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.