it’s not something that I dread

it’s an end to the life of carbohydrates and bread

I would have been nothing if it weren’t for you

life changed me, like the taming of a shrew

you were the answer to the life in a stew

pissing it up and losing a shoe

struggling emotionally of mental dread

more times than I remember, I wished to be dead

each day was more hurtful than the day before

I would be nothing if you hadn’t opened the door

cast aside dreadfully for wanting more.

I’ve never been lucky, when counting the score

Suburb

Waking in the darkness of night

the moon shapes the shadows, 

predatory creatures roam the streets of fright

Foxes screams are heard from afar

cubs hunger a cry of wah 

cars rumbling at the concrete road

killing all in their path

creeping along the street that leads into a passage 

waiting is the man with a knife 

fearful from a life of baggage

‘a peaceful little town’ they say 

then not return once they have been away

who is next to be caught in a web

for they cannot go back to living dead

Prayer of restoration

Oh lord hearken thy call

release thee from thine abominable fall

let thy clutching for joy be at the end

thy peace of eternity 

tho’ forward do send

Unquenchable Loneliness

Thy soul in darkness departed from all sense of awareness, disconnected tho’ is considered normality, untouched by reality, feeling a deep sense of unquenchable loneliness. 

A shimmering dagger placed close to thy heart, one small joust of release, reappropriating disordered whirlwind of chaos then peace.

silence as a restoration of thy soul endures a wait to infinity 

gone are expectations of inconsequential ability,

sleep for what appears to be eternity,

never to wake. 

What can I do at 62 ?

Working long hours, a life I have lived

never expected anything, had nothing to give 

promoted many times to strive even harder

still there was no storage to put in the larder

I might just quit, what else is there to do? 

for a no good bastard of 62

Grasping at happiness, failing at all

many times over there is no drop to fall

career minded slave yet awkwardly blinded

deceit is the gift from trusting in kindness

I know it ends soon then I will go home 

though knowing my luck, I’ll be digging up bones

Poetry of Rhyme

One day I decided a poet would be brave

thus started the works of colour in grey

I glanced up at the clock ‘‘twas end of the day

my heart not content but filled with dismay

for it was broken by whatever  

some nonsense I had written

forlornly rhyming gibberish 

from a soul that had been bitten

A photographer I fancied

would be geographically flourished

so began taking pictures of the undernourished

mr blobby at his best in a white chequered vest

drinking a strong looking beer In an alcoholic mess

ignorantly not realising his heart was bereft

at the end of his nightmare taking a rest

someone said a ‘painter you possibly could be’

I held a brush in my hand and began merrily

painting a shadow, a wall, a house

spreading the paint in shape of a mouse

painting skirting, as grey as my heart

sometimes wishing, I never did start

then a master came along

said ‘a painter you’ll never be’

fruitfully hysterical, at the state of me

So I turned my life around, one last time

continued writing a book longer than a rhyme

I finished the end, the beginning was next

yet the middle was difficult it flustered me vext

I gave up the job with poetry in mind 

I wrote a diddle with a middle, of a boy with a fiddle 

a poem so soulful like a steak on a griddle

a story of life going down in the puddle

a poet I cannot be without rhyme and riddle. 

Little Butterfly

Come down here or you’ll get stuck 

do not flutter and fly into what’s bad luck

you may be pretty but your daft as a brush

going to nowhere to a higher up hush

come land on my hand I will take you outside

not near the light where you may get fried

there is freedom in trust and love in my word

to do anything but release you would be quite absurd

with a little understanding it flew and I cupped

sitting for a while not leaving abrupt

within a few minutes it flew into the sky

with a flap of its wings to whisper goodbye

A gift to the world

My one ‘true love’was a man that loved his mother

A man that cared for the world

A man that tried also to please everyone 

A man that was manipulated through life

A man in love with his daughter and wife

A man with a beautiful heart

A man that spoke to each and everyone

This man loved music and was considered a king

with a god given talent more precious than any

The day he died the whole world

Fell in to mourning destroyed by such loss

I was as heartbroken as were most 

stories have been told and the truth been lost

I pray to God that he is in heaven 

I also pray that one day I shall meet him 

by the side of Jesus Christ our lord

Thank you dear Lord for a gift given to all

Elvis Aaron Presley 

A la Carte’

Im not paying for the art im paying for the food

So’ instead of leaving me hungry and in a mood

give me enough to eat, then I’ll feel full

After eating I dont want to feel hungry as a lord

I don’t want to feel hungry at all

then go up the road eating McDonalds 

Our Dogs

Our best friends are our dogs, they love to go out, waiting in anticipation and looking at us intently; which is their talk, waiting for their favourite word ‘walk’

When we go to work people left are disgruntled showing it upon our return, they rarely learn, our dogs no matter how long alone, are excited to see us, wanting nothing more than to give us a fuss, they don’t hiss and cuss; ‘not our dogs’ they love our hugs and cuddles then to sleep off their hard days sleep. Feeding them are no hard joys, eating food that is pre-baked then now and again having steak

When we go to bed they lay on the end, no trouble to mend except the extra leg room to stretch, then slowly slip up the bed, resting behind our knees then nearer our head, waking up with a kiss to check if we’re dead.

We will only have them for a few short years and when that day comes we will cry tears and tears, why do we go through it against all odds, because we love nothing better but to love our dogs.