Resolution is to Resolve

Take a backwards look

Facing forward so as not

To face what's behind.

The Clock and the Gun Barrel

As the New Year looms

Reflection calls tempting new

Rationalisations to

Reflect time's passing.

Prey Upon a Prayer

Upon the mist

A silence sings

Hanging

By a thread

Between

Day and night

The slightest step

A siren's scream

To predatory ways

Primal and deep

In the encroaching dark

As inevitable as death

The hunter stalks

Ever closer.

Seasonal Dimensia

The slow glide

The deafening crunch

Of footstep after footstep

Ambling through the snow

More concentration gives

To this small task

Than all the World's

Problems under

A glassy sky

Which reflects

The importance

Of the moment.

Winter is More Fun in Theory

It's terrifying

To think of so many elves

Frozen in the snow.

Waste for Waste

Upon the wintry

Grey the blackness fades in an

Indifferent mist.

The Diversionary Tactic of Misletoe

Tinsel tossed aside

A weapon out of reach

To silence the screeching cries

As family meets

The pressure is on.

Tumbling Romanticism

The bay side water laps

Licking at the juts of land

Wearing them away

A joining of land and sea

Taken inch by painstaking inch

Over eons

As the ocean fills

And the land melts away

A necessary kill.

Social Necrophelia

In small times hunger
Beckons, a lighthouse shining
On infirmity.

Lie Laying Down

Upon the enemy
There lays a lie
That betrays the
Lay of the land.
Upon the friend
There lays a lie
That excuses the
Layman's lack
Of intelligence.

Play at War

The world turns soulless

Its face to the icy wind

Four season mark directions

To go forth, not back

Follow fallow heart.

Chiaroscuro

An old boot on a

Window sill gives a shine to

The exterior.

A Panic for all Seasons

The first leaf falls

Heralding a shower

The wood stripped bare

Exposed to the elements

A world of cold

Gone nuclear

In spring time.

The Mentality of an Atomic Clock

A statue stands
A heart of stone
Held lovingly
In his hand
Forever beating
The only thing that moves
A parable
Of life without
A concavity
Of life within
He longs to live
So close to flesh
Granted
He falls
The heart
Dropping from his fingers
Like a stone
Very far from life.

On Missing Breakfast

The uncut worm grows

Long, fat, lazy, slow and weak

Cut into smaller pieces

It may well survive

Alive, incomplete.

Psychoscrabble

I stare at the mark,

I wash the blight away but

It remains beneath the skin;

I cut out the stain;

It is all of me.

An End

To look upon grace
Within the wavering hours
Of a rabbit run its course
Is death without shame.

Ouroborus

The living gently stagger through the land of the dead

Fingers wrapped in threads of yearning;

Without such controls eroding

The way they often do

As life keeps on imploding

And the many cannibalise the few.

The Earth would keep on turning

With its axis turned askew

But no codes would need decoding

With no need to know how to blame and who

Will keep the bombs exploding

With means more than meager learning

To turn the cycle of life continually on its head.

The Existential Skeleton

The porcelain skeleton sits
A mockery of humanity
Smiling with horrific glee
Staring in challenge at all
Yet never rising in civil greeting
It apes out existence
Yet is no less real
As it clacks and clatters
A structure without identity
A house without a home
A mockery that is in essence
A very good representation
Of the part of us
More lasting than flesh.

On Circles, Spheres and Round Things

The cyclical cycle

Is ever turning

In on itself

End to end

To endless

Motion

Shiningly new

Gallingly repetitive.

Piede

A butterfly in

Sharp focus lost to the sky

In a great typhoon.

Moderate Apocolypse, Historical Stain

The long man fires

A hunting bow

To pierce the fool

Whose heart is wretched

For wandering through

Fickle fields a thousand

Years or more

Dressed in cap and colours

Though once dressed in

A more sedated hue

Walking the streets

With an arrow sticking

Out from a scarred back

Presenting a bold front to

All who face the fool

Who greets with a brave smile

And assures all

It will be over soon

And all will be well.

'Til Even the Devil Mourns

There is a sea,

Its depths a breathless

Weight from shore.

Its lines of laughter

Crashing into

A frowning sentinal of

Slate black rock.

It pulls a vortex

With its wiles

To drag unwilling guests

Within, and teach

Those who breathe the

Salted air to

Breath a heavy brine.

Enormous liquid arms take

Hold the struggling limbs

Till still acceptance makes

Languid a peaceful truce

With the deep.

Justice is Pocketless

The pocket picked a pitcher

Of pocket lint for all

Who had pocketed the picture

Of the thief with pockets full

Of trinkets and pockets turned

Out of love. With no pocket for

Forgiveness the police pocketed

His freedom as they pocketed

Their keys. Witnesses pocketed

The pocket money for

Twisted testimony with a pocket

Full of ease; a pocket full of speed

Exchanged for a pocket full of justice

Emptied to fly in a pocket

On the breeze. This pocket full

Of justice had a pocket

Of despair that quietly pocketed

Itself, and disappeared in a pocket of air.

The Loss of Loss of Loss

To lose the loss of

Feeling lost for the ones we

Lost before this loss.

Promenade the Daffodils

Kneeling upon these

Sad carnations to put them

Out of their misery, blocked

From the warming glow

Of a loving son.

Altered Replica

The primordial beast

Thrust

From the primordial ooze

Her warm, safe haven violated

Her familiar form distorted

Shrinking back from this new life

The creature tries to return

Limbs replace fins

Skin replaces scales

Leaving the thing ill fit for home

Forcing her to press forward

Step by step, day by day

But always looking backward

Never fully embracing her new life

Lest she forget the old.

Apathetic Pneumonia

When something comes from nothing

The nothing has been displaced

Erased and rearranged

Its untimely demise ringing in the air

Following the timely miracle.

The Dash Laid Disaster

The socks were soaked

In things beyond

The signs of mere

Foul play

And merely as an indulgence

The living eyes looked on as

The corpse was folded

And his dreams were tucked away

In a drawer

With other dreamers

Sleeping in their beds

So lost as only such can be

Left to dreamless wandering

Until given a proper place

To lay their heads.

A Heartfelt Endevour May Well Be Without Heart

A heart in exchange for a home

The seat of said home is the heart

A happy and heartfelt design

Which may be heartily desired

Or wholeheartedly objected to

Depending on the objectivity of the heart;

For a home without a heart is not a home

But a home with a heart is a gilded cage

A prison for the one who gave their heart

To build a loving, sound and hearty home

So either way one has to be heartless.

The Toy War

The monkeys march on

Two by two to face march hares

In bloody battle.

Political Housewarnings

As a philistine

Is an awful thing to use

To decorate a small house

Best not attempt it.

On Raymond

Good deeds are wrought

From heroes who

Live by shining example

To make waves

Amongst the humbled masses

To show that which can be done

Those impossible feats

Given a human face

By a larger than life figure

Who made complicated accomplishments

A simple

Day to day affair

Things that were done

As many a household task

Because they were necessary

Bringing ideas written in starlight

Down to Earth

One light at a time.

It's humbling to see a man

Who was so loved.

Calling a Spade a Small Shovel

Excusing the inexcusable

And railing against the

Easily excused

Is a social past time

With a great and proud history

Of holding up intolerance

On the shoulders of

Fear and outrage.

Providing all with

A neat little package

In which one can

Tolerate intolerance

Inhaling the

Heady elixir of hate

Enjoying the sudden sense

Of a powerful purpose

Controlling the uncontrollable

Well, we more than tolerate intolerance

But only if the illusion

Is held aloft a little longer

By constantly changing

The face, the name

The identity of this

Character destroying chimera

So that we might

Rationalise our rage

And, more importantly,

Indulge it.

Tumultuous and Shining

Giving thanks

In a more irreverent way

Not for the things that are

Or what they've given

But for what they might become

And could some day give

This fallow land

That may yet bare fruit

This empty coin purse

That may one day overflow with gold

These wretched souls

That may one day be redeemed

To dance in the light of joy

And the spirit of generosity

Though now they merely

Clutch their plates tighter

And growl obscenities.

The World still exists

And that is something

For by hope

Against hope

It may forgo the odds

Growing bright and new again.

The Rabbit in The Hunting Trees

The hushed hue

Of the everglades

Captures the over still morning

The light wavers

Soaked in mist

So as to hide

That which lurks within

Those dark and strange creatures

That watch between

Homely stone

And hunting wood

The worried eyes

Of the hunted

Watching back

Watching back

And so not forward looking

Until the land gives way

To the unforgiving rocks below

That open their maws with glee

Grinding up and spitting out

The feast that provides no sustenance

Merely the heady sense of power

Over life and death.

A bit further down the green

Is a markerless grave

Be careful not to

Step in it.

But, It Was Modern A Hundred Years Ago

It's a hell of a thing

The jarring starts

And stops

Of the day

The clicking

Clatter of

A thousand things to do

The stop and go

Of city traffic

Spewing waste

Into the air

As a thousand

Busy people

Inhale and release it

Coughing and falling still

As a byproduct

Of modern life.

The Crisis Maker

Upon a sacred brow

Two eyes of limpid pools

Gone foul

And lonely with despair

Misery lives here

A crease turned wrinkle turned scar

To mar the smooth complexion

As worry breaks camp

And builds house and home

Misery lives here.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

For all the things that will be

Are not enough to satisfy

The needs and clever urges

Of a mundane

Empty life.

The Eureka of the Mundane

Clarity

That great wet blanket

Thrown carelessly over life

That muffles ambition

Stifles desires

And simply

Takes the fun

Out of

Everything

We weep and rail

Against it

Begging and pleading

For it to stop its

Ceaseless torment

It holds firm

Callous to our endeavours

It holds us still

Softly whispering in our ears

And keeps us

From destroying

Ourselves.

Seasonal Shut-in

The leaves have turned

To deadend gold

And it rains

And rains

And rains

Bleeding from a steel sky

That darkens the world

With its cold,

Unrelenting

Grey.

Is it any wonder

That I do not want

To go outside,

Lest the gloom

Steal my soul

Away?

Orange Thrushes and Gun Oil

Desire of the things
We should not dare to desire
Those wicked thoughts at night
That rob us of sleep
Mark proof of a soul.

A Report on Skimming Stones

The stoning pool for

Throwing stones was stoned to death

Today; heartbreaking.

Ashes in the Occasional Table

The occasion stands in Fall

Beneath a standing table

Standing by the wall

No sitting is allowed here

Be this a sitting room, or none at all

The seats stand seatless, sat about the room

And spilling out into the standing hall

While we all stand at attention

Two and One and Four standing tall

Only one place stands for resting

Sat along the farthest wall

But the resting spot sits occupied

By one who cannot stand nor sit at all.

An Ode to Procrastination

To waste time in poverty while the wine

Of dreams of largess, honeyed and well aged,

Dance through the mind's eye, chimera of mine,

A disillusioning illusion, staged

Poorly, with plots and plans scratched, slipping stitch

Unraveling a tapestry that could

Have been lovely, had the idea which

Imagined the pattern been, as it should,

A thing of worldly majesty, guiding

Unskilled fingers, schooling them the right way

To weave whisping visions, pluck the hiding

Weft, and coax it into true interplay.

But skilless hands have such mountains to climb,

As dreams to life are wrought from learning time.

Spots

Without a cloud to

Hide behind the sunless sky

It all burns to ash.

Penumbra

I lie alone

In the chilling season

I lie alone

In this bed a marble and glass

Staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes

Trying to imagine the world from space

It's another planet here

A colder one

Made of marble and glass

With trees of emerald

Tall and proud

Their blood

Still amber

Umber bright

Pointing to a thousand

Constellations in the sky

And a thousand worlds

Just as dead as this

Where I live

My life behind glassy,

Doll's eyes

Alone

And unaccomplished

A damaged,

Battered,

Frozen,

Fleshless

Soul.

Harvest Time in Spring

For one

The night

Cutting a great

Swath with

six slick sheathes

of scarlet

Painting over

The moon's amber hue

To bid good day

To waking moments

And sleeping dreams

In favour of greeting

A sleep that is

Dreamless.

Indiscriminate as the Sun

The holy wars

A hand grenade

Burried in the sky

To spread

A testament to fire

And sudden death

Beyond

The great

Beyond.

Upon a Glittering Toy

On the sacred sea
Lies an infamy both strange
And quite beautiful.

In the Hand

Upon the waking hours
It is hard
To capture those
Lustrous images
Lost in dreams
Those fleeting fragments of time
Which bypass life's little inanities
And get straight
To the point.

The Waking Hours

Within delirium
That sate
Which most recommends a drink
I find myself recompense
With little to show
And less to follow
A world of light and shadow, this
Chiaroscuro
With no colour to mark the way between
Just, endless, rest.

A Bullet or a Migraine

Oh,
My awful
Head
This terrible
Thing
Which lays
Waste
To life
Completely
A thought
Boxed
Stored for
Safe
Keeping until...
Well
The imagination
Takes
Over from
There.

The Undercurrent of Society

Somewhere
Under everything
Deep within a skin
Second to the self
That lies beneath
A worm
Of disinterest
Burrowing through
To the other side
Of apathy
Made simple
With practice
A burrowing creature
That makes quick work
Of the outer self
By consuming that
Which lies within
To be born
Anew.

What are you Playing at?

Playing possum
Playing for keeps
Playing until the end of time
Playing pretend
Playing at nothing being wrong
Playing at sanity
Just playing.

Meow, and Other Protests

Kitty in a pale

Playing in the smelly dirt

Then kitty turned upside down

In a world of hurt.

Floating Down the River Styx

The submerged crocodile

Goes south for the winter

It's tail gently swaying

It's mouth open wide

Jaws snapping.

The tail is a line

The teeth a hook

So that safety lies

Where danger looms

And danger lies

In the bosom of safety

Take comfort that

Whatever decision made

While swimming with a crocodile

It's the wrong decision.

Taking Poison and Medicine Piecemeal

Today the world ends

It is an indifferent day

Cloudy and sullen.

So Much So, It's Good Enough

Upon the wars

Were horrors told

The word awash

In seas of

Ambiguity

Their reason

Lobotomised

Their meaning stabbed

Prefix and suffix

Ripped asunder

To asphyxiate

On impotent

Potential.

Falling to their knees

At the carnage

Thousands cry

While millions more

Scoop up the carcases

To line their nests

And feed the other

Carrion eaters

Who relish

Rotting syntax

As perfection.

Swimming through Insecticide

A pungent

Greenish hue

Floats along

The water's edge

With brackish glee

As the wake turns black

Sailing through midnight

A bisecting line

That separates

Healthy beings

And clear shores

From unwashed

Vermin.

Impotent Frustration

The orange sky

Grew black

With leaping red

Against the distance

A heart of heat

Letting nothing through

Devouring each new visitor

And releasing them to the heavens

Their souls set adrift

Away from agony

And warmth

To the cool

of the troposphere.

Sack of Skin

Into the dusk

The crawling things come

Chewing upon the tiny hairs

That cover an imperfect skin

Burrowing beneath the folical

To feast upon

The blood and marrow therein

The victims scream they do

In their own comical way

Until, the last,

The eyes are sucked out

And the breathing brain

Is drawn clean away.

Tumultuous Times

The toad sits
Upon it's throne
One eye black
One eye blue
Glaring
At all who
Dare approach
The timid
Slowly making way
As the brave
Are captured
By a wicked tongue
Gobbled up
And swallowed whole
Death in vain
As the shy ones
Within grasping distance
Would never dare
To steal the crown
Lest thy prove
To be little more than
Flies in body
Rather than
Flies in soul.

Otherwise, it's not so Bad

A sharp, stabbing pain

Through the back distracts from

Life's daily toils.

The Writer

A creature selfish

In its moody indulgence

Yet giving in thought.

Somehow They Bypass the Fingers

The words lie

Trippingly on the tongue

To fall trippingly off

In a mangled heap

On the floor;

A testament to the

Selfindulgent tragedy

That is writer's block.

Discomfiture

Under the chair
There is a bomb
But no one knows it's there
So I sit very still
And dare not get up
Lest its presence be brought
Violently to bare.

The sad, SAD man

The present shut in

Sits idly by as

Indeterminate snowfall

Councils caution in the midst

Of dreadful despair.

This Poem was Written to the Accompaniment of Tone Deaf Singing, and I Refuse to be Held Responsible for the Results

Upon the ground

I found a thing

Without purpose

Or place in this world

Or any other

And in me welled

Up a deep sadness

For how horrible

A fate as to be

Placeless in

Space and time

A life truly without purpose

And without a moments

Respite for fellow friend.

But, I, being human

To save myself

This same unenviable fate

Placed the thing

Back where I had found it

And hurried away,

Lest I lose my purpose

By association

And become placeless too

True, we would then be two of a kind

And could share our troubles in the way

Misery loves,

So charitable a person

Is rare.

Amidst the Caterwaulers

The awful side of life

To live

And lean

Against the Earth

A heavy thing

That holds us upright

Even as it pulls us down.

The awful side of life

To fight

And trudge

Constantly up hill

Against the call of gravity

Made loud amidst the bitter call of nature.

The aweful side of life

To stop

This battle

Against a fruitless foe

Who care not for our wants

And only serves our needs;

In this there is some sense of peace.

The Fly

The noise
The horrendous
Hideous
Habitual noise
Of a fly
Buzzing in my ear
There then
Gone
For blessed few
Ticking moments
In which the ticking
Takes precedent,
Only slightly less annoying,
But a reprieve
Nonetheless;
Then the fly is back
Buzzing
Buzzing
Buzzing
Like the inmates
In an asylum
Driving me ever madder
And closer to their layer.
Oh the endless buzzing
Blocking out the
World around me
So only sight can tell
Me the sound a fire alarm makes
And oh
How often my
Eyes do
Deceive me.
The buzzing
Like a cancer in the brain
Likely forming a tumor therein
Which will grow and grumble
And eventually explode
Leaving a neat little hollow
Between my ears
A path for the
Fly to follow
From one side of my head
To the other
Without getting wet
In the event of rainfall.
Oh the buzzing
Growing louder
Ever Louder
And LOUDER again
Raising my agony
In a crescendo
That rises,
Breaks
And rises again
Until
SLAT!
Oh my,
I've killed my only friend.

The Statue Writer

The lane lies empty,

The glen bare of heather

As the mind

A cold, dull landscape,

Is left barren

And utterly featureless.

With such extremes
As these
Are thoughts
Of winter
Trapped
In a writing desk
Rattling round
In a drawer
Pounding its outrage
Out against
The underside ceiling
Of its prison
It clatters and rails and screams
Until
Exhausted
Falling silent
To wait
In moody contemplation
Enwrapping plans in plots in
Rationalizations
Until, one day,
An absent moment comes
And the jailer
Having long forgot
Its cruel joke
Unlocks the writing desk.
Make no mistake
Revenge is swift.

Ta-ra

There are times

When the gift

Is not transparent

And this thing

Becomes

Nothing

So much as like work

The ease and value lost

In an uneasy sea

Of antipathy

Made utterly

Pathetic

By self

Hatred.

Intelligent Gibberish

The offal thing

Is the lack

To whit

Of luck

On a lark

To laughter

Full stop

To stop

Now

Is to secure

Mayhaps

Unlawful

Crimes against

Nature

Which are

In fact

Far worse

Than when

Lawful

Crimes are

Broken.

The Answer to Ill

This merry dystopia
Set amid the ashes
Of an otherwise
Ideal world.
Those loose, freewheeling
Thoughts are
Tidied up here
Swept into welcome order
As opinion is lost
To the malaise of
Angry
Agreement;
Loudly voiced
Arguments
While either side debates
Who more thoroughly
Appreciates the only
Way to boil
A three minute
Egg, then peel
Back the skin
To reveal flesh
Molded to
A perfectly uniform
Shape.
March in time
Knowing you have the better
Of those
Who do not understand
This beautiful,
Enraged
Peace.

The Fading Wood

Scenting the air

A perfume

Rich

But will not sell its secrets

A slow soft tread

Out of the woods

Into the trees

A cool mist descends

Crouched

In the bowl of the tree

Lies a cup

Sat proudly

Amongst the gnarled limbs

The approach

It's stem heavy

In the hand

Lift to lips

Drink deeply

Swallow

Emptiness

Gaze down into

This bowl

Of sadness

There is nothing there

Not even a wood

As the protagonist

Our king

Sat proudly

In the bowl

Of a twisted tree.

Forgetting the Plot

My mind overturns

So my cup runneth over

With spite and concerns.

Gentle Shade

Away from fire

From light

From sun

From warmth

Toward the cool

Shelter

Safely hidden

In dark

In shade

In cold

The freezing

Unfamiliar.

Muddled Voices

The procession of a lie

Through the democratic process

Or an illusion

Playing democracy

With demigods

Who don't know how to share

But, ignoring this

The system seems sound

We raise out ballots

Cast our votes

Mutter out concerns

A voiceless theocracy

That fails to cry foul

But most faithfully mutters it

With quiet polite inquiries

As to the state of the World

Or if we will have a World

At all

Come next winter.

Nonetheless

There is something

Tirelessly comforting

To be found by blind belief

In such an institution.

Appreciating Wariness

Within the walls there
Lies a slow, creeping shadow
For which we give thanks.

Tilted Jaw

Sickness
This thing
Lying here
Unmoving
Consuming
Me. It burns
The flesh
A paragon
Of wasted
Will
and cold
Desires. It wraps
Me up
In this
Cocoon. It warps
Me.
My
Constant,
Unstable
Friend, this
Sickness.