I Forget


I haven’t seen a mole for years, or a lugworm

Not heard the creeping still of night,

Or felt the Diamond Cold of Sea


I’m certain those creatures still exist

And Seas are Sharp as ever were,

It seems I am becalmed adrift


I hear the wind out where I am

I feel the Sun it’s warmth and shade,

I see faces wither cruelly, Loved, Unloved


I haven’t truly shed a tear beyond my own regret,

And yet I sense I once knew love

Or maybe I forget.

Upon the Marsh


We walked atop twelve thousands years

Each metered strata rich with toil,

Beyond the streets that nurse our fears

We breathed the air time could not spoil.


While deeper down the past was trod

Each step on step we moved on by,

And too uncaring of the sod

Raised up our gaze to fragile sky.


And as that thinning blister yields

Might we pay heed upon the Land?

That those to come will know these fields

Still full of Life and not of Sand


Britannia Rex


Power seeks momentum not reflection,

Events of significance distort time.

Bearers of The Reins conjure new dimension,

Slower horses stall, re-joining by design.


Nothing has changed, no New Age awaits

The curvature of all bends towards its end.

An open door, once resplendent gates

The enemy a once beloved friend.


Goodbyes are mere hellos exhaled

No one meets beyond that breath,

Their atoms cast asunder, failed.

Each soul extant though flesh is death


Strength demands assurance

That each must know their place,

Survival is endurance

And the presence of a Mace


By Camp Fire Light


The Romance of Resistance

Crackling by Mountain Firesides,

So appealing from a distance

Out of shot where safety bides.


Not the subterranean torture cell,

The Holiday Inn or Stadium,

Not the flaming Halls of Hell

Not our friends? No, no, not them.


No Pasaran, No Jashari

They Pledge allegiance free from Arms

“Oh look, oh look, oh look at me”

They fuel the flames but do no harm?


In the back room pulling teeth

Beating soles with copper pipe,

That’s fake news. Well that’s their belief

Between the lines you’ll sense the hype.


Their enemy’s enemy, are Angels all,

Free reign to loose their lightening strikes.

Then when it’s done they’ll let them fall

And conjure new friends into their sights.

Some Other Place


Hot summer afternoons in 92,


Along the Banks of The Miljacka

The Streets shimmered a hazy hell


As if something beneath was venting fury.

In open spaces framed by high windows

The City’s damned would dash and dive,

Splashes of concrete ripped their flesh.


Eye sockets and temporal bone smashed,

Hearts exploded in tiny chests.

Mothers hung themselves in darkened rooms,

Fathers succumbed to quiet suicide.


Shopping bags flung loose their simple lives,

Gutters festered with blood and food

Never to be cooked, shared or prayed over

The dead piled in barrows under cover of dark


Some shooters kept count until madness came,

Their flashbacks fast-forwarding and freeze-framing,

More coffee, more Cigarettes, more Rakija,

Keep killing until the end, Mother Serbia.


Those that live now are shadows of men,

The fallout of hate and ethnic delusion

No longer the Whiskey steadies their grip

Their eyes blind, they replay only memories

Plea to an Unknown Saviour


Wrapped around my hollow chest

A velcro’d corset clings defiant

Should blasted steel e’re pierce my breast

The faith I place be too reliant


To walk these Shattered Avenues

Their Silvered Birch now shredded stark

I count the curbstone gaps for clues

As if the day be shrouded dark


A plume of dust marks where I left

The rubble’d waste that was my life

I can but seek some shaded cleft

And trust in you to ease my strife

Richard de Cetrefort


Richard de Cetrefort submitted only to God

Withholding what little he thought God had forgot


What God had forgot the Church had forespent

And neither those Kingdoms would hear him repent


One fired up its bundles and drove deep the Stake

The other forsook him and closed up its gate


The Poor of The Parish mourned his cruel death

They starved through The Winter betrayed and bereft


Raise up your voice


Quieter Minds hold wisdom close

Distrusting tongues to speak their truth,

That should their words betray the host

It weights on them as burdens proof.


Of Brasher Minds those others wag

To twist and mold their crooked want,

Beseeching Souls of Sword and Flag

To quench their thirst at Wars Deep Font


Between two Points like Polar Drift

The Flotsam Minds wash To and Fro,

For it is they that are the sift

Of who Will Stay and who Must Go.


So Gird your Quiet Mind with Steel

And trust the words you fear to tell,

For better The Life that does not yield

Than one that bides in Silent Hell