Hunger
the daily companion
motivating the hunter
urging him beyond his endurance
to kill

At last cutting a deer's track
by spoor, a fresh passage
cloven prints in fresh snow
indicating the way to go

Decision :
speed to catch up with the prize
or stealth to insure surprise ?
compromise
rapid progress with still pauses
sixth sense now screaming
heart pounding
pulse racing
mouth watering
prey is near

Time to get down wind of trail

Halos fill my eyes
In the distance there is no light
Words come and go then disappear
Only to reappear partial and broken as lies

The pain surges and pulses
With each heartbeat
And will not end

Objects appear before me
Breathing and taunting
Close
Much too close

I reach for a shadow
That was never there
Brushing it aside
Into the air

The ache
The pain
Is always there

Colouring Mountains

The child shrieks delight,
though her hand’s unsteady
placing brush to paper
see a Picasso colour splash,
change the pure white.

Shrieking again annoyed,
then happy as she,
understanding the brush.
will return, fully loaded.
With the beautiful coloured magic
to transform her paper bright.

Branded by the fire
the smoke entered
the room of love
where naked hearts
beat patina seconds

the walls wept with
rust and waves of
rivulets caressed
the cut where the
blade sought
dorsel dreams

and they met
while heaven drowned
and hell crept

the brands of light
falling like cries

...

My father was a Poet in his bygone days
with his poems ‘For a Kite Hawk’ and ‘Indian Ways’.
He wrote of love for Mother and of David too
and words of Christian faith with a prayer or two.

When I used to know him before he sadly died
he would show his poems to me with modest pride.
But I was too young to know, he’d sown a seed in me
for at that time, I did not take to words of poetry.

Heavy

The weight of guilt
Hangs heavy within my mind
Gonna cut out my weary eyes
Suffer my life alone and blind

This weight of regret
Hangs heavy upon my soul
Gonna move on, far away
No purpose, nor control

It's too much
Can't carry it anymore
My body aches
My shoulders too sore

It's too much
Can't go on no more
I am too weak
This pain I can't ignore

Of love
I am a sexologist, you now know it, ask me any questions and I shall tell no lies, as love alone lies between the thighs. Mental, is just an aberration, to create emotional revolution and as know of sex, I always recall my masters voice, ere he died.

Give me sex,
He said but I can't stand no more,
Just remember my life's experience for sure

Love lies between the thighs
And
That’s for sure,
I can make no love no more
And then he died...
He couldn’t endure!

Jackal dogs on the attack
Rampant,laceration.
Filled with envy and greed.
but we fight back.

Nefarious fiends
Your teeth are showing,
Throw down the gauntlet
We have never been friends..

Attack, retreat, attack
Your battle plan is a classic,
But you’re only exposing what you lack.

Counter action sends
You reeling, Jackal dogs brawling and bitching
you will continue to hit dead ends,

For the hunted will turn back
And strike you.
That is our pact.

The defeated will win.

An all night winter rain and storm;
outside it's cold, in here its warm
while sitting before a gas log fire
we watch the tube and conspire.

The rain upon a roof of tin
sometimes can cause an awful din
causing us to raise our voices
while we discuss our program choices.

But at least this heavy rain
is not joined by sleet's refrain
or accompanied by forming ice.
Losing electric is not so nice.

The moment the light in her eyes went out,
like a snuffed-out candle, her sun lost its glow.
Vacantly staring at a whitewashed wall,
void of graffiti, its substance is gone.

Having to keep busy, busy like bees in a hive,
only to be outdone by frantic ants in a hill.
The heartbreaking cry of a thunderous sky wounded
by a boundless echo of distress.