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short stories

Up up up and away

Soaring through the open air

I flinch in autumn winds

And dance to its shrill sound

Calling me on

Higher and higher

Drifting now I twirl and swirl

In the vague direction of heaven

But the further I propel

Away from the Devil's hell

The heat of sin is lesser upon me

No longer a comforting embrace of collective shame

I shiver I stiffen

I pray to descend

But the will of winter is not one to bend

Lost at the first and gone at the second

No question of a beckoning fate

Out of space and out of time

All I can do is enjoy the last

The last breath

A final gasp

What a glorious life

Lived short

Died fast


Where does it go? Sometimes I am looking straight into it’s big bright eyes.


Sometimes we skip as we hold each others hand idly roaming the depths of our imaginations.


Stopping momentarily to smell the flowers or

share the view. It can be wonderful.

Oh so wonderful.


And just

when I wonder what’s on the horizon

I take my eyes off it and

BLAM! - it’s gone.

But to where? I could never know.


When will it come back?


Will it come back? At all? Ever?


I can’t say.

I can only hope.


What if

when it comes


I don’t recognise it?




Let me drift into my dreams

Let the lights fade out

And the calm come over

With a pop and a fizz

A crackle and zlum

I'm coming through

I'm stepping in

The others call to meet me

But I can't make out a face

Still on I go

The deep dead dark

Until I'm there

Until I'm here

Staring out the lark

In The Lap Of

The Gods are not with me today

Although the heavens are open

I sit here still waiting

Covered in pigment

Yet nothing to weigh

I look up, eyes closed

In defference and say

Gods, will you join me today?


The plaintive cry

Of a soul with a wandering mind

Where the body lays still

And the brain pumps fuel

On a brand new journey

Atrophy is on the horizon

Misery: the next stop

And as fog descends

Restricting the vision

Lights shine brightly

With blinding precision

This is no way to travel

This is no way to live

Snap me out of this trance

Wake me up before I go

I am happy

And I don’t even know

short stories

Go to sleep

Go to sleep




Leave the troubles of your day

Far far far away

Setting down your mind to rest

And laying off your heavy chest

Imagine a world where all is dark

All is calm and all is still

Where nothing stirs and nothing will

No lights no cars no wind or rain

Or sorrow or pain

Smile, breath and say with me

At least I have tomorrow

At least I have tomorrow



The stillness of the

Water's edge stirs the creature

That lurks deep within


Fluttering freely

Descending to savagery

Silent. Swift. Fatal


Taking flight - soaring

Boom bang plummeting plumage

All is calm. Go fetch


Stony, bony, tucked up knees

Embrace the harrowed head.

A muted expression reverberates

Throughout its structure.

Pained, lost, hopeless, naked - alone.

Long sinuous arms comfort and clasp, hanging on -

Structurally sound, neurologically neutered.

Treated with contempt to the point of ignoration;

It’s beauty,

it’s vulgarity.


Wild Flowers

Sat atop the moor cross legged,

back straight, chin up, eyes wide

open - as we once were - staring out;

scrutinising the soon forgotten

natural world


Long, soft, prickly pastures; damp, fresh with dew - a breeze strokes your face


Birdsong sings its calming chorus: ever louder yet not a whisper on a distant air,

where wild grass silk strong - bends in the breeze, whipping and twitching


Sparsely scattered colour threads it’s ways

through dull greys, browns and greens.

Purple and blues, bells and bulbs. A bright red head bobs and pops as petals and leaves ghost home on the whirling ether


Far from home, roaming free, all over the land tamed and domesticated hostages escape and beat a hasty but painfully slow retreat

back to home back to the wilds


Thus one fine morning the rising sun

beams brightly through the pane. Piercing the weave of curtains drawn; pull them back, soak solar rays as a smile grows across your fresh face - a kingdom unfurls; your domestic plants and flowers reach up and out: unthreading themselves. Trailing their path back to their roots: to the wilds of the moors, glenns and downs, which beacon them home

Returning from where they came;

dancing and frolicking with old friends:

to bud again. The nurturing hand sows and plants. A delicate touch to tame the wildest of temperaments. But all is not gone. With new migration new roots go down spreading colour and life - richer with every step.

short stories

A wanderer: faceless and falling;

Prey to the ruthless lure of Babylon.

I waited for the rain.


Distant thunder claps it’s beckoning -

Money, sex fire and magic;

Every gluttonous lust indulged

I waited for the rain to stop.


Chaos reigns a wash of sins.

Across the dank and darkening territory

The spoils are spent.

I waited for the rain to stop.

It didn’t stop -


It lashed.

Lost, hopeless, cold and alone

I waited for the rain to stop.

The rain didn’t stop.

It kept on

And on and on and on.


Have the seas raged?

Have the rivers rallied?

In the penultimate act,

Have the banks finally broken?



Be still my rage - be still

Feel the peace

Course through my veins

And bloom in your heart

The Poet

and the Pauper

Following the nib as I

push and

shove it (around) is

not as easy as it

usually is: as it should be.

This is what happens when

you don’t get much sleep

and the sleep you do get

provides no opportunity to recuperate.


My nose is running onto the page but

my ideas are definitely not.

They elude me and my tired pen.

My sentient pen:

aware of it’s futile use in this application.

It trusts me and is

somewhat scared thus it dutifully

continues. Even as I can feel it

begin to resent me.


I begin to resent it back


We could do with some time alone


Like the strongest bonds of friendship

we share powerful negative emotions

toward each other, which fuel our

judgments; our insecurities; our suspicions.

And now my pen knows I’m using a pencil.

But more importantly it knows why

and it’s unimpressed.


Once upon a time these

speculations and delusions were a

journey to uncover and inspire but now,

the experience of life is all I need.

Late night ventures with investment bankers

may not be a place for a poet.

Or indeed a pauper - but definitely

when both - this is no place to be.

Bankers live their lives by the seat of their

designer underwear and

bold and brashy instinct.


Buy first. Ask questions later.

Sell first. Demand answers later.

But a poet and a pauper must

strategise and plot.

To push that pound as far as it can go

as slowly as it can trot.


These adventures are everyday.

Not with the powdered nose of course

but certainly the excitement.

The thrill of the evolving, everlosing pursuit:

chasing the next idea:

the next moment of vindication.


I did the right thing mum.



a poet.

Short stories

John was not a happy bunny

Although far from the suicidal precipice

Upon which he once perched

Fear and self-loathing was nevertheless

The order of just another

period of experimentation.


You see, whilst his brain was functional

It wasn’t producing the hypothesised

Chemicals that might enable him to pass

The test and thus prove the theory.

Ultimately freeing him from his cage

This made him violently angry.






And yes

Even years have

Been spent on this


However, there is no conclusively

Successful stimulant - unless of course

One doesn’t mind their brain being

pierced with a hot needle - in the right place.


He smiled to himself.

He couldn’t cope with that.

But who could?


He knew it was a joke and that it was a good joke

But it left him pondering the possibilities.


Apart from being terrified of needles

John moves his head too much when he’s eating.

Smith Family


So, I'm in Okotoks, a quaint little town in Alberta,

Canada. It's mid June and the weather is wonderful. Sitting, writing at the dining table of the Smith family household - a truly beautifully pleasant and

peaceful place. Despite the sounds of the

World Cup and the Wimbledon fortnight

vibrating through the ether, despite my

nieces' yelps and heavy steps ascending

the stairs, despite the two barking cock-a-poo

tipping and tapping on Italian tiled kitchen checks, despite the jangling metallic tags dangling from their collars, enforced around their necks. Despite all of this, the songs of the birds resound the loudest, the high pitched improbable tunes fly sharply through the open home - big - wide - vacant spaces and loftily

high ceilings ping and reflect their cheer. Yet as my glazed gaze reanimates I’m back in the room and I must willingly submit - there is a bird in the house.


Today is

the day so

seize it

Your chance

to grasp The

burning handle

Prove to yourself

you can be worthy

Prove to yourself

you can be King

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