Friday 25 October 2013


Conquistador, now the Angel of Death
comes seeking your heart of stone,
is it cursed by the slightest hint of remorse
for the countless cultures misunderstood
that you've razed to molten ash?

Remember your past - that corner of Spain
that, for you, was never enough;
until raging avarice eclipsed humanity
to incite a full-scale insurrection
that exploded across the globe.

To build an empire you would stop at nothing,
so conned from the Aztecs their gold.
Their simple ways incensed you so
and architecture dedicated to unknown Gods
disturbed you, so had to go.

Terrified of your might, they fled and hid
behind barricaded windows and doors.
Such cowardice made you despise them more:
fired instinct to crush any weak resistance,
along with their pointless lives.

So you rode on a brutal rampage and torched
every straw-clad dwelling, then averted
your face from the heat of the raging furnace -
until a piteous sobbing reached your ears.
You looked back...and your stomach lurched.

There beside the embers a cowering young girl,
smoke blackened, gazed up at you.
You lifted her up and felt her tremble.
Her soft helpless body clung to yours,
silently for mercy begging.

Something alien touched you then:
compassion...and a need to be seen
as something other than what you were.
So you lifted her up onto your stallion
and from the carnage galloped away.

Soon the odour of burning flesh
was no more than the guilty recall
of a past in denial and the promise to come -
if she would only believe your lying tongue
when her saviour you claimed to be.

Well, you possessed her body but not so her Soul -
that part of her seemed to know better.
In fact, the thing you now desperately craved
had already perished in the hellish flames,
along with all those she had loved.

So what you held then was empty and cold.
In frustration, you struck her hard.
Was it that for once you had no control
over someone who aroused in you a love
that for the first time wasn't carnal alone?

Or perhaps it was the image of molten ash
in your conscience insidiously smouldering
that drove you to run her through with your sword...
then cry like a baby as her dying eyes
transfixed you in their basilisk stare.

Illustration courtesy of Google Images.

Saturday 19 October 2013


A blazing row:
wounds inflicted
with intent
to damage Soul
and make a dent
in ego's stronghold.

A deadly game
of table tennis.
Each strike
precisely aimed
at opponent's

Last word:
the prized trophy
fanatically sought,
amid threats
of self-destruction.
Emotional blackmail.

To be the victor
at any cost:
poison arrows
pierce the air,
miss the mark,
injure bystander -

by wishing to be
my lost child
instead of he.
Caught in the crossfire
just because I'm here.

Friday 11 October 2013


For Dave King...

I'll not weep for your passing.
I will not disrespect you
by enshrouding myself in black
and wallowing in self-pity.
I'll don my green robe
and celebrate your ascension
to Higher Self.

But even that seems
somehow inadequate,
for you lived that truth already
while still here on Earth.
You were a teacher
of the most enlightened kind,
devoting a lifetime to helping those
with complex needs.
Oh, such a noble Spirit...

And you were my supporter
when I was on the verge
of giving up;
my strength, when self-doubt
possessed me;
and my inspiration
when words refused to flow.
I cannot begin to express
how privileged I feel
to have known you.

this may seem heartless,
but I shall not miss you.
How can I
when I see your face
in my cappuccino froth;
hear your voice
in the falling rain;
find your poetry
in these wind-tossed leaves of autumn?
You are not gone:
have simply exchanged your form
for another, composed of pure Light,
much finer, yet no less real.
I am aware of your comforting presence
at this very moment as I write these words -
hear you offering constructive criticism,
just as you always have.

I so loved you, Dave,
as friend and fellow blogger.
I love you still
as Kindred Spirit.
I always will...

So why is my heart breaking?

Friday 4 October 2013


In the black of night
such fantastic dreams beckon
and lure him away
from his sleepless wife's side
to fly, faithless-winged,
the eccentric air
which she, suspicious spouse,
cannot share so remains
with unseeing flame-eyes straining;
gripping, white-knuckled, duvet cover:
twisting curses into polyester;
while imagination taunts
with images of an errant mate
roaming free among Moon-cast sirens.
So excluded, in fury, she can only wait
until deafening dawn chorus
prompts his unwilling return
and she can call open
those guilty eyes and suck out
every detail of all
that night-long stole him,
then with red demon claws
tear to shreds those temptresses
and superimpose her own face
onto voluptuous curves
before that awakening truant consciousness
has time to record the difference.