(published in Solstice 1)
I was 7 and a half
When I lost my
I had many friends
My closest was called Peter.
Your actions turned him
Against me, my family
Home became a prison
School a place of fear.
You who embraced anger
Stoked the fires of Hatred
Used violence to give yourself a voice.
I was 7 and a half
your deaths stole my childhood
My home, my friends.
Only now at 35 can I look back
And realize that was the beginning
Of all my later emotional problems.
I still bear the emotional scars wounds that run deep.
I no longer hate you for what you took from me.
And yet, I Still Wake In The Dark Afraid
Because of you.
(originally published in The Poets Place anthology)
Quicken muse, your words
Can spark an amber fire:
Defender of the past
Vanguard of futures
Enemy of the present.
Quicken, muse your words
Portray these foetid qualities in
Tumble down civilisation
Harbinger of change, whisperer
Quicken muse, your words
An island, a door.
The Poet Oracle,
Quicken, muse your words,
Open new worlds,
Share these burdens
Deliver hope, wisdom?
(Originally published in Speech Therapy ezine)
Sheltered field of pleasant green
The susurrus of distant wind,
Protests at intrusion,
Between windswept trees,
Belfast, metallic fossils, David and Goliath,
Painthall Studios: the vistas
testaments to urbanised myth
This is my quiet place,
A step away from the world.
Apart and yet a part.
(originally used by Papergirl Belfast)
Steel capped icebergs’ pierce the sky.
In artificial towers
Rapunzels refused to let down their hair,
Satisfied to watch the tired and hungry
Like ants scrabble for scraps.
Sharp eyed ‘suits’ stand at bullet proof windows.
In climate controlled towers,
A hand forms an O shape
Crocodile smilers imagine crushing every bug
Before returning to solitaire and innumerable
Smoke like a jealous lover hoards the city
Smothers the masses in her choking grasp
Industrial furnaces churn out mass produced
Tomorrow’s perfect flawed commodities
Shelf life limited
The seagulls fight over scraps
Countries and business
Scrabble and bicker over dwindled resources
The prima donna runs from the stage her
It is always four degrees colder under the
artificial steel valleys
Cold caress of monumental man
They erode nature’s purpose
Millennia replaced by minutes
Business and cities hold a diseased
To leave a legacy
Lines of tired and weary
Tramp towards the factory gates
Shackled to endless drudgery
Unnoticed the fisher king flies away
His place of beauty overcome with dross
The music box winds down
The ballerina stoops
Gathers her flowers accepts the crowds ululations
Masked youths rebel before a burning bus
In their towers untouched
The great smile and crow
Let them eat cake
The next three were featured in Bone Orchard Poetry
The Time Machine
It begins almost motherly,
a return to the warmth of the womb,
a central point on the journey to oblivion,
time travel is a lie an uncaring trick of time.
Slowly through rheumatic eyes the present,
fades away, sound, cold, future,
all these are frozen,
The first signs of possibility,
appear bubbles in the stream,
each a window, a doorway,
into the past,
Here a child did not fall out of bed,
their sudden awakening saving the lives
of those dwelling within.
The Time Machine is a lie.
Rather than showing the past,
each portal leads to a distortion,
a prison for the unwary,
Here he went to university;
sought his dream as an artist,
there is a tightness now,
sudden desire to breathe,
The Time Machine will not allow it.
The traveller realizes,
the trap they are caught in,
Focused so tightly on the
journey they did not notice the;
failing strength in limbs,
there is an urgency now,
a burning now time seeks,
to consume them.
A sound, a voice, a mothers distant
cry, the present has almost faded to black,
Hairy thews pluck the traveller from,
the machine breathe life back into;
fragile body too weak for time travel,
too weak to be left unsupervised,
in the local pool the boy opens his
eyes and cries. `
The Wilding Path
I see the hidden spheres which over lap our own,
not all of the time but there are moments,
of crystal clarity/
in the rain/
a sudden ray of sun.
There are places where the doors are open ,
the tiniest whisper of a forgotten past,
previously/ I stood near one,
The whispering wood to many this overgrown,
tree choked with vines is a part of nature,
I have seen beneath the veil/ to a stone wall
An old mill my hands traced the stone work,
in the deepest shadows where man isn’t welcome,
The silence was deafening/
I opened my mind to,
A hard working miller busy grinding
corn as children played in the waterhole,
women busy drying clothes laughing at their antics.
I stepped back into the warmth of the day
the chill seeping from my bones,
I look down and see the waterhole now filled with –
sediment natures cruel touch has scoured it away
slowly overgrown as the angry waters surged past,
I walked onwards reflecting/
I played here as a child.
My path crumbles before me/
seemingly the ground smashed by an angry god
huge rents make it difficult
I came to a tributary a place where I once waited for seven hours.
lost as a child frightened tears and snot smeared my face in the dark/
I waded across the stream passed the lying rocks.
Skipping across bleached stones the bones of mountains past,
I slowly approach the coldest of places,
The chill settling in I can feel your uncaring gaze/
trapped in the stones which formed a perfect circle around you.
I was but a child then/
you pointed the way back
for a price.
Did my mind play tricks?
did you really move to
wood rubbing against wood/
the cackling of a hag?
the ivy flowed like a/
mane of unkempt hair down your back.
A single ray of sunlight breaks the silence/
like children’s laughter
soared out the moment passed,
I see you for what you are a tree twisted by a quirk of fate,
to a child’s eye/
a feminine form/
languidly stretched towards the sky
I turn and walk away from the cackling tree,
I hear a peal of feminine laughter and run home
away from that accursed tree.
Your dark birth has long been prophesied,
My dark parasite needed yet twisted
Far beyond your original purpose.
You have shared this flesh since infancy,
Your dark touch has left its mark,
Ravaged my body stained my soul.
Sadly your parasitic presence is
Needed, serves a primary function,
A function carried out grudgingly.
That touch a constant reminder,
Flares, the rage cripples,
Draws blood, steals breath.
Entropy approaches our parting
Inevitable I wait for that day:
Torn, your functionality important.
A caged beast you punish:
Your host lashes out blindly,
Rage and pain all consuming.
I am consumed, clutch
Just below the ribcage,
God but there are days
I find myself asking,
Why life’s parasite? Why birth?