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.

Some days are worth nothing.

Some days nothing happens.

Maybe the sun shines.

Maybe it doesn’t.

It doesn’t interest me.

When things are like that

I stay in bed.

I don’t fight it.

I don’t lecture myself

On positive thought.

What for?

As a child I didn’t fight it.

I am learning to be that again.

little doll made of rags

sitting in a corner

worn and tattered

and much loved

her braided hair is faded

from the light of ninety years

her blue eyes closed

her lips a smudge rubbed out

where is the child who owned her?

too old to keep

the days of love are over

where the river runs upstream

where the birds forsake their wings

where the crow is white

where commoners are kings

where the rainbow tilts

where the sea is tideless

where the summer comes before the spring

where the angels walk the earth

where the rain is molten gold

where death precedes a birth

where all is contradiction

where all the clocks are wrong

where history’s prediction

in imagination’s fire

everything is possible

but nothing can transpire

The computer is malfunctioning, the do-dah won’t connect,

reboot the system in safe mode, oh hell that big blue screen.

This is where confusion starts, so I’m switching the damn thing off.

Common sense and compassion

could cure the

worlds ills.

But greed and corruption

rules as the

coffers are filled.

Negligent power

is the curse of the earth.

Arrogance kills.

This is not human

This way is a sin

These gross perpetrators

Are not of my kin.

These inhumane ghouls

Live by deception

And narrative spin.

Earth eaters,

polluters,

carrion slime.

Purveyors of suffering and indolent crime.

I despise you,

detest you.

Your way is not mine.