Paris, November 13 2015

Never forget, never forgive.


In the darkness anyone may strike a light

and say, follow me.


Beware the mutterers and mumblers,

the blackrobes and greybeards with all the answers


for one answer is a life of misery,

another is the gun.


Follow only the love of all life on earth, not the gods

of death; their candle bearers are charlatans,


their light leads only to the abyss.

Never-ending story


I am tired of this cold and this death

time after time the retort

echoing until it is caught

by another and another endlessly circling

buzzards above a blue and green field

Earth suffers shrinks

calling wild things back into the darkness

because this world of light is denied them

trees die charred sticks and we

eat and eat and eat until we are sick

I am tired of hearing and seeing brutish stupidity

hearing the calculating weasel words

of those who could make the change `

set the blue ball spinning in clear waters


each needless death

our own children screaming

bringing us closer to the ignominious end.

In the balance


Will we see the balance tip one morning of no sun?

Or will it come a night of no stars?


Will we hear the silence of no birds

in the flowerless fields of no bees?


Will we tell these children the magic is all dead,

the warm sun, soft rain, elephants and polar bears all gone,

beauty squandered, wasted leaving none for them?


Will we even dare?


Or will we stick more glitter on our eyes

drink more lies from the fountain of no truth

and set out feet upon the path of no return?

A parting


Hard to think today

when the house is different, less,

and a far away city is a little more.

Hard to think of happiness

when the sky shakes with gun shots,

graceful deer bound across the meadow in fear,

and pigeons rustle uneasily high in the maples.

Hard to think of tomorrow and why.

Another step on the journey,

another fork in the road,

a parting of the ways,

and will tomorrow be any easier?


Today’s Daily Inklings prompt is ‘falsely accused’.


Anger used to be silent,

dark-faced and sullen,

not a roaring fire,

just smoke from an unknown source.

I know now it was hurt,

hurt too deep to be spoken,

too deep to be heard,

explained, cajoled away.

Mute accusations burrowed beneath the skin.

How can you fight silence?


Anger flares rarely now and when it does,

it lights the sky with Latin histrionics.

Things get broken and doors slam.

Do you remember the old times

when we were feeling our way in the dark?

When there seemed to be so much to forgive?

Best not.

Let it go.

Embrace the flames.



#Three line tales: The beach

This short story is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Jeremy Bishop via Unsplash


The unexpectedly early summer sun had brought scores down to the beach: surfers, swimmers, sunbathers; and the jet ski rental, the shark fishing trips and the beach restaurants were all open and doing a roaring trade.

Beneath the turquoise water, the sea life was dying: pollution from the hotels and restaurants; noise and turbulence from the jet skis; and the massacre of the sharks and other big fish was destroying the fragile eco-system.

They were having too much fun to notice the wave rolling in and gaining in power and height as it approached the shore, the wave that had risen from the depths of the ocean, taken its strength from the anger of the ocean—the killer wave.


The poem, with a beaty rappy type of rhythm is called Medea, but it could be about any number of notorious women throughout history who were lied to, cheated on and dumped by the hero of the story.


I have to say,

there’s no way

I would stay

with a dude like you,

a dude who

won’t apologise,

weaves tissues of lies,

pretends to be surprised,

when I tell him he’s despised.

What kind of a reception

did you think your deception

would get from me—

floods of tears, maybe?

Such a little word,

that I’ve never heard

leave your lips.

Like spitting pips,

you scowl, not even then,

not even when

I say I’m going,

my storm light glowing,

can you spit it out clean,

that word that would mean

you truly care.

Don’t dare,

don’t frown,

make me chase it down,

like some kind of quarry,

that little word—sorry.

Red anger cools

Thinking of the rhythm of a bodhrán brought this poem.

Photo©Steve Jurvetson


Red anger cools in morning mist,

while doves coo in the waking trees,

slow green and thick the river runs

beneath the bridge that’s stood so long,

it knows each lover’s parting words.

Listen, wind and water to

the mutterings beneath the breath,

beneath the lashes, look and tell me

what is left when all is gone.

Doves stretch and curl their wings about

their only love, most precious gift,

while we who strive to touch the stars,

trip and stumble in the night,

the heart that beats to lead the way,

doused in the dark flood of desires.

No cooing words to soothe the pain,

no winged barque will come for us

and sail into a sunset sky.

Though anger cools, it drips and sets

in livid white like candle wax,

long, greasy scars of cold regrets.


For the Daily Post prompt: Punishment, a slightly different interpretation of the fairy tale prince.


In a fury, the prince stormed into the stables and ordered his favourite horse to be saddled, the horse that rode the sky. Grooms and stable boys fell over themselves to prepare the horse, terrified of the prince’s anger should they keep him waiting, or should he find fault with their work. The prince had barely time to tap his foot with impatience before his horse was brought out, shining and brilliant in his finest trappings. Thin-lipped and white-faced, the prince snatched the reins and, without a word, leapt into the saddle.

He dug the spurs savagely into Skyrider’s flanks, and the horse soared into the darkening sky. Already the first stars were shining; soon it would be night. Mercilessly the young prince urged his horse on, further and higher, higher and further, until the roaring wind of their flight blew white foam flecks from Skyrider’s flanks to join the waking stars. At last, his horse tiring, and when even the spurs could make him go no faster, the prince found what he had been searching for.

He reached out a jewelled gauntlet and snatched it from its velvet bed—the star of destruction. His face, white with anger, grimaced as a mirthless grin of victory spread across his face, and he balanced the star in his hand, testing its weight. When his father raised his face to the heavens and saw the red star of death streak across the sky and fall upon his palace, his city, his realm, he would regret bitterly his refusal to name his youngest son as his heir.