Word Flow

Words are my breath and my blood.

I breathe complex emotions and hopes for humanity.

I haemorrhage out the pains and sadness of a world in torment.

I sigh a poem onto the page,

Bleed my story onto the paper.

To be without words is to be without life,

Starved of oxygen,

Suffocating on a void,

Drained of blood,

My ink would spill.



Photo Credit: Janina-Photography

Dead Travellers

The dust of the dead grimace beneath my weight
The natural and mostly unatural smells of the living infect my nasal cavity
Empty vessels riding in solitary unison
Individual lives conjoined yet remain unknown
O’er moors and beyond
The expense of movement
The extra unwanted costs of public transport

Glossed over

They lay in wait, under the surface,
Glossed over.
Brown, green, grey, black, beige
Occasionally blue, red and yellow
Something’s happened!
Some new event requiring a response
They bubble and swirl, rise and fall
Flow like a stream through a shaded glen, the sounds bringing calm to all who hear.
Surge like a storm ready to lay waste to it’s environment, destruction incarnate.
Gloss it over!
It’s starting to get out!
Apply on another coat!
Now grey, response subsided.
The layers are thick, they crack and peel, they won’t hold forever.
But for now they are back in their colourless prison
Glossed over,
They lay in wait, under the surface.


Photo: Harold Hollingsworth  Some rights reserved No changes were made.

Changing Verse

What is this feeling I can’t quite comprehend?
A melancholic sadness without a joyous end
Sorrowful acceptance of the way things were
Understanding that it’ll never quite be
A relief of future pains not dealt,
Yet mourning future pains not felt.

Must move on,
Mustn’t dwell!
But I shall,
A mere partial farewell.
This is no end,
A simple hurdle.
Necessary change
Or the inevitable curdle.

Changing styles for changing times,
Proof that nothing stays the same.
Even though this is my current chosen medium,
Metre, rhyme and verse, are lame.