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