Black Mist Woods

The hood of my long cloak casts a shadow on my face,

My eyes down cast, staring at the ground as if wishing it away,

But the carpet of dead leaves, insect bones, and moist earth,

Are as real as the dreams I didn’t ask to be there,

This side of the world is mine by design,

I pray to it with silence and it hears me through the torment,

The paths from here are many, tangled and inviting,

In the same way that a ghost’s hand might be said to be welcoming,

I’m coming some time just give me one more chance,

The first step like crossing a starving chasm with a black hunger,

My still roots burn holes through hell,

I cannot leave until I understand the face of danger,

Looked upon it as if in anticipation of a noncommittal kiss,

But how am I to know what is so far from the why,

Forever will one day see me bleed through my bark,

Will it be here amongst others that would be like me,

Or will it be beyond these woods where misty entanglement leads,

I go against my very nature by allowing thoughts to wander,

They may never return,

Leaving me to be what I think I am,

But without them I can only feel I am,

Feel I am here,

And that is all that matters,

For even over there,

If I feel,

Then I know I’m still here…



smudged thumb print on the second last petal

imprint of a feeling that hungered

snap back with the stinging as the red shows

a wounded flower so pretty in its pose

still pretty with only one hope left

clinging to the base of its blossom with cloying grandeur

at least it thinks

at least it continues to define the whole

apart from the stem

the others sigh green

why always this one

always the last one born

so pretty can’t you see

its edges catch reflecting raindrops

with swirling smiles from the sun


and stars

it could command the galaxies this one

leaving four fingered prints on their lenses

making them so giddy they’d spill their soil

exposing all routes

there would be truth in that

a way at the very least

to make its detachment




“How long have we been walking?” I asked turning back into the fuggy darkness.

There was no response, just the faint sound of a branch breaking in the undergrowth as if the silence were furtively retreating.

I blew warm air on my gloved hands and looked at them with irritation as if it were their fault they couldn’t stay warm.

Looking down at my own footprints in the cold mud, and then all around me as if in disbelief, I wondered who I had been directing my question to.

Was I thinking that out loud or did I really think somebody was here?

Surely there was somebody just here, somebody who had come all this way with me in these conditions, otherwise how could I have done it alone?

The answer to that question quickly became irrelevant as I now started considering where exactly I was and the new question was “where the heck am I?”

This time I was sane enough to think it in my head although it seemed loud enough in there to startle me a little.

Or maybe it was the slight fear that I had to ask the question in the first place that startled me.

What a bother I am in, surely.



Faced a world of clattering steel have I,

Kissed the horrors that couldn’t let me die,

Bonded with curses that pierced my roving eye,

Upon a powdery bed of bones my heart’s stifled cry,


I swing a dastardly weapon with a thirsty edge,

Wooing enemies with long toothed grins into my bed,

The sound of thunder and drums booms flirting with the end,

It was mine long before theirs oh if I could only smile and pretend,

And then?

Decimation would surely come,

The winged creatures would plummet from above,

Into the subliminal wilderness tumbling from my shove,

Lying in a shallow grave with the others I’ll lick my wounds when I’m done,

What of love?


I stand breathless like a statue frozen in time,

Beautifully horrified otherwise sublime,

Dreaming mine oddity an artwork with a smile,

To an eye kind but only for a bent while,

A sculptured profile with endless ends unrefined,

Taking up space and yet remaining undefined,

That which is inside was not created on a high,

Although inspired it was never part of the design,

For chiselled stone doesn’t cry let alone feel alive,

Although daft works are said to have their own drive,

To somehow survive the piercing of prying eyes,

That swell with green tears as they tell rosy lies,

For nothing cries for what is mostly despised,

Especially when wonderment can’t act surprised,

All’s surmised from here where I can’t hide,

Something non-living that claimed to have died,

Contempt filled spies attend to attempt to socialise,

This private exhibition uninvited are the wise,

The size of their pride hardly something they’d let fly,

Given their prickly reluctance to even ask why,

It all goes by like these dull grey thoughts of mine,

And all these cement like feelings holding up my spine,

I wonder if I’d shine if more of these onlookers were blind,

Then maybe more of I would be less like our own kind…

Fingertip Reason

Fingertips part like a man on a cliff and his reason,

With a silent motion deafened by its meaning,

Speaking loudly of feelings as tidal winds twirl,

In the drop there is acceptance of the different worlds,

A faint hope that the words could have been cradled in hands,

With a reaching touch that made one simply understand,

The contours of the land show rigours of expression,

Reflecting back at the peering face a bewildering connection…


Lived As Is

Lived as is, is as lived

Strings of ties, ties of strings

Things have come, come have things

Long have felt, felt and longed


All is not voiced, a voice is not all

Silence is relieving, relieving is silence

Kindness knows karma, karma is kindness

The devils are beaten, the beaten are devils

 Death creeping on people, people creeping on death

Sleep taken, taken by sleep

Feeling what you think, thinking what you feel

Deep, deep…