Saturday, August 5, 2017


Every child will imagine.
Cut their feet on a shell
Leave sand on the carpet
Lose a button, have messy hair.
Every child will say the wrong thing
Be late for dinner
Get fatter or thinner.
Lie, spy, cry, feel lonely
Be alone, throw a stone at the birds
Be scared of the dark
Laugh when someone falls
Ignore when someone calls
Want, whine, wag, wake too late
For school. No homework today
Get bad marks, rehearse for the play
Get the lines wrong, try singing along
Fall in love once or twice
Consider it nice. Kiss. skite, fight
Swear, dare, be dared, wonder about sex
Try things they shouldn't, do things they couldn't
Imagine what it would be like
To be someone else, no parents, leave home
Wet the bed, have a smoke and choke
Stay in bed all day. And dream.
Imagine growing up without all this.
Just imagine

Saturday, May 6, 2017



The last of light is craved upon to fall
The shapely, longing limbs stretch to the tall
Smoothed skin as oil upon the water waits
My heart beats, sheds blood and lust anticipates

I hear her call, her song is as the Loralie
Her vision sees thus far, sees much more than I
Beyond the spreading of her naked limbs
She beckons men, and women, where fall begins

There is no pretence, no guilt, no idle play
This is the place where she will gladly lay
Command her wanting lust against the bitter winds
And watch the lonely man, again, fall into sin

The Muse is to dictate, none will be praised
Young men fall short within the loving haze
She is a whore, a tart, a lusting stone
And better men have risked, then left alone.

Don’t give the Muse a thought, her beauty tempts
None of us will last; remain exempt
She wants nothing from us but the tortured soul
Then disposes of the corpse up [on the cold

What is her epitaph for you and me?
Does she know or care or set any of us free?
More likely we will falter, step bravely to the fold
Be heard no more until the story told

One lonely night, one moment of despair
He felt the pain of loneliness, of lack of care
And in among the turmoil of it all

The was the faintness of the Muse’s call.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

Growing Old

My thoughts are elsewhere, moving faster than I, with more grace and determination. The thoughts move in the past where a young man lingers and laughs at the body I now carry. I can move quietly in the market and remain unnoticed and anonymous to fresh thoughts of style and frivolity. I am unknown but to myself. Only I know what it is to live and grow old and even I am surprised at every turn. Those before me made efforts to explain and forewarn but they had only their own guide to suggest what might come of ageing. Like life, ageing must be experienced. It also must be understood. It is, ultimately the beginning of the end, at least one we can recognise. The reality of ageing is that we must eventually face the inevitable as it grows closer, knowing that what follows is as it was before: nothing.

As the bones creek and the joints ache, as the body processes falter and the brain loses its way, it is necessary to look back more than looking forward. Living brings us surprises. We cannot see into the future and even the present is uncomfortably brief. It is that past which we draw upon to give us hope. Reflection will provide purpose to what we have done. Disappointment will come from what we should have or could have done. Purpose and disappointment may be unnecessary in knowing that living is as it is and only our will to live provides us with motivation to do what we do, whatever that might have been. We cannot undo or relive. All we can do is to see the small wake we leave behind and know that we have made a difference no matter how minute and insignificant it might seem.

As I walk this way I know that I am one step closer to where I am going. I will not be surprised when it comes. I am content with what I have done.