Last thoughts

He fall knowing that he wouldn’t survive the impact whenever it came, he struggled to remember why he was falling. The thud of the ground was welcome yet didn’t feel final

‘How long must he suffer?’ said the advocate-witness.

‘Still he remembers what he did to us,’ said his victims.

You look like love

Two old people, a man and woman, sit on a park bench, ignored by the passing families enjoying children and the winter sun. If noticed, they are merely discarded yesterdays. No one notices they could be tomorrows. Ignoring the families, they whisper love poems of ‘do you remember when you looked like.’

All political careers begin in hope and end in despair

The hero dies
as a human and is reborn
as our fantasy of hope
and the better life.

Slowly they make change,
and disillusion yet
another
lonely mother
or bitter farmer.

As the dark Lord
gains life again,
a human
somewhere
stirs to fight.

And we dare
to hope
again.

Snow in England

The city had buckled: nothing moved in the terrible blizzard, schools closed, the struggle to work too much, panic hoarding, abandoned cars, families huddled together to survive.

On the BBC horrors here and horrors to come- an inch of snow in the morning with more expected.

Fancy. Snow in winter.

The impossible dream of writing.

Bringing into life stories and poems
that captures life not literary form
so that readers know, it’s about
them. Even better reading
to hushed audiences that
laugh and cry as the
truth stirs within.
The white page
laughs at
me.

‘You
write’, it
sneers to face..
‘Doggerel and flat
prose emptied of life
is the best you can do.’
Its an impossible dream.
Then whispers of readers break in
on despair. ‘You have made us ponder,
cry and laugh-sometimes. So now try harder ’

A Promise delayed by a lie

‘You won’t tell will you?’ They came to her house scratching at the door. She let them in by every sense of the word yet in the morning, it was money on the table and the whine.

You bet she would tell when it was time to gather her pension.