I will walk to paradise

I whisper in the whispering gallery, I talk on the phone, I shout in an empty room when I’m all alone

I Jive in the hall, I trot on the road, I sing in the shower so nobody knows 

I take photos with my mind, I smile with my eyes, I kill all my enemies in a moment of mime

I live in peace, I die with hunger, I was much too late to stop no mans land as a runner

I scream on a mountain, I close my eyes to auschwitz, I heard the Berlin wall crumble, roll over and tumble

I was born a Christian, I grew up a Christian, I entered the war a Christian, I shot a Christian, then one day, I’ll die a Christian. 

Through the tunnel

I ventured into darkness, sorrow taking my soul, nothing that is new to me, forever in a hole, for when a child, I sped through the river tunnel under Greenwich, before realisation pounced upon me that I had the sheer panic of returning back home,  once more alone

A long tunnel it is, my mind is in a tizz, wishing the lights were brighter, focusing on the end, petrified of what I may find, a bend is up ahead, leaving tragedy  behind, searching for a peaceful, colourful sign, twisting, turning, a long way up, sweating and burning forever yearning.

Irrespective of the timepiece I wear upon my wrist, I keep on going, just cannot resist, up every slope, down every cavern, around every twist, the devils brace is clasped on tight, I fear a sharp turn leading deep on to the right, Continually searching for the bright white light, floating way up on the sail in the wind of a kite

A journey Once travelled, a chancing delay, once again on the road that leads to dismay, forever a struggle though no fault of mine own, a stone ridden road that I have travelled til’ grown, snakes bite my ankle, shoes leak with rain, forgiveness unknown, then I will go there again, future in doubt, past left in tatters, I am alive today and the fact is what matters. 

un français qui passe

Grey skies above when I fell in love, Sodden were my shoes when I first saw you

Crazy with drink, laced with drugs, a glance of the moment we slowly hugged

A mystical swirling mist when we partook a kiss or was it just smoke from your cigarette of bliss

A memory etched into my fragile mind, an Andy Warhol piece of art, of a very different kind

When at last I saw you vomit on your dress, that was the last time ever but I could have guessed

Your friends called a taxi then you were gone, now I’ll never forget the moment, we danced to that bloody song

L’AVENTURIER INDOCHINE, I saw your perfect moves in the Music Machine, freedom to express but always too keen

Au revoir je t'aime, à la prochaine were the parting words that were spoken, I’ll never see you again.

Not a mere fish

It was not a mere fish he caught, radically a benign flounder, created from a dream by an overseeing founder, deep within the knowledgeable mind of a strumming, drumming sounder, as a child banging tins with a hardened rubber pounder, dipping his rod into the lake that’s perpendicularly rounder, it was not a mere fish he caught as he sat on the ground, aah

Falling at 16

Shimmy Shammy overwhelmingly clammy, slipped and fell, unbelievably Jammy, landed in a pile of builders sand, my friend looked down, said “you alright, can I lend a hand?”, no damage done, although it was not fun, frightened to the hoof, when I fell from that roof. Just winding up the electric lead, falling backwards at quite a speed, the lesson I learned back then, thus far is, never walk under the safety bar. 

Close our eyes

Living a problematic life, following a road with trouble and strife, put on, considered soft, gentle and weak, not the kind of person that people seek, no matter, whatever they like to say, everything is not all grey, a spectrum of light can fill our existence, find a piece of Joy in every little difference

A pain in the heart hardens a spiteful soul, to be gentle, on the retrieval of glee, bully the ones that have victim inside of thee, realise they were the ones who care, so punish ourselves if we dare. Cripple thine own strength to crumble away, then wither to destruction and die alone today. 

Retrieval of beauty in ones eyes, bird in a tree, a structure of Oak in a land of rolling hills, grass of a lush green meadow leading down to the sea, white chalk of Dover cliffs, a dove coming home from over the Channel bringing with it the promise of a country not far away, it’s at this moment, all can be there, wash away the sadness from ones hair, extraordinarily blue sky, sun shining fair. 

Feeling the taste of things turning wrong, listening to a Blackbirds feint singing of a melodic song, pressure from the end of a captured fork, release is essential for a standing stork, closing ones eyes, put a picture in mind of arriving by ship, Statue of Liberty, gasp at ones lip, the festive season of Goose and Pork, Times Square, Central Park and standing in New York.

A kill to destroy the upset one can see, travel the world in a fantasy, Paris, Berlin, Madrid, Italy, closing our eyes and there we can be, just a moment in time, make history, Timbuktu or the Black Sea, imagining our own kind of reality, a beautiful forest in the Rhine, on a yacht on the Seine, wherever we travel the peace is thine. forget our worries, our facial lines, to be at peace, for us is fine.

Unseen

The tide flows and changes, swishing in and out, periodically like a tsunami, destruction comes about, it quite often astounds me, how a person recovers from this, nothing left but fragments with memories of ones you miss. 

Give a swathe of Joy to darken many door, is this what we teach every girl and boy? Is England proud of, “I’m okay” instead of “I am great”, hoping that one day in the future with a shows of hands, a miracle will turnaround change to our apathetic land.

It’s a mournful situation to allow sorrow, sadness, homelessness, hunger, does wealth have its tow? , there are many impoverished in the world that will never really know, mothers cannot breast feed undernourished with no milk, they have never felt the comfort of a sleep in a bed, with sheets made from silk

Let the children come to me, not a slap across the face, mothers too poor for Christmas presents with the cost of make up and lace, Christmas is a time of Joy when Santa arrives in the night, what will you receive this year,? rich givings I suspect while those who have nothing to live for are just  happy to be alive