Time to be Daughters – a poem


***my great, great grandmother***


A time to be daughters, not mothers,

More than a coming of age, the circle

Come fully round to completion full

Wherein days have blended to months,

Years, the children now with offspring

Of their own, almost grown until

The days when they become daughters

Instead of mothers for the last again.

Skull Collector – a poem


The below poem concerns rather grotesque material, inspired by the serial killer, Jeffrey Dahmer.



Scenes of horror in the quiet time

For moods often tried to keep obscene

With acid dissolving hopes and kidnap dreams

Against a chance to think, to collect

One’s thoughts over an altar made

Specially from the skulls of those ended,

Now kept, trophies owned by one and one only,

Secret wish granters of malevolence standing guard

Over the wants of some courtfound sane man.

Lithium Direction – a poem



The nature of old habits lies drawn

Betwixt imaginings great, too harsh

Beside simple thoughts, become pearls

Of poison kept over aeons within

Rotten sepulchres of the suffering soul



Hardest of all is the beginning amidst

What lies consuming, heavier than air,

Supreme catches snagging, butane danger

Threatening to explosions, forlorn

Wisdom telling us what should be



Trial and tribulation, try and fail,

Tactical assaults on towers of memory

Have nor will rarely survive first

Contact with enemy forces, lies

The secret language of a lithium



Driveless Points – a poem



None believe the truth when

It comes for them, blindly
Stark and bearing down, all
Alight in the mind, huge
Where it is too close, bloomed.
Surely something can be done,
They say, well wishes and talk
Of insipid phrases grating dry
On a mind not resigned but true
To itself in trying and more.
The calls of enwrapped voices
Scratch sharp grooves in matter
Which have fooled uselessly with
Anodynes and addiction where
Now truth is the only anodyne
True and fair.

Bathsheba – a poetry preview



Today I am bringing to you a piece which some of the readers from my previous blog may recall. It is only a little piece of the first part, edited slightly for grammar and presentation. The work is 23 parts long so far, written in August of 2013, telling the story of a lone warrioress in the desert. It is called Bathsheba – Queen of the Desert.

It is a strange style, kind of alternate rhyming couplets, nothing formal, little of my work ever is, but it remains an interesting record of a narrative poem series from myself as a different man to who I am now, who I have become. I have changed much in the past 7 months and I turn to Bathsheba with a different mind, a new perspective. I am planning to edit the whole of this narrative poem series and publish it as an ebook

I hope that you enjoy this small preview.



Goldset in late summer

As the desert guitar calls over

The dunes woven by winds

Caressing baked sands.


A masked wanderer makes tread

With rough shod feet,

Crests a dune without dread,

Though not as others before her felt.


Sunshine coming down,

Falling all around

And its weight is a tome unbound.


Weary with the long trek directionless,

The wanderer saw the board,

A long while ago in time fathomless

And has set out with at her back a sword.


Her hips bear a revolver each,

Solid grips of dark crystal rock,

Weapons of her far reach

While the blade is her close lock.


If she finds the one she would beseech

Before the desert clock

Ticks night-time over the breach

Then she is sure that no others do there flock.


Face a masked thing,

Hair all silver under a hood

Atop the cream colour robes bringing

A lighter top to the light flood.


Heat, heat, heat all around,

And nary a less inviting sight

Is there to be found

Than the crows in flight.