Shiny Yellow Stockings

Man of glass
you stood
you sat
you smiled
you cried

No longer, in residence anyone of your name
Spirals of memories –
children’s games
fishing boats trawl waters deep
dream catchers with their secrets to keep
flickering images of black and white
reliving fragments of others acceptance.

Mother dear you’ve stitched that piece before
I know, you knew, that one day
someone would come knocking on our door
think you can wear that blanket
of ignorance for always, strip off that outer
coat of varnish –
scrub away the tarnished debris
You should have been an actress
encore after encore
with everyone screaming more
more, more – but not me!

In shiny yellow stocking, I held
my step father’s hand
in my shiny yellow stocking I
simply – did – not – understand.


Searching For Her Monet.

She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.

Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.

She daubed splendour – in full
blown colour
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.

She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:

looking for her creator.


Where we tread – seldom sees the
sun of summers now abbreviated days.
Blackberries un-ripenened mass, on mass
as through the scumbled leaves – she skips
innocence still playful about her lips.

She finger flicks the plentiful untouched fruit
scratches running arms length
delicate pink, across her tender
childlike skin.

We stop, catching the richly spiced
choral woodland sound.
She stops to look
wanting to ask – before I place a finger
softly against her mouth.

I sense she understands
with her eyes now wide, mourning
this, the passing of her childlike

As she – the girl
who once was:

had suddenly became me…

Whitewashed House.

My house is all whitewashed
whiter than chicken bones left drying
in the noon day sun.

I was five –
when they set you to rest
but here, you still live
my overdue resident, of sometime past.
How many things do I need to remember
outside the love of a father and child?

I suffered from no preconceptions
A child never does –
you offered, and I melted like sugar
so all the children can sing, as we let
the sea wash over us.

On the day they buried you
I played – though never in fun.
I felt it was  better than crying
less to make those grown ups mad.
Someone stopped to touch my head
they seemed old
so very, very old
I remember thinking
no matter
how long you were dead – you would always be you!
never to be that way:
So I smiled –
as I painted my house white…

Poppy ~xx~

26th April 2014


There is gentle in her body’s poise
in all speaks and all she moves.
Her turn of head gives pleasure guilty.
Smile my way – if just this once
be tender in your guarded shape of love.

I’m not asking of your fire
for burning your image, deep into my brain.
Not for the seasons blessed, fleshed into your words
allow me if only – your inquisitive admirer be.

Bend me outwards at the footsteps of pace
close, all doors,
once your loves makes hasty tracks
scold me ten fold – time for time

Yet tell me as your daughter
if you please
That once I raised the sun to vision your view:
Even on your blackest day of pain


April 4th 2015

The Hill.

He tells me, that he has seen heads swiped
clean from their body.
Their aftermath, more naked than the day
that they were born.
I cling to his fragile youthful hands
swabbing the violence from the fragments of his vision.

I found him – fallen here
in this place where you know you are mortal.
The landscape no longer distinct, outside the rutted roads
now strewn with the bone remains of shrunken men.

He will have had so many expectations –
Roads to travel – girls to fill his head with lustful dreams.
What now in this shrinking of his closing pain.

What I said about this was much less, than I saw
as I took my unhappiness, and headed up the hill…

Poppy ~xx~
March 17th 2015


Spirals of glistening shade, recline serenely dappled
in their morning wraith-like haze.

Amid your twisted sinews, I am most graciously calmed
while pristine elaborate skies; ground
my oath, steadfastly to you

Kissed in passing by all manner of such gracile splendour
flower heads sweeping stately, in their lightness of touch.
Reflecting deep –
of the imagery that scurries the waters edge
asking of no permission, to stand still this day
draped in adult perfection – floating on a child’s eye;
of far flung surrealist imagination.

September 21st 2014 ~xx~

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~