Tunnel Dwellers

Tunnel dwellers living in the dark

sleeping on the ground or in the park

hands out hoping for a handful of help

From a cold careless country in a gambling belt 

Tunnel dwellers beneath the feet

of those in casinos with riches complete 

wasting millions to win or to lose

fodder for casinos from years of abuse 

Tunnel dwellers all around the globe

strength in surviving, no ability to cope

serving time until winter comes

digging in deeper in a last desperate hope

America the great with a penalised state

walk past the homeless, life is great

England the wealthy, counting a penny

those uncared for children haven’t got any

apathy rules supreme it is often seen

countries around the world are obscene

prostituting children in wealthy city’s

no care for the poor and no time for pity 

They must see the past about people’s need 

war is inevitable with xenophobic greed

governments to blame for inciting gain

billions of poor still suffering in pain

Tunnel dwellers in the dark

hidden underground, no future, no spark

the poorest of poor, children in tow

In the darkest, deepest places

unnoticed in a hole

Triggered Emotions

here at rest weeping from memories of the past

shadows of the ghosts haunting will last

simple pictures in an historical mind

remembering days when things seemed more kind

passing through life as if I were blind

The pie and mash shop, F.W. Cooke’s its name

Kingsland high street, Dalston, no other the same

Sir Thomas Abney, five to thirty-five 

enjoying the moment watching my children play

while caring for others in a kind way

a little glimpse of what once was

carrying emotions of the unworthy cost

fighting the torture, the cost of pain

hoping to never visit it, ever again

I’ll miss my family to my death

my friends that were never there to see

that’s what I hate most about me

one day soon our lives will end

then there will be nothing left to mend

Changes

Facing atrocities,committing expectations 

changes altering your choice of a happy life

not your own doing a merciless decision

stealing your worth as valued person 

downward spiralling, depressive grudge

it will not improve, by an out of control judge

discounting money, irrelevant schemes

make the changes yourself for happier themes

You inner person is not a slave

worth your “weight in gold” they say

be strong, while you live and behave

Yet changes only change

if strength in choices are brave

Richard

Set upon in a car park taking blows to the head

beaten with a blunt weapon until you were dead

your skull smashed into pieces 

Clothes tattered with creases

attacked from all around until your life ceases

They said it could be drink to help the pain

Shoppers in cars thought, ‘this is insane’

parking in town, a horrific disturbance 

should have gone to Derby to watch the races

lots of people watching, shocked looking faces

‘A horse, a horse, my Kingdom for a horse’

they were the last words you spoke of course

an angry Tudor force, suddenly became barmy

men of military brave-hearts from the local army

saw you were King Richard iii juiced up and smarmy

Last day of his life, died at 33

strong as an oak, of the royal family tree

1485 the date of your death

it wasn’t a car park when you drew your last breath

Gilly and Callum, well they go shopping, instead

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.