when you wake from a dream
into which you had drifted
if you sleep again quickly
you can dream it again
but it’s never the same
the scenery’s shifted, it’s not as it seemed
where there were roses, there’s only a shadow
the windows are dimmed, the doors won’t open
the music that played changed key long ago
the dream that you dreamed
has floated away
this is not death in the trenches
this is not genocide
nor incurable disease
they have no poppy fields
no proudly treasured medals
they will never be heroes
in trouble and strife, they depart
our young men, so easily gone
in the aftermath of wars
in poverty, in aimless despair,
without hope
and with nothing to leave
they take their own lives
from a nation that has no heart
************
The #1 top killer of young men in the UK is suicide
you make me sad, she softly said
spinning tangled filaments
held there on her thread
so sticky in the web
your wish
for far more
made all we had
less
and now
in the end
there is nothing
i see the streets from big wide windows
i wouldn’t cage a wild bird
i see the magpies perched
on nearby roofs and chimney tops
i haven’t left the house for months
except for weekly hurried visits
to the bank and back again
to pay the hired help who come
for one lone hour a week and leave
i look up maps of nearby woods
woods to which i cannot go
i have started planting trees
within the sheltered garden walls
i see the rolling hills so distant
the snow will come to cover all
the winter nights are drawing in
twists and turns
soft breezes and storms
sweet reunions
misunderstandings
now i must fly
but i wish you safe landings
first there’s love
then there’s laughter
then more problems come after
the day has been long
all my words have been wrong
maybe you thought i was stronger
have your own way
have the last say
i wont ask you to stay
hitting the start button
logging off sweetheart
system shutting down
eight years old
i stood and stared at the floor,
a mosaic pattern
of intertwined flowers,
the pattern always there,
leaning my back against the cold wall
as mirror, clock and chair
and box after box
went out of the open door
where laughter had echoed before
i heard the wind sigh in the rafters
and the creak of the wood on the stair
there was nothing but empty rooms
the flowers drooped their heads in the garden
as i did, in despair, in the hallway
at a death that had come to soon
i saw no adventure ahead
nothing remained
nothing bloomed
after the gardener was dead
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all;
There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
I am not posting much poetry just for the moment as i am working on third book of trilogy (slowly) and also writing a short tale for Halloween (which I will post here later)
So the muse has eyes elsewhere and i don’t want to make her too dizzy :) But I never know what she will turn up with next anyway.
The Dreaming Path 