January 2022

Poetry Drafts / / By 
On ne passe pas!
There are walls, carefully crafted 
Over years of yearning for peace:
Concrete and steel, windowless walls deeper than demons’ lairs,
Higher than the holy heavens,
Thicker than the Tower of London.

Behind the walls, carefully selected 
Over decades of delusion: space,
Silence, and a sequestered soul
Searching for absolution.

Outside the walls, a world forsaken
Over a lifetime of lies: time heals all

Wounds.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Masochistic Mayhem
There should be tears, 
There should be shouts 
Of fear and toys thrown
From prams, and jealousy.

There should be fears,
There in the rocking chair
Of horror and boys grown 
From toddlers, and rage.

There should be horrors,
There behind a truth untold
Of suffering and silent posts
In parenthood, and pain. 

There should be suffering,
There on the naughty step
Of old and the reopened 
Wounds, and the new.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
In Passing
I am the Meridian, the Guardian 
Of time passing, and times
Standing still. 
I am the Watcher, the Observer 
Of lives passing, and lives 
Finding peace. 
I am the Ferryman, the Captain
Of ships passing, and ships
Anchored deep. 
I am the Dreamer, the Catcher
Of truths passing, and truths
Trumped-up.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Singleton
You spoke of awakening 
To search the stars for signs,
You spoke of voices calling
To answer your final ask,
You spoke of no escape 
From death’s dire knock,
You spoke of a future us 
In a first-person voice.

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Icky
Personae on a stick
Lick, lick, lick,
A poet missed the trick
Thick, thick, thick,
Black keys of Magic
Stick, stick, stick,
Another attempt to kick
Down the drain of sick
My final dream pick.

ce soir j’écris

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Writing is a journey, onwards and upwards. Looking back is like driving down a cul-de-sac, not finding reverse or ways of turning back; getting stuck in the world of old wounds, old truths, old words, and old yous. Writing is a journey down a new path, a new street, a new road in another neighbourhood, in a new town, or another country – feeling cold, feeling lonely. Writing is a perpetual journey into the unknown - a place we should all find to time to appreciate, rejoice and celebrate.

After the Fall

Poetry Drafts / / By 
White eyes reaching for the skies,
Powdered snow and bleeding nose,
White coats rejecting your ceiling strolls,
Powdered pills prescribed as solidified 
Hell; with pretence on the canvas 
We paint every day in solid light hues;
Darkness moves in the brightest of light,
Invisible selves roam in circles of eight
Behind closed curtains you sit and watch 
The world spinning out of control; your
White eyes searching for a sunlit sky
With powdered winter snow, naked
And undiagnosed. 

Pie in Sky (adventure in iambic pentameter)

Poetry Drafts / / By 
Above the mountains high a godly sphere 
The snow-capped hills and vales so deeply green,
A lush view speaks of fingers crumbling pies
Divinely minted master chef’s delight, 

Below dead lakes the cods sit silently
Their final bills unpaid their race away
Curtailed, with nothing left but crumbling pies
The master chef has left them all behind,

Of metaphorical pies this speaks one truth
One voice we silently abused before:
Let go, fly high, towards the sky of pies. 
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