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.