Month: October 2015

Aching for the season of loves memory

There is an aching in the deep centre of being, That calls out to a homeland at some dark distant place. In child like hope we search beyond the blue horizon, for a Netherland Peter Pan landscape. In our mind this hope lingers where once a child was abandoned, sand castles are washed away by the ancient tides, where the…

The Road From Roots Hall

Roads, the vast confused winding, lone walkers searching for something they can’t find. Some go on to the end, their end, but the road has no end. The man in front of me must know something? Is it like accepting something against his will? No exclamation of annoyance is heard by the silent seeker, roaring echoes of thunder stir his…

The strange voyage of Cunningham Herbaceous

Cunningham Herbaceous lived in a vegetable marrow, Cunningham Herbaceous wished to die in Turnip. In the land of Vistapoolantidote there existed a vigilante group called the Gastric manipulators much famed for their song; ‘Always look on the bowel side of life.’ Cunning Herbaceous had hitched a lift with them from the, ‘Welcomebreak’ services on the M5 near Portbury Bristol, to…

I Mourn For You In May

I mourn for you in May, when the tide of that sweet day, kissed our feet on the sands of youth’s romance. The long hours of shining sunsets, to ice cold moons, our ever-magic tunes, that danced to the jingle jangle tambourine, of Dylan’s troubadours, with the speed of the wind. Oh such a wind that never was known, forever…

No hat for the stranger

He came soaking wet one winter night, all his yesterdays writ well on his face, a miracle of wounds, the lady gave him a ‘go away’ look and threw some coins in the snow, he couldn’t reach down to pick them up, he turned away into the night. He stared half wondering at the sullen ghost of men on the…

How deep is your love?

England 2015 Dark windows on the world, dark faces in the gloom of 12 by 11 foot rooms, The space between silence and human contact a step away, never taken. The person in the flat above scrapes a chair on the floor; I hear it coming through my ceiling. The aching lonely hours, memories in black and white photos, torture…