The Laughter of Candle-smoke

The soft wax of red candles in glass vases
Spread dancing lights between three people

She moaned with her belly-swollen grief
In the flickering shoal of shadows

In the tent of candlelight the revelation of eyes
Took my breath away to the city of stars

Softened childlike faces were bobbing about
A womb child spoke to a frightened lonely mother

The laughter of candle smoke an unseen devil
The hissing cobra of dream dust writhing

She swapped roles with you through pockets of darkness
Emerging into light with love and anger

Your breath of memory calmed her wintry seafronts
Her thorns of silence buried in denial

She drew heart from the friendship of your imagination
A uterus of ocean in her storm of self hatred

She ran into the streets possessed by regrets
Hades followed the blame of her misery

You turned the lights on with weary forgetfulness
To tidy up the supper things and wish me goodnight

The Aldermaston Marches

The Aldermaston marches.
To the Quatermass pits where dense darkness
Fills the forests of atomic mushrooms
Like isotopes of air rising from soaking laundry.

The Aldermaston marches.
Through a hail of bullets, big as tombstones
Crashing through the wind like I.C.B.M’s
Onto poppy fields where brass bands play trumpets.

The Adermaston marches.
To Bikini atolls where shark shaped convicts
Ride fairground cockpits around atomic explosions.

The Aldermaston marches.
To web infested palaces where rat faced security men
Dance in daisy chains in the fog smothered night.

The Aldermaston marches.
Into secret panels on soap boxes in speakers corners
down into private underground fallout shelters
where the disappeared sit with plasters on their mouths.

The Aldermaston marches.
Through motorway graveyards where hitchhikers bones
Rattle on rusty motorbikes as radioactive rabbits
Melt in the moonlit glow of prehistoric chaos.

The Aldermaston marches.
Where ulcer stricken scientists hang washing
from overhead pylon cables like advertisements
for brighter than white soap powders.

But cats take no notice of this

You wave your arms in the air
You sway from side to side
You scrunge up the nose on your face
You make yourself go cross eyed
But cats take no notice of this
You may as well face the truth
They just sit there and grin
They sit there looking aloof

Your settee is torn to pieces
Your carpets have holes three feet deep
Your doors have nights and crosses
From the little claw sharpening creep

You say, here nice pussy, pussy
Time for your favorite bite
Or you want to give them medicine
Or show them off to someone’s wife
But the cats take no notice of this
They sense something in your eye
They just sit there and grin
Then arch their backs and fly

The Cairo Express to Limehouse

Strange wind tearing the clouds apart

A strange wind is tearing the clouds wing
It snaps the light like a violin string
The sun walks in striding over a chair
Asking for a whistle and a loud fun fair

My head is turning like a big windmill
My eyes are hailstones like shiny white pills
The strange wind carries me on a silver tray
Up and down the diner of the melted day

As birds with shock hairdos are blown across the way

The Cairo Express to Limehouse

My hair is made of millions of dead sparrows
Why is the day so shallow?
who stole the rainbow coral of the imagination?
who sank paving stones in the canal?
who tied my heart to a concrete block and sank it deep into the grieving soul
grieving for dances with angelic girls
grieving for bedrooms filled with white cockatoos
grieving for cupids arrow from a Sam Cook song
grieving for the rising of the Gihon fountain

rising out of a rock in the back garden
imagine that
rising out of the old school playground
rising like an ice flow that arches between the dreaming sleeping head of my first love to mine
Instead, my hair is a million dead sparrows
killed by pollution and washed out down the drain.

I’m searching, but have I got time today

I’m searching, but have I got time today
I’m searching, so is there hope?
I’m searching the hobgoblins eye of humour
that I swallowed with a glass of water,
when tears fell mingled with blood
surrounding a small crucified boy with
the shadows that hang from a wolves mouth.

If you go for so long without love
–   love comes to you in a dream
– – love comes to you secretly and plants its hope in your soul
– – love thrives like an aquarium at the back of your soul
– – love hammers at the dead parts of your brain like a wolf boy.

Laughter isn’t that the up escalator in the tube station of anguish
Laughter isn’t that the formation of ivory keys in the dungeon of silence
Laughter isn’t that the prize that archaeologists dig or
Laughter isn’t that the sounds of a million dead sparrows in my hair.

Prime Minister

Prime Minister
is there time
is there time for the work force
to put down their tools
and practice Buddhism in a Chinese square;
is there time
for the workers
to put down their dockets
and join the Frenchmen
in the cafes of lovers talk;
to browse the libraries of the ancient mind;
follow the funeral through the forests of light;
Prime Minister – is there life?

Prime Minister
did you wonder why music has become so manic?
the mania represents people who resent not having any time.

Like a black spaceship pickup truck

like a black spaceship pickup truck
carrying the moon across the ocean of childhood light
the hospital wards of memory
where holes are smashed into walls by blood soaked soldiers

memory wraps up each old day in a dark silken chrysalis
hides them in a dungy smelling room that seems to be a lift
that plummets into bowels of the earth

all my days
memory, what have you done to them?

Come all you ancient kings and queens

come all you ancient kings and queens
I have what you are looking for
the river of life
in my back garden.

come all you alchemists and film stars
I have what you want
the river of life in my back garden
tasting of cold silk and magic.

to all you departed Pharaohs and millionaires
can you move now from your creaking tombs
can you move your creaky bones and squeaky coffins
and come into my back garden.

catch the Cairo express to Limehouse
look for the angels and the gold tinsel hanging in the sky
where the battalions of the dead of the first world war
have amassed in the sky singing songs and awaiting their turn

come amongst the buttercups and the ragged robin
where a bird planted the seeds of the stinking iris
where the wind grew sycamore seedlings and scented Buddlias
come to my back garden, come to the river of life

Letter to a Dead Nightingale

And the dead Nightingale is singing
but no-one hears it’s song
and a gentle rain is falling
and no-one can feel it falling.

I hear the song in the blackness of night
from a loosening of bones in the aching neck
the music is the last starlight of a dead star
absorbed by the eye and trapped in a dream

The ages have gone into the dead nightingales song
it breathes in centuries and sings them out
it feeds on the heart with the music it makes
it singles me out with it’s secretive song

– dead Nightingale singing from an old dream
high up there in the blurry night
show yourself and let me see
how your bones hang in the sky

with nothing but a song to make you fly
then back to your home within my head
then back to sleep
and being dead

I’ve carried your body through deluge and fire
cared for you like a phantom pregnancy
I caged your singing spirit within
now I wish I could set you free

Do you die or do you live
are you a memory or are you real
I know you died many years ago
I know you lived to sing your song

Those death cries I never hear
when all alone from the world you know
you find a perch inside my head
and died there and lived on in a song

The song that remakes you gives you birth
and when you sing it is I who die
for love is your song and no-one can hear
and we both go lonely into oblivion


I’ve tried to write to you – a letter
But I don’t know how
The only word I can think to write
Makes no sense at all

What do you want to know (About me?)
Nothing at all!
You just keep on singing
In my hair

What can I tell you about myself
If you don’t want to know
You just want to keep on singing
And that is all

You keep on singing
As I keep ageing
You keep singing
As my hair turns grey
You keep singing
As my bones start aching
So dead Nightingale
Sing, sing, sing!

Your God is listening
To your song
And if he’s the creator
He will bring you back
And then I will stare
Into your diamond eyes
And keep you fed
for ever and a day

I Don’t Remember

During the night
I say
I don’t remember
There being a day

During the day
I say
I don’t remember
There being a night

When things are black
I say
I don’t remember
Anything being white

When things are white
I say
I don’t remember
Anything being black

Soliloquy for a Pane of Glass

My mother once told me that – as a baby
How I fell through a window pane
and about how there was no one to catch me
But another window pane.

And I fell through another windowpane
And I cut my side as I fell
And I fell through another windowpane
And I cut my hands and feet
And there was no one to catch me
Except for another windowpane
That tore my flesh to shreds
And the blood fell with my broken body
Through another window pane
That tore my body to shreds
And the broken glass mingled
With my pieces of cut body
That fell through another windowpane
Then another and another and another
Until I fell like rain upon another window pane
( that you were looking out of)
A torrential rain that broke the glass
And smashed through the window pane
That fell through another windowpane
Then another and another and another

And I’m glad that I’m not there today
In the city where the arrow falls
In the city, in Jerusalem
Where the arrows fall like rain from the sky
Where arrows pour dawn by day and night
And dip their heads in the blood and the dust
I feel safer outside of Jerusalem
I feel safer away from the city
And I feel better able to cope
With the debilitating wounds I already have
Away from the city, away from Jerusalem

The war hurt my family

The war hurt my family
They were tough as tough can be
First they beat the foreigners
Then they tried to beat me.

My loneliness you can’t understand
It’s like a bullet from a gun
That went astray from the first war
And blotted out the sun.

My granddad was a Methodist
He beat his children black and blue
My daddy was an atheist
Who hated everything I knew.

I want to know peace and love
I don’t want to know war
But the world turns full circle
And falls flat upon the floor.

The taste of time on my tongue

The taste of time on my tongue
Is a bitter old penny coin,
Then the menstrual cycle begins
The moon melts in the sky like cheese through a grater.

My heart a mere torn bag of dust
That she dragged down a neglected city street;
It feels like sliced ham now,
It feels like stopping for good.

The key in the fir tree forests dust
Each fir tree pinnacle is a face or a clock
I need an old racing car to take me to the congregation
Before the drip even drops into the bottle.

Time is played with like a guessing game
Tension cracks the clock like an egg
The chick inside explodes like a clockwork spring
A page of the Bible sails into the sky like a magic carpet.


Teacher who are you?
Amongst the turnstiles of mouths
Driving in my wooden car
The wind filling out her blouse

Teacher who are you?
Why do you not appear?
Amongst the stones of the galaxy clock
An ant sized man walking around the ear

Teacher are you really there
Behind the busy black betting board
Striding like a giant amongst the forest firs

Teacher what I mean is
Your old iron hat is made of rust
Do you think you can ever teach
The angels in the dust

Teacher I can see now
The iron in the mould
A newly created word
Is liquid and too hot to hold/speak

Oh the teacher in me
Is slower than the book
That rages history like a fire
Into which I look

Oh teacher are you scared then
The real you has been lost
Does anyone really see you there?
Covered in leaves and frost

Oh teacher why can’t you teach me
Teach me some common sense
“It’s because I am challenged by
A hated woman holding a fence

And in that fence the gate of life
Always seems to be closed
How can I teach you anything?
About where that pathway goes


A woman’s love is needed
I cannot teach alone
A woman’s love is needed
And a happy home

The Cambodian Child Brothel.

Existing, surviving
In the Cambodian child brothel
The unwanted orphan –
Her father,  the customer
The Madame, her mother.

What do they eat?
If they eat at all.
What do they learn?
Do they have school?
Amusing themselves
Day by day,
They are too young to know
Any other way.

In a rundown building
A camera rolls
Capturing the sport
With these innocent souls.
A tourist is with them
A middle aged man,
A nobody back home
A lord in this land.

The children are sitting
Around on the floor
Exploited by low life
Neglected by law.
They are eager to please
They do as they’re told
The brothel is their family
Neither hot nor cold.

You think you can save them
To take them away
For what will it cost you
A few pounds a day.
But some will grow up there
And who will care
When they’re too old to live here
And they carry on – out there.

Addicted to pornography

Addicted to pornography
Love it
Hate it
Sneak into the room
Sneak out again

Kept in the attic
Under the floorboards
Or in the garage

Like medicine
On the internet;
Now like a cure all
From a medicine show
On a website
In the electric light
Switch on
switch off


Paris-La Rochelle

Le temps du rêve

Reverie in reverse

Phillip writes poetry ... or gets lost in thought


Baby steps in the right direction👣

Adeline Wrights Poetry

A place of love, pain, and pondering

Hettie's Reflections

On family history, parenting, education, social issues and more


News and views to inform or amuse

What's Inside a Madman's Hat?

...everything is subject to change.


Alex Markovich: author.

Shortness of Breadth

The #1 Itinerary

Inspiring the world's next generation of travelers.

Hopeless fountain

Living moments through words.

zeta tau alpha

samford university | delta psi chapter

luna's on line

Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger


Poets, Poetry, News, Reviews, Readings, Resources & Opportunities for Poets and Writers

Indians Abroad Desi Videsh Me

Lifestyle - Cooking tips - Travelling in Europe- Emotional support - Integrating with locals -Easy Recipes-Gardening


Brett Kristian

tonysbologna : Honest. Satirical. Observations.

Honest. Satirical. Observations.


politics philosophy phenomena

%d bloggers like this: