Category Archives: Poetry


Coiled bronzed perfection – symmetric mesmerizing scale,

Forked tongue whispering breathlessly  urging me closer-

Come sit by my tail.

Promises, wishes and stories of grand adventures ahead.

Skeptical I creep closer, so beautiful so pale,

Sitting in your corner, eyes dancing in the light,

Hours spent talking, dreams and ideas set sail.

Until tomorrow I depart

Turn with a happy heart

In a flash I fall –

Curtain call.


What I have learned

I have learned that it’s alright to be alone.

To hour a duty, but not lose yourself.

I can clean or laugh or work or cry.

I have learned that we must be strong when apart;

For we cannot always be together.

And no matter what happens I am with the living.

I have learned that no cry goes unanswered.

Time rights all wrongs and no one is ugly-

unless they are ugly on the inside.

I have learned that scars heal.

That black cheeks are not as painful as black hearts.

Giving in is not my salvation.

I have learned that I am real.

Not an object to be moved.

Even wood hurts sometimes.

I have learned that it’s alright to be confused.

That I am loved and to love is not a simple task.

I have learned to be content with simple things.

A purple flower in a field.

I have learned that I can be loved;

That I have friends who care –

and who deserve my love in return.

I have learned that people change.

The most important thing of all is to find who you are to yourself.

I have learned that forgiveness is strength.

If I can forgive someone –

Then I am alive!


I am here, alone.

My wife is dead.

I drink, I smoke, I hurt, I laugh.

I am here, apart.

From my mistress.

No longer seeking love.

I am here, unanswered.

A father who won’t give his daughter.

Too young to marry, I guess.

I am here, scarring.

Bought a maid and a wife.

I beat her anyways.

I am here, real.

A man on his own.

King of his castle.

I am here, confused.

Does she love her?

No one should love her.

I am her, uncontent.

To lose simple joy.

A wife wronged.

I am here, unloved.

Friends gone and women left.

I don’t deserve to be loved.

I am here, reunited.

Finding who she is.

She has he children.

I am fulfilled.

Forgiven of sins and faith renewed.

I am alive!!



I am here, alone.

To honour my husband.

I clean, I cook, I work, I cry.

I am here, apart.

From my sister and my children –

no longer with the living.

I am here, unanswered.

A God who never hears.

Too ugly for heaven, I guess.

I am here, scarred.

Black cheeks and bleeding face.

He won’t beat me if I listen.

I am here, unreal.

An object to be moved.

You can’t hurt wood.

I am here, confused.

Does she love me back?

No one should love me.

I am here, content.

To find simple joy and faith.

A purple flower in a field.

I am here, loved.

Friends care and husbands change.

I deserve to be loved.

I am here, reunited.

Finding who I am.

I have my children.

I am here, fulfilled.

Forgiven sins and faith renewed.

I am alive!


Do you remember the odd little girl?

Who in quiet wonder watched;

the dancing puppets cry?

What now, where next – as they played.

Role after role in conditioned dreams,

In which she had no part.

With darkened lips and mourning eyes,

Sitting in the looted cave.

Squinting to see the fireplace –

and the fingers there beside.

Speaking in language, riddles dine;

Upon the banks of words nearby.

As in ignorant frustration the rest;

turn their backs and erase the thoughts.

Of the odd little girl and the fingers she caught.

Coming of Age

Bubble gum screams,

in icy blue tears,

offering through a pin prick –

a new beginning to an end.

Pony ride pleasures,

through daffodil springs,

trampled in rage,

between disappointment and sight.

Polished patent leatherm

under pink laced frills,

scratched to grey refuge,

with metallic rebellion.

Dear Verona

Would it be –

That I am to sit, restless and waiting

For that perfect moment of bliss?

Perchance, I would beg to lay,

Dead, dagger in hand at the foot of he –

The one true love so desperately saught

and then –

To what end be I made?

For all the world to tear and clap at my demise;

To the applause of an achievement sought.

But what is this of love –

which only brings death through tears?

I, in lamented self-torture could equally slice the vein

to that end – nothing?

No heroic memoirs of life and love,

The union of souls absent in the departure of pain.

Does this not make the enduring reenactment?

What end is anything yet through theatrical bliss?

Nothing so endures in tragedy as the desired.

Not to have or win such favour but to be denied it.

Such a pain I dare not wish for any,

and yet for so many – a longing to act it.

To place themselves within it;

Only to realize that the ending never varies.

It is as ultimate and everlasting as the joy.

And to what madness such a verdict be desired?

To have only to lose –

and to love only to die.


Aquatic Serpent

Copper snake coiled across the gravel path,

Wooden hills cage you in,

Forest carpets of velvet lie,

Crouched near your lifeless kin.

Trails which lead your prey to sleep,

Twist and turn in ancient dance,

The rhythm of your panting tongue,

As your cool blood flows and rants.

For miles your scales stretch before you tail,

The capture in you swells,

Harvest from it life and strength,

The scars and scales your years soon tell.

Quietly shed your fragile sheath,

Life feeds off your timeless end,

Lengths of fire coloured flesh,

Into the earth where we all will send.

Peace to you who lies now still,

Slither from your lifeless skin,

Perchance another sun will rise,

And we who fear will forgive all sins.


Foliage crisping, crunching, twisting

Coloured with mythical brushes

Piercing, freeing and so completing,

Clothing the naked crowd.

Pages crisping, crunching, twisting

Scarred with strange minds,

Piercing, freeing and so completing,

Filling the naked crowd…..

Purple Grass

Colours bleed into my soul,

Stars burn through the night,

Purple grass doesn’t spoil,

Music is a soundless light.

Dismiss the candle’s scent,

The smoke that fills the jar,

Sunlight beams are broke and bent,

Life is not what we are.

Animal noises are our voices,

Chant the psalm to God,

Lips are dry and hair is moist,

Ancient birth by pod.

Swirling sounds and words,

Dance inside the wood,

Creativity this art is so absurd,

Grass not tasting as it should.