Wednesday, November 25, 2015


Fear does roam in circle,
granite hard in veins,
calls the ghost of reason,
names the nightmares

reared, on the weight
of sorrows, howl of
deepest grief, packs
the flesh of madness

wrapped in sore relief.
Holding to the table,
empty dreams of hope,
reason drinks in silence,

draughts of time remote.

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Missing you

There is a hole in the world where you once were,

a gap of such dimensions it cannot ever be missed,

and yawns in cavernous gaping, like some shocking

smile, smashed open, holding to eternal edges, where


my heart hovers by the threatening boundaries of

the abyss, and my mind huddles to one side, every

now and again, peeping into that darkness, as if in

an unexpected moment, I could see you there again;


as if I could find your shape deep inside that chasm,

and then, pull it back into place, haul it from the lair,

where it had been hiding, lost to sight, disappeared

into that bunker of time, that grotto of grief which had


claimed it, and broken the world I had known asunder,

wrought that fathomless depth with its wounded mouth,

destined to remain open, silent, mocking, keening in

a voice which echoed through memory, and which spoke


always of what once was and might never be again,

now that you were lost on the other side of that hole

in the world I once knew, where only your desire could

see you clamber back through, and close it up again.

Thursday, November 12, 2015


So soft, those hands, held
velvet through lack of use,
crippled, racked with pain,
wrinkled in sad sighing,

held loosely to stop the
hurting, incapable of taking
hold, or hanging on, helpless
as they have made you, or

perhaps as you needed to be,
with a disease to which you
could only surrender, against
which there was no resistance,

no attempt to take a grip, or
to handle it in constructive
ways, but then, 'taking a grip'
you were sure, was what led

to madness, to those places
where you had been for so
long, that they held you in
their grip, even once you had

been released; and so, you sat,
hands folded loosely in surrendered
lap, languishing always,
in sullen, rheumatic depths.


When fear sucks in hope,
holds its breath and refuses
release, and the world seems
to shrink into itself, denying

possibility, promising pain
and gritting brittle teeth,
in the face of optimism;
then do I wait for angels

to whisper thoughts of
comfort, which can prod
open lips of despair;
allowing bright exhale.