Walking along with a bundle of shame
Maybe it’s lighter than the guilt
Holding me fast like a ball and chain
This prison I have built

Brick and mortar, walls of stone
Iron bars lined one by one
Cage the heart that’s leaden gray
So it may never run

Sever cords from heart to head
Stifling the meddling mind
Ears are deaf and tongue is mute
To hurtful words unkind

Laying siege upon myself
Apparitions dark and cold
Eventually they penetrate
My worn resolve will fold

I WAS LUCKY

His grandad brought me
Nestling in his big hand
A ninth birthday present
Obviously long planned

I was a young fox terrier
The smooth haired breed
Lucky was to be my name
I even had a leather lead

I soon adapted as a pet
Clearly loved by the boy
Taken daily for a walk
Even given a rubber toy

With a garden to explore
A soft bed based inside
Could I want for more
A warm home I can abide

My get up and go has got up and gone
It's left me way behind,
As I look through the bars of the Autumn of life
Warm memories fill my mind.

Where are the drainpipes, sharp velvet collars
Brothel Creepers, thin ties,coloured socks?
Gone, buried away as I sense the day fail
And the Reaper watches and mocks.

And the girls, Oh! the girls how we threw them around
As Bill Halley resounded through halls.
If we got lucky we took them to bed,
So drunk we barely could crawl.

I can hear the laughing from behind

It echoes through the chambers of my mind

The mist rises, bringing tears to my eyes

All that I wish for, fate seems to deny

My feet are trapped in the quicksand of time

Each day on my face there appears another line

Memories fading away slowly from my head

Each night I find it harder to remember what I said

Pain chases after me like a rabid dying hound

Please bury me beneath holy, forgotten ground

Please cover me under unholy unforgiving dirt

Once upon a time
I was young and free and full of life
It flown out of me like a river in the mountains
Huh, who am I kidding
I was young and alive
And that's all that can be said

My poetry was bleak and full of pain
It was like the tears of the mothers of the slain
Like the wails of the orphans that got left behind
I took the pain from my heart
Thick like blood from slit throats
I turned it into ink
Turned it into art

It seems a strange name, yet he claimed his fame
His was not a name you'd use loosely
He could handle demands with his capable hands
He was a superhero named 'Poopsy'
When in his stride, you couldn't stem the tide
And he'd make the nudniks stay away
Or they'd get their come-uppance from this man of substance
But no-one understood his sobriquet
He was the People's hero with a peaceful ego
Our natural successor to Bruce Lee
The king of martial arts around these parts

The Christmas tree's up!
Everyone's feeling jolly
On the door outside
Hangs a wreath made of Holly

The Christmas tree's up!
But there's glass on the floor
The tables turned over
And there's blood on the door

The windows been smashed
the room is a wreck.
And Mum's wearing a collar
that covers her neck

The Christmas tree's up!
We were full of elation
Now just sat on the stairs feeling deflation.
We've just witnessed Santa going off to the station.

In a land far away,
or perhaps, not so far,
a lonely child would play
beneath the Northern Star.

The star would shine up high,
and never leave its place
there in the northern sky,
there in its hallowed space.

The child would long to touch
the lovely, loyal light,
small fingers can't reach much
though try as hard, they might.

The two remained apart,
as ocean is from land,
yet driven from the heart
to fully understand

when held spellbound courtesy grifter

Flim-flam man left lasting emotional whiplash
his derelict perfected artifice
to hijack every last cent
smarted me with indelible smash;
living daylight delivered I kidney you not
envious affliction affecting
last named member and founder of the Byrds
with crosby, stills, young and nash
entire corporeal being turned to hash
condemned state yours truly relegated,
cuz cremation unaffordable, though pulverized
and transformed into powdery ash;

Oh the pain and pleasure

of the living soul,

the agony or the ecstasy?

It’s our decision,

individually alone to make.

So inconsequentially

which road to take.

The living hell

each breath does make.

Oh fool you, of the fleshy bondage

are you not at all aware,

of the irony of your senseless groping?

The endless pain of love forsaken

the noncommittal chances taken.

On a grand scale of nothing ventured

nothing gained,

From all loves pleasures

hence abstained.