Saturday, 29 October 2011


Feast of the Dead

Should you pass my home tonight,
You'll see a candle burning bright.
It's not inviting 'Trick or Treat',
But guiding the Ancestors home to eat.

I've cooked my Grandma's favourite meal
And scented the room with sage to heal
Any rifts that keep us apart
To ease her passage back to my heart.

I've reserved a place for Grandpa too,
By favourite tobacco placed in the loo.
For he always hid in there for a smoke
Until Grandma came and gave him a poke!

For my Father, a picture of his veteran cars
And his favourite chocolate bar - a Mars.
While my Mother I'm sure I can easily lure
By photos of picnics on Hayling shore.

My baby daughter who I still deeply miss
Will soon be home to claim a kiss,
And so, you see, this time of year
Has never been a time to fear.

Instead, it's a time for celebration,
For our World briefly opens to Spirit Vibration
So all those we've lost can return again,
Entering through the candle's flame!

Sunday, 23 October 2011


Inspired by the movie 'Que la Bete Meure'

 Arriving home in a terrible fright
I struggle out of the car
And into the hall to turn on the light,
Before heading straight to the bar.

Trying to steady my staggering gait
As the room spins over the door.
Next moment I'm in a bewildered state
To find myself sprawled on the floor.

My memory's fighting with the booze
To remember what happened tonight,
When past my window the ambulance crews
Race amid blue flashing light.

My arm is hurting, there's blood on my shirt
And a frightening sense of doom,
When suddenly I know I've hurt
Someone out there in the gloom.

Slowly the pieces fall into place,
I recall the sickening thud
As a young girl's horribly broken face
Bounced from my screen to the mud.

Split second decision - I'd had to escape
As I dreaded what I might see.
Imagine the mess her blood would make
And the effect it could have on me!

So I'd raced off with my foot to the floor,
Praying that no one had seen,
For my misdemeanour I was sure
Would cost me every bean.

But now grave doubts are setting in,
As the fog clears from my brain,
And so I go to the fridge for a tin
To obscure the thoughts again.

But it doesn't work and my flesh starts to creep
As pictures in my mind
Begin to make me shudder and weep.
That child out there could have been mine.

So in a desperate bid to forget,
I go into the lounge
To switch on the TV set,
But catch the end of news round.

They're appealing for witnesses to come and help
With a fatal hit-and-run.
At the sight of her face, I let out a yelp,
Appalled at what I've done.

That beautiful child is no more
And I'm the one to blame.
If only I'd waited, although it's a bore
Until the taxi came.

What must her parents be feeling now?
To imagine, I can't begin.
If only I could tell them how
I'd give all for her place to be in.

And so I decide to give myself up,
But the police have already arrived.
They're giving my car a thorough check-up
And inspecting its caved-in front side.

When I approach they caution me
And I offer my hands to be cuffed.
As they drive me away, through tears I see
The spot where that young life was snuffed.

'Oh God forgive me,' I cry in remorse.
For I can't bear what I've done.
It'll haunt me 'til I die of course
In prison at seventy-one.

Friday, 14 October 2011


At home they're treated with cool respect
his wife and children four,
but when he wears judicial wig
he's a gentleman no more.

Then he's the great Lord Chancellor,
the most brutal England has known,
as he reigns over the Bloody Assize
striking terror right to the bone.

Haughty and sadistic, he gazes down
from his throne-like bench on high,
anticipating the pleasure to come
as they lead the prisoner by.

But he cannot prove her alleged crime
so he bullies a petrified jury,
forcing them to acknowledge her guilt
or themselves bear the brunt of his fury.

So this frail old widow is condemned
through gross perversion of laws,
to be bound to the stake and burned alive.
How he relishes controlling death's jaws.

It makes him feel important, almighty,
to possess the power to slay.
I swear he believes himself a God,
but inside the devil holds sway.

I'm so grateful I wasn't alive
in the year of sixteen-eighty-five!

Sunday, 9 October 2011


He appears in your life
just as a glowing evening Sun
dips beyond western sea.
What is it about him
that captures and holds
your attention,
that you find so devastatingly irresistible?
His dark brooding good looks maybe?
That's much too shallow a reason
for such overwhelming reactions.
No, it's more the way his
powerfully evocative words
translate into wild hedonistic caresses
that holds you spellbound.
Your senses are expanded,
razor sharp.
You're drawn into the slipstream
of a white-hot meteor
that rips apart the night sky
of inhibition, allowing
the full force of passion
to fly free.
He suspends time itself
for you.
There is only this moment,
you, he and utter bliss.

Golden dawn.
With a solitary
heart-stopping kiss,
the linguistic magician promises
Then he's gone.

Six lonely months
have passed.
His face has begun to blur
in your memory now.
He could've been no more
than a collective female fantasy
inadvertently hacked into,
or even the cheating love rat
your friends believe him to be.
But it really doesn't matter
if others think
he lied about forever,
because you know the truth.

There are many interpretations
for that word
and his lies here,
on a single page
in his recently published
anthology, where
he's made you