These words kind of fell out of me tonight. The very first sentence was what triggered it, and as happens a lot, the rest just… Flowed. I hope you like it.

If I listened to the wine,
I’d pick up the phone,
Your voice would be soothing
To hear.
But that way lies sorrow
And things for tomorrow
So for now I’ll just sit
And cry here.

If I trusted the music,
I’d think love was real,
And not a cruel promise
That broke.
And the pain that did follow
With a heart made so hollow
Would not echo with words
Never spoke.

If the clocks could run backwards,
I’d start all anew,
Not make the mistakes that
Were made.
I’d inhale and I’d swallow
All my plans of tomorrow
For no future is too bright
To fade.


Dear readers,
Are there any left? It’s been what feels like aeons since I had the motivation, inspiration, creative spark to write something new. But at last, I have something to post. It’s not my best (where ‘best’ is a quite nebulous quality) but it’s something new and that makes me happy, as it proves my elusive muse has not yet abandoned me completely. I hope you like this, and can understand the imagery. Thanks for reading.

I’ve smashed the frame
And broke the glass,
The mirror showing awful past.
No more my twin
With judging eyes,
Will hurt me with a wicked laugh.

Gaze nevermore
To turn away,
From cold reflected unkind truth.
Instead the light
Of newborn day
Reminder of my precious youth.

They fall away
My gathered years
And vic’tries past are sweet recalled.
This aged shell
Is swift renewed
Now mirror has been so unwalled.

But oh alas
This view is false
All passing days are laid so bare.
So once again
I face the truth
Of this poor mortal standing there.

The Tyburn tree

I was watching a TV show about 18th century English ‘rogues’ and they talked about the hanging site in London – known as the Tyburn tree. This poem came from that. I hope you like it.

My time has come,
My crimes before all
Gathered here to see;
To journey down
The Oxford road,
And join the
Tyburn tree.

Caught fair and square,
By mister Wilde and
That’s as how it be;
He’ll see me hang
Beneath the blue,
A fruit of
Tyburn tree.

This London town,
In all its filth has
Been a home to me;
And yet alas,
‘twil be my end,
Beneath the
Tyburn tree.

Yet no regret,
Does this son feel
For such a thief as he;
As he will grace
The swinging noose,
That hangs from
Tyburn tree.

And so we draw,
Amongst the crowds who
Stand and stare at me;
Their hero now
Has come in pride,
Before the
Tyburn tree.

Oh raise a drink,
And give a shout and
Maybe pray for me;
For here I end
With neck in noose,
Beneath the
Tyburn tree.

Rooms Of The Dead

This is a piece that suddenly arrived, and had to be written. It hasn’t happened like this for a long time and I’ve missed it. I hope you like it, morbid though it is.

All is quiet,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the dust of what’s past
Lies deep.
A shadow, it grows,
In the silvery glow
Of a moon that forbids me
To sleep.

All is dire,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the dreams of the dark
Do creep.
My memory shows,
With the pictures it knows,
A dark past with such secrets
I keep.

All is final,
In the rooms of the dead,
Where the truth of the soul
Is bleak.
All punishment owed,
And for whom the bell tolls,
A dark sowing is now mine
To reap.

I Remember

My muse, my long lost stranger, seems to have remembered where I live and now has decided to visit again. This one came from just one sentence, and flowed from there. One of the joys I get from writing is when that happens. I hope you like it.

I remember how they danced,
Unknowing view from way on high;
The secret see of lovers grace,
With tears of sorrow on my face,
And all about this haunted place,
I remember how they danced.

I remember how they laughed,
Such painful sound within my ears;
Dark joy of lovers seen below,
With me above where they don’t know,
To spy upon this love sick show,
I remember how they laughed.

I remember how they kissed,
A wicked dagger to my heart;
The fates conspire with nought that’s fair,
While I alone can sit and stare,
To see old lover standing there,
I remember how they kissed.

I remember how we kissed,
And how we laughed at all the world;
Forever was our time in space,
My only vision your sweet face,
And though another takes my place,
I remember how we danced.


I love the language of Shakespeare. The forms, the words, the ebb and flow of his speeches and scenes. I wish I had the smallest modicum of his talent, to be able to craft words in the way he did. All I can do, in my own silly and unworthy way, is to try and write things in the flavor of his language.

In deepest night,
Whilst sleep did so evade me,
Such wicked vision with malice
And cruelty did come, to mine eyes.
O, could man such as me stand
A sight so evil? But in all darkness
Abound, one more dark picture
Could not any more disturb this
Sweet wine doth lose its potency,
Dark poppy, with its heavy smoke,
Doth fail in all its ability.
All thoughts of restoring sleep
Are driven, as the wind doth drive the
Clouds, away and far, by these scenes
So shown to mine eyes.
O torturous mind, why must thou
Bring to me such unwanted and
Unwarranted scenes? Be at peace, you,
And grant this man only sleep, in all
Its blessed majesty. Sleep, and only sleep.

The Island Of Symi

My dear readers.
Are there any of you left? My life has gone through a few changes and upheavals and my creative muscle has grown flaccid. Weak. Nonexistent.
For the first time in weeks, I have managed to produce something new and original. It’s not my best, but it’s NEW and it’s a start back on the road to writing. If there are any of you left, thank you for sticking with me. I hope to start writing more again.

The island of Symi, 
It calls me again, 
The sun and the sea
And the darling lost friends. 
Where balconies beckon, 
With views of the sky, 
A glass of red wine 
And a glint in my eye.

The island of Symi, 
Apart from the land, 
The fishing boat shadows 
Glow dark on the sand.
Where streets full of wonder, 
That narrowly twist, 
The scent of your perfume, 
The taste of your kiss.

The island of Symi, 
Oh, please take me back, 
The sea and the sun
Are what my life lacks. 
We’ll wander the narrows, 
And talk down the day, 
The island of Symi, 
Is where we shall stay. 


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