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.



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…

Gentle In Black

Last night in the long drawn out darkness
I finally realised –
what it means to be alone.
No one –
will ever understand me
as you once did.

Oh they try
how they try
with their well meaning
words of truism –
and yes, tomorrow
will always be another day.

But today, gentle in my black
I can only walk away when they say

they love me:
For what is love
without your understanding?


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…?

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

They Are Not Torn.

They are not torn
such was the innocence, of their joyful, youthful faces
now left wilted – grasping the land, beneath their fallen feet.

They are not torn
though left abandoned in senseless, countless numbers.
Disbelief; engraved with relief, soon to be consumed by guilt
on the face of each survivor:
Over so many wasted soldiers lives.

They are not torn
as the shriek of death erupts once more, ripping wide
the secular white of each fragile life.
Leaving the flies to their gathering,
sweat and blood, now decaying side by side.

No they are not torn
as the cloudless blue sky reaches right on down.

Pops August 7th 2014 ~xx~


You are of two shadows, each discreet of the other
sitting alone for midnights blackest skies,
to come and block you from my view.
Allow me to decorate your grey,
placing purist calico thoughts, of scattered home effects:

Expected pauses – I can go with that
swallowed ideals –
the tundra of your mind, soaring
to their high hills, and hiding places.

I softly finger trace the outline of your life
stumbling where
pleated folds, splatter raindrops
on your life’s, convictions.
Slip to slide, your footsteps,
sown between the indemnities of my needs
and your leaving.

Undressed, we let the tinderbox ignite
hermetic fragrance swaying drunk; the
sea holds tight her unbridled ire.
She places her hands around your empty stare
permitting me to love you – just this once
with all of my copious; naked care.

Pops ~xx~ August 2014.

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~

Of Daisies and Politicians.

Destroy not the common daisy
on this pleasant afternoon
for when the lawn is barren
banality and greed shall parade itself to centre stage.

With their meddling white hatter, chatter
crusts all squared, cucumber sliced to thin as ice.
Nothing stops to break the explosive tones of the utter slush
spewed from their lawn mower mouths
as they strive to assassinate the weeds, from
their kingdoms privileged ranks.

Disregarded for our heritages guttural tones
yet not so shabby, when it comes to stealing our money.
They march us out to battle, to appease their daily wrongs
force feeding us, their two faced lies of hypocrisy
with their “Dear Householder” literature
shoved unwanted through our doors.

Benevolence for the daisy I say;
you Lords and Ladies all –
Think, that for everyone which lowers its head in pain of loss
countless more anticipate their births uprising
sitting patiently – just waiting for the call…


Poppy April 10th 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~