The devil on a cross

The whisper of a shadow song

Morning star no glory

just a story

I am just lived backwards

hidden track words

scars like lines across paper

can I save her?

I am not what you think

drinking from a cup of agony

no God can save me

but death won’t enslave me

I am midnight verse

nails won’t surrender to my skin

the truth they told you the lies worn thin.

In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

In the yellowed worn out dusty pages

the poetry that had a purpose is not lost

no matter how much the ideas cost

In this cupboard space

like the recesses of my minds eye

Ideas on the page never die

the reader if they thumbed through my poetry

would likely gain a paper cut or two

red ink another happening

mapping the page

the poetic wars we wage

on this desperate stage

between poet and reader

In this cupboard hidden away

will these poems ever see the light of day

like the dead poet lost in time

his reasons and rhymes

still unearth histories

and mysteries of life and of the earth

from birth to the finish

these ideas won’t diminish!

Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves

the poet unpublished poet finds themselves

and their voice

And these poems and half finished ideas

give a voice to voiceless after all these years

will be found and treasured and made into books

that people will treasure read and look

after finding this lost cupboard.

Love music and wealth

In the space that moves in our hearts

in the words that rule them

a fools language called love

sent to quell.

A heart is made in heaven

doused in the lustful flames of hell

In the dawn the morning star

in the night sky the sun

if you chose the right beat

we’d all be one!

but the drumbeat has a silence

and an off beat out of kilter vibe

The scribe is not a musician

but he is at least alive

the changing of the patterns

the flow of electrons

introspection of personality

the tonal chords of brains with clarity

We dance to words without reasons

we give chords bass and beats flow

the movements we know grow into routines

routines that we form and sow

We drift into daydreams

sing of far off lands we yet to visit

and we gather the images we envisage

We look for our dreams

and measure them in gold

and diamonds sold

yet they are our wealth even in cold

wintery days where love is the only language

it maybe a fools language

but that’s all we have

don’t let our innocence be nabbed.

Unexpected artwork

The way the sunlight causes shadows through the leaves.

The movements of trees on the breeze

sycamore seeds twirl in pirouettes

as they helicopter to the ground.

Hag stones form

magic is born

from impermanence

decaying ghosts of leaves

erosion flowing free

the changing of the seasons

the reasons of life and death.

Unexpected artwork of nature

forming then fracturing and breaking.

The caricature of a feather floating free

in the minds artwork free

as a bird in rapture

captured in a photo in my minds eye.

Honesty

People don’t want truth

delusions and illusions

are more loved

more accepted

more respected

Honesty, a fools game

people douse you in shame

a repulsive mix

stick and stones

may break my bones

but words will dethrone

a king from his own throne

and people will turn away

and leave him alone

the mirror of truth is always distorted

we want to keep it that way

we aren’t objective

we want to be respected

but our public relations feed on Facebook

would bleed away if ever we showed who really are

Our fragility and our fragile ego

Break like a dropped model of Lego.

Book of shadows

Magic can be drawn from

the spaces under your bed

where there are night and shadows

there’s magic instead

like the stars that burn

dark energy forms

we are the universe born

scribbled chaos in ink

sinking into depths of imagination

and sensations

magic that is a promise

yet to be made

An obsidian blade

that protects us from harm

cuts through curses and dark arms

unseen

we need the shadows as much as the stars

for contrast is what we are.

If you look beyond my skin

If you look beyond my skin

what would you see within?

My body overweight

I am no A class celebrity

ripped and shredded

I am no hot bod

to be bedded

I may have words of wisdom

I may write

you will never see my fight

to be heard

everyone has a story to tell

from angels in heaven to men in hell

I am who I am

I keep my truths hidden because I don’t want to burn bridges

I fidget with hands

make plans

but you will always judge me on aesthetics

and my superficial exterior

when I know my soul and interior

aren’t inferior.