You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior

My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.

I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.

Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.

There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.

Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down

my innocent beliefs…


The Tulips.

Daddy bought me tulips
dressed as flowers in disguise.
How remorsefully obtuse they stood –
wrapped tight; about their neat closed cup.

My pretense over their acceptance
I know it will not last:
It’s as if, pretty and ugly
are both wearing the same mask.

So, I’ll stay, in the outline of this room
searching out, those bright red tulips.
For soon myself and they
will lessen their fresh faced bloom.

I can hear myself say.
I’ll sweep them under the carpet
the place, where secrets go to lie.

Poppy ~xx~
3rd January 2015

At Least.

You came home –
just as I knew you would
so shall we light the hill side beacons

burning to rid your mangled dreams traded with some stranger
who troubled you with the political line of their treachery.
I could have managed well, without
the sound of the postman’s gravitas sharp steel toed
foot fall displacing the gravel as he called.

I waited for you to ask
before ripping apart the walls of ingratitude’s seditious slander
slopping out the barrack rooms arrogance of pride
and yet you never did!

How repulsively uneven the mud flats of our existence dwell
within us
they have no feeling no depth of remembrance
ever creeping
spreading a malignancy goring away

on the good man’s infatuation of incorruptibility.

Yes you fought – yet ask me not for reasons clothed in your bravery
for all I can counter shall be

at least you came home.


Poppy June 29th 2014 ~xx~

Hells Nasturtiums

Measured interpretations
of me that unhappy child

Stripped exposed –
windward as the rowan tree
that blemishes
the scarlet berries.

Lemon scent, varied
with the smell of spoil.
Your breathe scolding
the space we inhabit.
Rare peaceful  interludes – like masked
intruders, infrequent in their callings.
The house always so full of thunder
as if violent red
Nasturtiums did ascend  their way:
from hell…


Poppy May 2014 ~xx~

Vertebral Translucency

Count me down
snap me open
show me life exists
outside these inconsequential walls.
Squeeze me oranges – physical in their consciousness
slay me armies who slaver when they taste defeat
stand the sentinel – sucking underfoot of duties need.

Bring me roses tinged
with vertebral translucency –


Poppy April 17th 2014 ~xx~



You observe my wounds
yet you stop to talk of the weather.

I look to notice the clouds
not in the sky above, but those in the
eyes of my Kin.

I bleed
Yet what you offer me drains my veins.
What is there that sits upon me more
outside the negligence of my existence?

Today I wanted to kill a man
for all the things that he had said.

Yesterday I shot dead a man
Simply because he, would have,
killed me.

War does seem to be war
on whatever ground we stand to fight.
Over there marches my enemy
Here – stands you –
the traitor on homes shore.

Poppy February 2014 ~xx~

Pain Relief…

“It isn’t, like taking an aspirin”
you say.
“Go ask the Doc – only time can heal
my errant past”.
I sigh, sitting watching the space between
us, becoming ever more undone.

I am not a saint – I’m well aware of that.
I am just me;  an ordinary woman
struggling alone; to stem what has
fast become, our retreating subsistence.

I bid you to finish your meal –
In this life; not in the next.
You reply:
“I want us to sleep on the rug tonight
like newly weds curled up by the fire”.
Yet for reasons, unknown  –  what seems
a sensual sentiment   does not quite
make contact with your eyes.

Sighing, I close the door behind me.
I  shall leave you to your own sterile crusade.
I am much preferring  my bed –
along, with a little something, to quickly
take away this constant  pain.
For time, is something that I know:
‘We’ do not have.

Poppy December 2013 ~xx~

The Ploughman…

Why do you always shout at me
in the tongue of wild horses.
I request a shelter safe, from
your constant, herding storm.
Night fall – ceasefire, scrap
of paper – sorry – in your hand.
No translation needed to make
me understand – yet you keep on
pounding worn old tracks.

Meadows and mountains
lie beneath the same blue sky.
You whip me cold from the showers
lashing down from high
then spoil, all tranquil beauty
from the tears, you have me cry.
Recompense, you offer not an
empty vase – leaving me wary
of close breathe, between
the sea and shore.
Wash clean, not my thoughts, in sentiment
like so, many times before.
Barren empty, now stands the ravaged field
for the ploughman’s been and gone, though
I never heard his call…

Poppy November 2013 ~xx~