My brother, blasted from this world

by a blood-stained butcher

for ten days saw the light

abandoned in a world of pain.

What did he gain?

I have seen his grave,

hard fast against a wall,

sheltered by a tree

tiny bones in tangled roots.

It doesn’t bare his name.

The footsteps of his ghost

followed us to every home

angelic, sainted, untested and unknown,

a child of illusions with nothing to give or prove.

Held back by his hands how could I compete.

His weight against my back

demanding that I move.

The only way was love

and love bought with it grief

for a boy I never knew

who never knew me too.

Close your eyes
Deeply breath
Still your troubled heart
Listen to the voice
That has no words

There is a light
Arising from the West
Where quiet waves
Lap an empty shore
A sigh repeats your breathe

Above the shore
A smooth green rise
Scented with junipers,
Hyacinth, the dog rose, cedar.

A curlews cry
Stretched like string across the sky
Climbs above.

Across warm rocks
That greet your feet, cool and bare.
This is a space of welcome sleep.

There are no dreams
Nor troubles there.
All is quiet in tranquil air

I watched the path of raindrops

running down the window

I willed them on

until they met together

~

I saw a seed pod

spring green and softly budding

heart shaped, joined together,

cloven in two halves

they stretched and burst apart

and then produced one flower

~

We don’t know ourselves.

We need the eyes of others.

~

What makes us separate?

How do we know ourselves

as one form from another?

~

I have never changed

to satisfy our union

and yet I knew myself

only when I found you

magnetic gravitation bought me to your side

such bonds are never broken

and yet I feel this greater urge

to be consumed and ever closer

to return from this place to another

and know the path we took

To sit and hope for wisdom,

when the light is there.

Thoughts are fickle, flying things.

I examine the scene as Sherlock Holmes would

I check all the facts of the story

I scrutinise every gesture

I look with a magnifier for potential manipulations

And compare the minute details to the bigger picture

I flip through psychology books

to find my own feelings detailing each with due care

I don’t fall for simple charms

I accept no word on its obvious meaning

Those who present fine words and sweet smiles

never find their way to my arms

This may seem cold and keep me apart

It may even seem a little obsessive

But I am only protecting my heart.

Little Jack Horner

Was an informer on Georgie

Who swiped all the pie

Georgie had got in the stew

All the girls were yelling ‘Me Too’.

Georgie’s a greedy guy.

Jack’s always nimble

Jack’s always quick

After Jack took Jill up the hill

They had a tumble

Now every morning Jill feels a bit sick

So the gossips are starting to rumble

And Jill was seen out

Choosing a cot

And now Jack’s had to slow down a lot

When people grieve for Dukes and Princesses

people they feel they knew,

their grief is from somewhere else.

The passing of time,

a golden age they imagined,

things that won’t come to pass,

disappointment,

a security blanket suddenly whipped away.

Being mortal

that’s the worst part.

That’s a well with no measure of depth.

I am not going to jump into that drowning place

for people I never met

whether I think I liked them or not.

Imagine being the poet laureate,

having to write peons of praise.

I’d say they are brave,

but they’re probably liars.

There have been lovers.

One of you is already dead.

Why do we love the moon?

Desolate, silver and distant.

Is it because, in darkness,

it casts a clear light in the void

amongst the vast coldness of stars?

A symbol of hope.

Where is love?

They call it the great unravelment,

I heard it said.

Time’s running backwards

Here

In my head.

The things that were done and not done.

Yes. Those things that were done all repeated.

There by the fire,

In the bed,

In the kitchen,

Out on the windswept ledge.

You like to walk alone.

So do I.

But isn’t it strange

how social you are,

approachable,

with everyone else, except me.

I remember the good days.

I do.

But isn’t it strange how often they end

with a punch to the jaw.

Metaphysical, metaphorical, physical,

It all hurts the same.

Neglected or bullied, it’s all disrespectful.

It’s ended now.

It’s my time

for the unravelling

of all that’s been said and been done.

Where was love?

I am here.

You are gone.

I sit at bare tables.

Scrubbed.

You are defined in the spotlight.

Defunct.

I watch every night in my dreams

as you come

one after one after one.

I watch and I am.

You are unravelled.

I am.

And then the children keep coming.

More and more, every night.

Some are not real.

I wonder, were they unborn.

I keep on loving you.

You, yes, you.

I ask myself why.

For a few precious moments of closeness.

Perhaps.

But it always unravels.

That’s as clear as the moon.

Yes, it’s time to unravel.

I am.

I will be able to sleep.

When the moon wanes, you’ll be gone.