A thankless poet. (P)

It can come without warning,
That mighty urge to write,
Sometimes early in the morning,
Sometimes very late at night.

I look through my bag,
I find a pen and paper,
Scribble down some phrases,
to rearrange later.

I put my soul in stanzas,
I put my heart in the beat,
I put my breath in the words,
(It's not an easy feat).

I make poems to make you smile,
Or maybe to make you see,
Whatever ramble you can handle,
About whatever occurs to me.

Nonetheless i dont want money,
(But some charity would be kind),
I don't do it for recognition,
(But i'd like being easy to find).

I dont need an ego-boost,
Or to be thanked outright,
The greatest compliment i know of,
Is for you to read more of what i write.

Words (P)

Words can bring constants
Words can bring change
Words can bring love
Words can bring hate
Words can Bring peace
Words can bring war
Words can be BIG
Words can be small
Words make the world work

There is power in words
And a limit to how many we say
so choose wisely
Mean every one
And never speak lightly.

Hells Seven Bells. (P)

Hells bells

Seven hells have seven bells
Each bell tolls a different number
Oh hark the tolling, if you please
And know the meaning they encumber

The once tolling bell
Brings Lust unashamedly

The twice tolling bell
Brings endless gluttony

The thrice tolling bell
Brings boundless greed

The fourth tolling bell
Brings sloths misdeed

The fifth tolling bell
Brings arrogant pride

The sixth tolling bell
Brings envy's tides

When the seventh rings
Ask not for whom it means.
The final bell tolls
It tolls for thee.

Contrasts (P)

The taller I get,
The shorter the world becomes.
The bigger I get,
The smaller the world becomes.
The longer I talk,
The less I have to say.
The further I walk,
The sooner I forget the way.
The more I learn,
The less I know.
The less I hide,
The more it shows.

The Deathly archer (P)

Death comes dressed in white
With a pure yet graven face
Soft footed, soft spoken
It drifts from place to place.

It is the decider of fate
Armed with a golden bow
An unfaltering aim marks the dead
With hallowed arrows of mistletoe

The Apple Tree (P)

I think of an apple tree,
In the back of my garden.
Planted by my thrice-times father,
Before i was alive.

It has stood for decades,
Stoic against the seasons.
While the sun sows its pattern,
In a woven cotton sky.

For the tree life is not the same,
It lives longer than we may dream,
And it sleeps in winter,
Only to wake next spring.

The Eclipse / 'Apollo and Diana'. (P)

There was once a time, long gone.

Where the sun and moon were wed as one.  

Where every light we see from Earth

Gathered in one great and awesome church

Beyond it’s walls, Joy ineffable,

Lingered The devil, envy immeasurable.

The young stars new to the rest

Held her lovely wedding dress.

Iridescent indeed, It shone and did gleam

But it paled in comparison to one such as she.

Perfect and flawless, bathed in his glow.

Diana, Mother moon, Goddess of the bow.

The sun stood with his brothers,

the light from him lit up the others.

He, proud and full of life,

Humbled only by his wife.

His flame powered by their love.

Apollo, father sun, So high above.

The gods were in attendance,

With all the constellations

The heavenly bodies too.

All for the bride and groom

They both vowed, swore under God

 To love one another until time stopped.

God produced his Orchestra of kings,

Who played upon heavenly strings

A melody so sweet that once heard,

One is moved to dance, undeterred.

Where every dancer kept in stride

While a scornful Devil peered outside.

Some time later, they bore a child,

Father proud and mother mild.

Gaia, a fair and lovely daughter

Full of life, Just like her father.

A planet with the soul of a star.

Unique in both the here and far.

Yet all was not well in the space above

The Devil, envious of their love,

Put a curse upon Apollo’s breath,

That as it brings life, it may also bring death

Whatever it ,meets is reduced to dust.

His daughter soon-after was burnt by his touch.

With a heavy heart he ran,

Across the universe and back again.

He longed for his lovers arms,

But kept Gaia safe from harm.

He found a space that was fair to each,

Close enough, but out of reach.

They still dance To this day,

In the vast halls of space.

Yet do not think this story sad.

Every so often in the long ballad.

The two may even cross to kiss,

This is the miracle of an eclipse.

Antiquity (P)

I love abandoned buildings,
Caves of mystery and awe.
Like every sunken ship and boat,
That is longing for the shore.

Things so full of wonder,
That cast an enchanting spell.
And if urban relics could tell stories,
Oh what stories they could tell.

The old School building.(P)

Every stone tells a story,

For every town, a tale,

The town of St Georges is no different,

(Despite its lack of dragon slaying)

Yet there is one place.

That deviates from the story,

And provides a grim sub-plot.

Running in-between the lines.

The old school building,

Stands abandoned and silent,

Yet its face screams its story,

Louder than it’s words ever could.

An autobiographical rage,

At its mistreatment,

And fall from grace.

The playground is destitute.

It is deathly still and cold.

It's only visitors are the grass and ivy,

That clambers up the climbing frame,

And travels down the slide.

The wind echoes unspoken laughter,

As ghosts play upon the swings.

The doors are locked and bolted.

The inside is dead to the outside.

Yet if one wanted to risk it,

Entrance could be gained,

Through one of many broken windows,

On the many mile-long levels,

That whispered in the wind.

The school boy's crush and school-girls gossip,

Imprinted on the bricks by long finished classes.

Once, it may have been attractive,

Red bricked and lavish, one might say beautiful,

(In its own uniquely British way)

As if it was pulled from Dickens.

Now however it is repugnant.

Stained by age and maimed by youth,

It desires only to be left alone.

My presence offending it,

I took my leave from the silent schoolyard.

Since then I have barely looked at it,

Only from chance passing glances.

Ode to the dream eater.(P)

Abyssal being,
Thing of dreams.
Bringer of escapes
Bringer of screams.
Though i know not your face
I feel your claws, your grim embrace
In the seduction of the Dreamscapes
You will finish me upon my death
Being nourished for eternity
Within my final dream.