We Are Sorry

How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.

To leave us only, with their absent faces
falling swirling
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.

Red random now, are those petals poor,
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.

And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.

We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.

But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:

We are sorry for your loss.


Drowning Daffodils.

You begged to go swim –
to sleep
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of know, knowing.

We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
wagging their
tongues, of debased woe.

Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise

but instead we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…


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…

Graffiti On The Train

I think I’ve had enough

gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.

You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
explanations –
kicking hard against my reasons.

Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.

Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.

Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:

Our forgotten
graffiti on the train …


We don’t know yet
that you are dying – when it arrives
embracing me lost, I shall take this place
deeper to me bending our bodies

into day and night.
Sleep shall leave me shallow, remote
in it’s hum of peace-less antidotes.
Décor of early mornings
stirs the reminders – my fingers
holding back the clock
until that final tick tock, foretelling

the ending of our summers concluding

from that final letting go
– then you always

sleeping with your cold eyes shut…

Half Stewed Roses

She stirs her coffee
anti clockwise:

Driven by the need
never to meddle with time.

This woman –
dishing out a pan
of half stewed roses
hitching up her future thoughts
catching the sun, through
a slanted, slated roof.

She convinces herself
that this is such a beautiful day
then kisses him pleasingly,
as if he had died last night.

Hidden behind her mirror
faithful to those images
never yet seen, through the light,
of honest eyes

She holds out her hands
the balance –
on this, her submersed

womanly, imagination…

Poppy 2016 ~xx~



I could sit with you
for hours
nothing said –
just allowing the silence
to share our company.

I study your shades
hidden intense.
Waved like a worn torn
dirty flag.
No longer
the innocence of all my resting places

You stopped expressing
living in that urban apocalypse you
referred to as safe.
Kicking hard against
the compromised unravelling
of your once accomplished character.

I stand, searching one last time
for that us in the mirror.
Knowing, that the only face I see
will be mine –

I am leaving here
with only one wish – that you may
at long last; finally

Rest In Peace!


Wilderness – against the raw naked wind
days of futility – torn between
these empty lands of fortified migration.
Gravestones on mass, innocence fallen
senseless tracks
cut deep amid the whining grass.

Intense of red
the flowers of fury, placid folded.
Heads frayed, touch the ground
between the rows of sleeping.
Killing time, eyes closed
bare footed, waiting for their
mother, brother sister – lover!

Dust of battles long time wrestled.
Therefore, shall the young ones remain
in all but their name…?

Blank Pages.

I should have written sooner – posting
the words going round in my head.

I wanted to tell you – often
how sad and depressed I was
not seeing you this time.
And yet I feel your distance – more than
these footsteps, that have come between us.

Before closing this letter, I taste
the malignant saliva of my haste.
Would that I could
forget your face, wipe unsoiled all taste.
Blameless are they not;
those who drink deep of their disgrace.

I trespass stupidly, amid
the fragments of remnants censured
of all blame

Yet still these white vacant pages
make me realise, that
I should have written sooner …

Poppy ~xx~
May 12th 2015

Soft Brown Earth.

Not for her this slam of day
against those, violet rays that talk
of calmer reason.
For when she hears the trees, who dare
to catch the breeze, then laugh with ease,
she sets aside her mind to bleed.

For all about each season – behind
the windows curtained glass
she watch’s, bridled not for hope
of long, beyond forgotten –
then blown to scatter distant brown
with toss of hand
amid that bed of earth, still warm.

Then all about did listen
as the sun set down her light to drop.
Quietly setting over them; as the day
dropped to her knees.

Poppy ~xx~

1st May 2015