Saturday, 30 April 2011

In Between Rounds

I have worn my skin down to its last stitch
and I am now rewarded with a rest
but I must still soak in the coach's pitch
and then put their methods to the test.

So whilst I try to refill my lungs
I cannot lay back and close my tired eyes
for they must closely observe frantic tongues
which attempt to devise plans and advise.

The break on the muscles is hard on the brain
and now my body dreads the next assault
knowing that it must yet withstand more pain
my brain wonders when this onslaught will halt.

A break can be welcome in between rounds
but the prospect of more scares and confounds.

Monday, 25 April 2011

The Safety in Woodlands

My branches are old and worn
but they will always hold you.

My leaves are battered and torn
but they'll always shelter you.

My trunk may be coarse and thick
but it'll always support you.

My thorns may have a sharp prick
but they'll always defend you.

My roots may be deep and tied
but they'll always anchor us.

My reach may be high and wide
but I won't lose sight of us.

My forests will always home
the hungry hearts of the wild
with many trees we're not alone
and the soily earth is our child.

Skipping Stones

Skipping stones, how you bounce and bound
to some unknown place to be found
using each wave as a spring board
as I count up how I have scored.
My ripples are stretching quite far
and now I wonder where you are
hoping you've reached another coast
where your bounce will be missed the most.

The Words and the Wind

Every time I attempt to turn the page
the wind picks up and defies my wishes
so I'm stuck with incessant words of rage,
the overturned corner sways and swishes.

So I take a tighter grip of my pad
and I wrench the page away to the next
with its clarity not feeling as bad
I fill it with my sentiments less vexed.

But when I lift my pen to start anew
the pages all flicker back to the start
when I would let my sorrow in words brew
and the heavy wind matched my heavy heart.

And yet I'm sure that the wind will die down
and give my writing less reasons to frown.


Threads intertwine so intricate and fine
from their bonds making solidarity
with each glistening string keeping in line
working together in clear parity.

And what they create is something so warm
that they keep the coldest winters at bay
together weathering the harshest storm
until thickly knitted clouds go away

These closely made ties can last forever
if all united and no ends are loose
but should one line succumb to the weather
they'd bend and break like their initial truce.

Wrapped together our hearts could travel
but one weak link would make us unravel.

The Beautiful Death

The Beautiful Death.
I often dream of you.
I'm not suicidal,
I'm not a quitter,
and I'm not even sad,
but is it not better to finish life
with happy thoughts
rather than to let despair one day defeat you?
I want to write my own destiny
rather than to become a victim of age;
to be time's slave.
I stand at the hilt of a mountain
looking down on the sea
where the sunlight glistens on the ripples
of fluid flowing glitter.
The fall looks so inviting,
I want to soar strongly
with miles to fall before I sleep.
But not today.
I will write my own beautiful death,
but I have many more years to enjoy my breath.

Then Again

with this content.
My ink is spent,
my nib is bent.

with how it's dried.
This sunken tide
will soon subside.


This is just a transfer
from mind to paper
and though you don't know
what I'm thinking about
I do,
and so the process lightens me.
And though the art
is scarce in here
I'm proud,
because it makes me feel stronger.
And though you'll never know
my thoughts when in this state,
I'll soon forget
and all will be well with a cleansed page.


Jewellery worn like shiny shackles,
they're an ostentatious burden to wear
and for each hardship their soft shine tackles
another comes, twice as heavy to bear.

Yet they could have memory and meaning
for understated beauty shines brightly.
When there's much more to them than their gleaming
you should keep them close and hold them tightly.

Chain around my neck, soon you will choke me.
Ring around my finger, your circle will break.
It was your irrelevance which broke me
when I realised your shine was fake.

Let me lie alone, unburdened and bare
living without unnecessary care.


I am burned out
as you drain the life out of me;
but I can see that it's killing you.

When you take me in your hands
I don't feel loved, just needed.
You'd quit me if you could
and yet I'm so addictive
to place in your mouth
and take long hard drags.

I am a cigarette.
and die young with me.


Parachutes floating
must eventually sink down;
it's the way of life.


I'm tired of feeling like a ghost
when other mortals show their flesh
and though our boat had left the coast
the water is no longer fresh.

I can't pretend to like a group
whose loutish manners make me sick
and when you always move the hoop
I know my aim will never stick.

So let my ghost haunt your daytime
floating in your ocean of guilt
and should I pretend to be fine
I pray your target is well built.

I want to burn all these loose ends
and make sense of my confusion
eradicating the false friends
and letting our threads get fusion.

Parallel Lines

You and I are parallel lines
which share the same direction
but not recognising the signs
we both miss out on affection.

For parallel lines never touch
when all they want is to converge
and to be this close can be too much
when they're willing their lips to merge.

You are in the same form as me
so I know you feel it too
but we know that a cross can't be
and we're so stuck with what to do.

So we will continue our ways
to somewhere perpendicular
whose lines touch us, then stays
more personal and particular

Wednesday, 20 April 2011


Of the many million grains of sand
I pick up one and place it in my hand,
disregarding a desert's worth of grains
I hold this one clear through life's trials and strains,
and should the ocean wash beaches away
I know that in my hand this one piece will stay.
Of the many million grains of sand
your grain stands out, everlasting and grand.


How your vicious waves crash against the rocks
like one thousand galloping white horses
curling overhead and spraying my locks
rendering us victims to the sea's forces.

The salt soaks deep into our weathered skin
and washes away the trickling beads of sweat
as your roaring voice is guiding me in
sounding so tempting, fiercely wild and wet.

The sunlight glistens on your highest peaks
somehow attracting me to your danger
until I'm lost in your colour for weeks
and I regard the land as a stranger.

I want your tides to grip and pull me ashore
for your savage beauty is one I adore.


Sink down to the bottom with me
and discover another world,
we could share this moment and be
as if we had been born anew.
The finer things in life come free
for love's not a crisp note nor pearled
and true happiness has no fee;
at the bottom my smile is true.

Let us now to the surface float
to breathe in the freshest of air,
finding somewhere safe and remote
we can be standed together.
Do not end us a rescue boat
for we live without a care
with our plots happy and unwrought
the future's as bright as the weather.


Today everything felt clear,
I had nothing to fear
and everything made sense.
My head that once was dense
was now light and elated.
I don't know if this was related
to the sun melting my heavy head
or music singing thoughts to bed
but I wanted this focus to last
and to forget about the past.
Today I could run many mile
and still manage to smile.
Today I sensed a shift
that allowed my mind to drift.
I hope this feeling stays a while.

Everything In Its Right Place

Please do not tip my scales
don't twist my rubix cube.
Do not move my jigsaw piece
and don't reset my sails.

Please do not right my wrongs
or change my equations.
Do not alter my meter
or the content of my songs.

For I have found clarity
in a life of parity.
I feel so hapy and yet strange.
To keep demons at bay
I know this balance must stay
and so nothing I will change.

I understand everything:
I no longer want to sing
and nor do I want to cry.
My mind has been put to grace.
Everything has found its place;
now I must understand why.

Racking Hat

I want to hang up my hat
but I fear that I'll get stuck
and that I'll never get back
if I'm too close to the hook.

So it's better to keep close
to the things I might not need
and so I'll keep on my clothes
and wont let their red threads bleed.

But I know there'll come a time
when my head may get too hot
and in discomfort I'll dine
rushing to finish my pot.

I want to hang up my hat
for my burdened head needs rest
and should I not get it back
then the hook must have been blessed.

A Resonate Sonnet

The world rests on textures intertwined
with life's soft harmonies of highs and lows.
Alone so humdrum, beautiful they bend,
dulcet ambience with loud crescendos.

Genres spread over different continents
each with unique sounds to love and behold,
filled with different lyrics and instruments
in magnificence, understated yet bold.

The chorus of our time repeats itself
and we grow nostalgic towards the past
when this sonic beauty was its wealth;
an abundance of long notes meant to last.

But every song must fade out to silence
when drowned out with man's destructive violence.

Cataclysmic Scales

A rabble of ants are congregating
around a grubby piece of human waste.
They'd get crushed if they stood about waiting
so they gorge on its worth in sudden haste.

Footsteps rumble like one thousand battle drums
alerting them that they must end their feast
and so they carry off their atlas crums
scurrying away from the frightful beast.

But alas thir steps did not match his stride
and their soles dropped under his dark sole's shade
on the day thousands of families died
leaving one thousand more broken and frayed.

A simple walk, meaning nothing at all
is a disaster to something so small.

Between the Lines

Reading back
on scribbled sentiments
I observe
how situations, subject
and success
can so quickly alter
between where one line ends
and another one begins.


The magnitude of mountains make the trees
seem like mere foliage lightly scattered
with striped planes flying by the size of bees
and people are ants; scurrying, battered.

A staircase of boulders leading to bed
at the very bottom of the vast sea
where the fish will lightly lay their head
when the time come that they must cease to be.

Meanwhile, the land we roam seems so little
when framed with this magnificent landscape
and we are just cells, bounding and brittle
which barely define how the world takes shape.

Insignificance is such a real view
so does it matter what we decide to do?


I will let your taillights guide my road
in the dead of night, following your tread
until I arrive at my engine's abode
and am content with where I've been lead.

I will not let anyone overtake
for fear of losing sight of your tyred trail
and should I get too close that I need to break
I pray that my worn pedals will not fail.

I beg you to indicate in advance
to let me know of the roads sudden forks
and should I leave my direction for chance,
chance will not leave me in a cloud of smoke.

Where we are headed, I do not yet know
but I'm sure I'll be wherever you go.

Coital Coasts

Nothing causes me more delight
than the sea's pleasurable sigh
as she stretches out and pulls tight,
moistening that which once was dry.

She makes rocks grind and multiply,
pouncing on their hard solid might.
Guided by the moon way up high
she is a creature of the night.

She is such a wonderous sight
curving unabashed and unshy,
spraying rocks with refreshing white,
louder in her deafening cry.

The ocean bed is hers to lie
where she's both strong and only slight
but one day her tides will die
in an overdrawn, exhausted plight.


A weight when removed
is a weight doubled upon renewal
so it is better to bear the weight
and bare the wait.

The Friction of Clouds

Her chest rhythmically plunged and mounted
like the way the waves lap against the sand.
Each short intake of breath she took counted
she was enthralled by his beguiling hand.

He too was enslaved by her delicate touch
both of their lips parting like the soft clouds,
fingernails scratching, they tightened their clutch
until the wind was moaning, soft yet loud.

They began a tempest furious and strong,
the friction of their clouds made the sky explode
with flashed of white and thunder so long
as each and every cloud emptied their load.

You can find so much beauty in a storm
so let us lie together and be warm.

The Man Behind the Pen

Your personality is reflected
in the way you write.
It can never be perfected
yet you're always right.

Take myself and my words for example;
I can care too much
and I show this verbosely and ample...
I worry too much.

On most accounts I favour a structure
but I am messy...
I press on too hard
when at times
I should loosen my grip.
My ink reaks of hypocracy;
the substance of my thoughts.

I show passion for things of beauty;
I value my life.
I too respect honesty and duty;
the values of life.


When your mind is dark
there is only one way out;
set yourself on fire.


Delicate flowers
have the roughest of edges
to ward off trouble.

Not to be Read

It's a dangerous hobby I keep
for I wear my heart on the sheet
and I fear that you might read
and then you'll decide to leave
because you see where I'm weak.


How much in life
is interchangable
and how much
is rightfully ours
and set in some fateful stone?

Is this life I lead
the life I was meant to have?
Am I supposed to be here,
are you supposed to be mine
or was it a choice I made on my own?

Treacherous Beauty

Beauty can be so treacherous;
towering landscapes standing tall
provide a backdrop for us to fall.

Beauty can be so treacherous;
coloured seas in one moment calm
the next their tempests are causing harm.

Beauty can be so treacherous;
the radiant sun, warm and kind
could just as swiftly burn and blind.

Beauty can be so treacherous;
the shining bright hue in your eyes
could still be there when you tell lies.

Beauty can be so treacherous;
the warmth emitted from your smile
might be frozen in just a while.

Beauty can be so treacherous;
so should we seek out life's allure
or settle for something plain but pure?

Soaked In

Words soaked in with a smile
but all the while
feelings stirring, blurring
until my guts are tearing
and I can't take
what was a past mistake
when present tense
makes much more sense,
and yet I can't live in pretence
when I stay on my defence
and that's why I lock you out
but I never shout.
Over the brim
willing my thoughts to dim
and just for the mean time
I'll smile and say that I'll be fine,
in denial
feeling words will always leave me riled.
But no.
I'll close file,
end trial,
it's all soaked in,
forgetting what's been,
it's all soaked in with a smile

Work the Process

no more
Work the

Troubles In Doubles

Bleary eyes, lairy tongued
little thought
for people wronged
and yet my mouth
has such sweet taste
that I feel
all sin's erased
and so I gulp
in heroic pace
until I feel
an utter waste
and then I think
of people wronged
and I'm not so fond
of my tongue.

Saturday, 9 April 2011

The Nature of Youth

Thoughts gather like the ever growing grass
based on the modest roots of memory
as the sun pierces the window's glass
and radiates its warmth right into me.

Summer sentiments blossom like fireworks
in flowery explosions of colour
and for months this feeling lingers and lurks
until age seizes the skies, fading duller.

I will not refine my growing garden
but let my thoughts expand free and wild
with high fences to let my will harden
but enough space to canter like a child.

The nature of joy must run its young course
til we become victims of age's force.

Friday, 8 April 2011


Such sparkling sweet tastes are in the sky
with colourfully flavoured clouds flying by,
a candyfloss sunset dyed by the day
signalling that these treats must fade away.

As we lie on the green candy cane grass
I want this golden tasting day to last
whilst gummy people pass us by jolly
and trees are blooming with bright red lollies.

I open my window and breath the scent
of tempting sights that tease and torment
for I want to gorge on this sweet beauty
tasting the sugar scenes glacé and fruity.

But I know that I must pace my feast
or else all beauty will one day be ceased
and all I'll be left with is a sickly gloom
that my glutton had caused this darkening doom.

Monday, 4 April 2011

Shining Through

Sunlight shimmers through the tree's tangled limbs
and through my curtains ever so ajar
leaving a warm patch until the day dims
and the sun leaves behind the hills afar.

The sky has a crisp early morning chill
both bitter and refeshing to my skin
as the sun slowly rises from its hill
and the cooing alarm lets day begin.

The grass is smothered in soft soaking dew
which tickles the ankles of my morning walk
when the fields are filled with the cheery few
who heel their dogs as they stop to talk.

There is so much joy in how morning wakes
and dismay when the day finally breaks.


My soles are becoming over weathered
from the battering I have put them through
but my wandering feet can't be tethered
as I have miles of walking yet to do.

My blisters bulge and rub in defiance
begging my body to give them some rest
but my body will show no compliance
until there is no air left in my chest.

My legs begin to ache and they founder
as my worn shoulders slump in downcast sighs
as I can barely manage to flounder
with stagnation overcoming my thighs.

And yet I'll walk on 'til I discover
somewhere fresh where we can all recover.

By the Script

If we read the script scene by scene,
seperate snapshots of events,
we would not see our progression.
We would not see what could have been
with the chances that life presents
in an improvised digression.

Yet we could slow life's hectic pace
and avoid potential mistakes
with an increased clarity.
If every line we could retrace,
living out several takes,
we'd live without asperity.

I'll walk my through line of action
towards my super-objective
stripping away unneeded pauses.
This set will not cause distraction
for beauty can be defective
and like all in this script; it closes.

Sunday, 3 April 2011

Physical Sores

No matter how much you douse your skin
the blood still seeps from where it was smitten
and though you try to ignore the pain you're in
you can't forget how deep you were bitten.

The wounds of flesh are there for all to see
and they don't grow prettier with the time,
a constant reminder of memory
blighted by the thought of a painful grime.

And yet the truth is that you feel no pain,
no hurtful hints of hideous horror,
but people can see your blood slowly drin
and fear that you will feel it tomorrow.

You can't recover from physical sores
but the concept of emotion just bores.


My confines
refine and define.
and you'll be fine.

My guidelines
align and malign.
Don't lie
and stay in line.