minds are filled with petty things
you look at the gossip columns
those things that concern you so much
who is with who, and why is that
and is he having an affair with her
it’s reported
mud sticks
it’s speculated
who knows?
who cares?
there are people in other lands
buried in despair
terrified
dying
no water
children who passed beyond crying
and no hope anywhere
slaughter
get a mind,
or stay silent
I hoist myself up by my bootstraps
to tread the well-worn path,
to battle impatient landlords
and recover from love that’s lost
same old, same old song
time to journey on
I don’t want to be bitter
I don’t want to be angry
I don’t want to be sad
I don’t want to think about us
Or the tenderness we had
I won’t stay in Winter
I was born in the Spring
And Autumn touches my soul.
For you I wish endless Summers
To keep you from this cold,
This cold that’s my bitter heart
Since you pushed us apart
I’m not going to bleed for you, darling.
I have sorrows enough of my own.
I wholeheartedly offered you home,
The one you rejected and left.
Now you must make your own.
I hope you find it within you soon.
My heart is a low-lit room,
I don’t forgive you yet.
Such an insensitive question.
Yes, there’s a ring on my finger,
A simple silver band,
Many long years on my hand.
I wear it for one simple reason,
To remind me I’m my own.
If my words trouble or hurt you,
I am very sorry for that.
I regret.
There’s only one place I escape to at night,
When I can’t get you out of my head.
I have to write.
If not, I would leave all my pages
Empty and woundedly white.
i don’t want to be haunted by memories
of starlit nights and peace
I don’t want to remember your skin
i struggled so long to reach
to then be denied again
i don’t want to remember
your footsteps in my house
or our dreams we shared in the dark
or the loving you quickly forgot
my heart isn’t made of rubber
i won’t be strung on a string
or be chained to you by my open heart
we are apart,
let me forget
A girl with a tired, sad face
looks down at her blank-eyed child.
I looked at the faces around me,
Stressed, depressed, spirits oppressed,
All were pale and grey.
At the stop by the supermarket
A boy, lithium imbalanced,
plunged up the steps in a rush,
yelling ‘Merry Christmas!’
at the top of his wildly filled lungs.
A modern Bob Scratchit, I thought.
They call them chavs these days.
I stumbled through the cold and ice,
my collar up against the chill,
when up ahead I saw a house
built of warm and honeyed wood
resting on a gentle hill.
A house within a wonderland, of frosted trees
and sparkling flakes of crystal snow,
with icicles, hung low.
Footprints there were sharp and clear,
along the paths the Robin takes.
I followed him along his way
and heard the voice of Jenny Wren.
A fire I saw within the hearth
and children’s laughter signalled then
that I am safe and home again.
nothing is carved in stone, they say,
time and weather wear all away
but some of us will remember
the words that were written there
and even the stone is aware
i wanted love to stay and grow
but wishing never made it so
the tides have turned
and now the river’s in full flow
the water only runs downstream
the consequences just sank in
the clouds have covered up my heart
as islands slowly drift apart
the land will flood
and i sit numb
The Hatter really loved sweet Alice
but Alice always thought him mad,
always did and always will,
so he’s gone back, under the hill.
He always thought it was prosaic
to keep both feet on the ground,
he’d rather be over or under it
and now he can’t be found.
He’s still in Wonderland.
The Dreaming Path 