Trans Siberian

The derisive charm of a train that never stops,
it allways stays with me.

Orange fields, open moons,
A country open wide,
Through a window,
Before the viscous sea wild.

Far away, underneath a thunderous sky,
That builds rolls and falls beneath volcanoes,
Into August raindrops, shining rails
That run away from the windowsill.

Endless Distance.

Honesty lost in the trees,
Rolling east into the sunrise,
Awake from a forgetting dream.

Of the touch, the meaning,
Of a share premenition,
The moon, the stars, the horizon, the sun.

That rises into a bloodshot watery sky,
Tired of a journey, that’s forgotten its concept of time.

Plughole

Beneath the window, looking down at the London leaf papaya,

Beneath the shivering tree,

All the day’s rushing, submerged.

*

Thumpng vein, dizzy heat, wrinkled steam,

Guts and organs floating within a wobbling cell,

I hear the drip, drip, drip, of the cold water tap.

*

The ship creeks with the weight of it’s ocean,

The tiny shreeks of nudity,

that come from a seabed so smooth and clean.

*

Seaweed skinny legs, nick nack toes,

Heartbeaten ripples, sloshing in stillness,

Beside the drip, drip, drip, of the cold water tap.

*

Bare bones, rack of ribs,

Caged in breathlessness beneath the waterline,

Without a plug to pull.

*

No reflection in the opaque mirror,

But an echo that smashes the silence,

Of the tiled white room,

The drip, drip, drip of the cold water tap,

Nothing more pathetic than a poet,

The drip, drip, drip of the cold water tap,

Nothing more pathetic than a poet.

Travel Sickness

City summer heat, bad dreams, stuffy street lamp nights,
Spinning visions of how big the world seemed to be,
When she was just a few hours from flight.
No thoughts of the things we could be, twisting hopes of careless might,
A vision of the world we see, feet slowly trapped in the sodden tide.

*

Something beautiful in the sadness once known,
Last night’s evening news now blowing down tattered tube lines,
When all believe god is on their side,
Drunk in deluded righteousness,
Left with a pyrrhic sense of pride.

*

Calculate the cost of distance,
The red eyed loss of time, sitting in an uncomfortable aeroplane chair,
Looking what you were trying to find.

*

Lost in the leaving,
Forgetting so shortly a face to always recognise,
A decision to regret,
A name that sinks inside this seat forever
A face stored in memory, lost in the present tense,
Darkened by the judgement of ebbing time.

Thunder In The Valley

A firework sparks to shatter the crinkled sky,
Gunfire in the valley.

*

A sparkler’s ember in the wet bog lies,
The landmine waits endlessly.

*

Explosions echo in the emptiness of night,
Old homes, evacuated buildings.

*

Faces of amazement, lit up like fireflies,
Heads bloodied with machetes.

*

Dogs barking running from the dancing fire,
Children hiding from murdered mothers.

*

Night’s silence marking the end of the day,
Days ending marking a night of blood thirst.

*

Today’s the day we celebrate,
Tonight we fear for tomorrow.

*

Tonight effigies are burnt and heroes made,
Tomorrow is filled with sorrow.

Slow Sinking Winter Sun

The day is done, tomorrow waits
Slow sinking winter sun, slides down the icy sky.

*

A stick is thrown across the dew drenched grass
Dog’s running back with warm wet smiles,
Tail franticly bobbing, ‘wont you stay a while’?

*

Steel cold playground bars,
Hold the children as they swing around on a clinking chain
Higher, higher, higher,
Mother holds them back again.

*

So joggers strive in circles around the ground one more time,
Oblivious to the subconscious reason of their motivation.

*

Plane like sharks circle above,
Impatient to land, weary from their frozen journey,
Leyden with the ready meals and digital pictures,
All part of the memory, the story to be told.

*

Down beneath, model aeroplanes duck, twist and dive
A toy dogfight with buzzing flies,
A battle of Britain where nobody dies.

*

The leaves still shiver on the trees against December’s darkening breeze
As the slow sinking winter sun so softly silently leaves.

As the Evening Sky Grew Dark

Held inside your open hand,

Laying upon your patterned dress,

Sleeping beneath the oak tree,

While the sun reluctantly set.

*

Shadows drawn out across the park side,

Yellowing news on a crinkled page,

You asked me what I was thinking,

I whispered back your name.

*

Quick kiss, the lake that glistened,

Children chasing butterflies,

Toes touching, grass stained trousers,

Eyes rolling to the sky.

*

Hit high into the distance,

People started to cheer,

The moon appeared so silently,

So lonely but so near.

*

Long grass kept us hidden,

But for the bugs beneath the green,

Sharing stories just between us,

The things that we had seen.

*

No need to talk to anyone,

In dusk’s tranquil light,

We lay there just together,

As day turned in to night.

Misery Amongst Martyrs

Words of anger, words of revenge, fly like dust through the air.
Words don’t settle; they are left twisting in the storms of our memory.
Ruptured by hate, splintered by division,
We can’t understand, what we cannot see.
Death and destruction borne out in their tears.

Bloody walls, spattered and spurts.
Easeful death is a luxury, Blasted to bits.
Women in black, wailing, searching with grief,
Swooning to coffins of sorrowful sacrifice,
As they look for solutions in their early mourning minds.

Remember he died for us.

High pressure remains.
No rain to wash our tears away, to breath life into the olive trees
That mask those who flee from the vacuum of violence.
Peace is a foreign language, we can’t understand.

Wasted shells to batter emaciated buildings,
Where children play; caught red handed.
I watch, they suffer; men sit in ruins, blaming each other.

Nobody wins; we all fall down.

November

Silence is ringing. The darkness pricks the eyes,

Frosted trees, i’ts cold outside.

Broken touches. So delicate where she was,

With black hanging hair, eyes open wide,

Leaving me frozen with nowhere else to hide.

*

Places morph into people I knew,

Changing colour and the lights that are now shining so bright,

Holding her hour glass figure, time falls away,

With the gravity that keeps the snow falling still.

*

Somehow it always seems to fit,

Light ghost lit city heights,

Milky streamlined statues and tall glass houses,

Under which we watched the night go by,

Talking of everyone else’s news,

Thinking we were immersed in ourselves.

*

So red her eyes, stinging in the candlelight,

That flickered so uneasily, revealing an increasingly fragile plight.

Hands in other hands, lips on other lips,

Just skin touching skin, a premature sense of bliss.

*

Careless fate left her walking down the well lit night,

Stars brought down to the street,

Taxis back to bedrooms, cold kisses and coffee,

Stained the stark morning light.

*

So sun will show snow that will soon melt away,

Bringing back spring shoots through which trickle tears,

While a goodbye kiss remains.

To A Friend

I can’t remember the day that he arrived; not that it now matters,

He has just always been there, a pillow of memories.

In his warm dark eyes he saw the happy times of Christmas when despite his rejection as the mountain bike and computer games stole my attention he remained loyal.

Yet in those living plastic eyes he saw my sad reflection; of tears when grandparents parted,when I argued with my parents,  realising not everyone wanted to be my best friend.

That soft head of his holds the secrets of my childhood; like a Samaritan, a best friend he listened to my loves, my dreams yet also my hates.  When he was around all fears of war and murderers flitted away like the moth released from my window into the deep wide world.

His squashy fur was the life vest to shield me from the dangers of darkness and thunder during the long winters when wind howled against the pane and dreams of submerged monsters lashed against my little pine clad bed.

Now he just looks down upon me, the boy who rejected him;

He sits alone; a jacket of dust upon the barren shelf.  His fur, once the pride of the bedroom is mottled and shabby like a mariner’s dog.  The plastic balls hang precariously from their scrawny sockets.  The hard times still remain but he just sits watching, listening to the troubles of the boy he loved, he makes no judgement, no criticisms, he just sits a relic of my childhood, hoping to be loved again.

Holland Park

Green grass Sundays,
Papers in the park,
Brown skin lazyness,
A careless beating heart.
*
Slumbers in the shade,
Swim across the sky,
Ice cream slowly dripping,
With the toddler’s tearful eyes.
*
Frisbee spun in circles,
Toddle, race and run
Hampers sit in sunlight,
baked by early Summer’s calm.

Limbo

Limbo is a tube train at 12.49pm,

Limbo is belief, desire for a destination

No direction in how it can be achieved.

*

Limbo is the fragility of a love, left judged by insecurity,

Limbo is devotion lost.

*

Limbo is the eyes you have always looked into,

The lips you’ve never kissed,

Limbo is softer than she wanted,

Limbo was the thirty seconds she missed.

*

Limbo is the darkest January evening,

Asking questions of a forgetful day,

Wide awake with no answers, still has something to say.

*

Limbo is all of your love, all of your love,

Torn out from a familiar page,

Limbo is a tube train at 12.54pm

Sheltering from the glaring light of day.