Neither pure nor virginal.

The existence of me,
is neither pure, nor virginal/
My Demise arrives,
as the ticking clock is stemmed.
Validation of life,
is through the subliminal.
As I fall
freely into the home
of the condemned


Satan sneers.

Satan sneers as I enter his burning gates,
He has his Constantine. I will pray
that my sacrifice will enlighten Peters
heart, and he will reach down into the
Very depths of the burning cave of the damned,
and upon my shoulder, place his protective hand, and
Like the phoenix, that rises from the ashes,
I will rise to heavens gates.

Towers of Blackberry and apple bits.

This is a slightly edited version of an earlier post, Blackberry Towers, I like both poems equally, but I think this one delves in a little deeper to those childhood memories. Enjoy.

I remember a time when I was young,
When us kids went outside to have fun.
Our mums drank tea, had a natter,
Their laughs echoing over the kids chatter.
The men earned honest money, with hard graft.
They were the days, but they didn’t last.
I remember it fondly…

Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,
As the promise of spring filled the street with mirth.
We wore hand me down clothes, real leather shoes,
played in the growing corn, had lunch on the kerb
We played kerby and footy, bulldog and chase,
Everything we did was always a race.

On the summer days, in the summer haze.
The field of corn lined with trees, no hint of a breeze.
Daisy chain ropes that reached to the skies,
Dandelion clocks, oh how time flies,
Purple fingers, tell tale lips,
Blackberry pies with apple bits.

Bonfire night, the woolies are out,
In before dark the mothers did shout.
Sparklers, fireworks, penny for the guy,
Halloween sweeties an endless supply.
We play on the cornfield, so empty and bare,
Its hard to remember what they grew there.

Snowmen so big we stood in awe, then
took turns aiming for the highest score.
One in each garden, some on the path,
A pile of wet socks, gloves, hats and scarves.
In the cornfield trenches were dug, ammo created
The older kids, always, dominated.

I remember the cornfield swaying in the breeze,
Before they laid brick, took away the trees.
Everyone got busy, the air grew stale
And nobody noticed when the kids grew pale.

The Holidays.

Grey clouds and raindrops,
tip tapping at our day.
A fierce April chill,
is on its way.

Paint pots and paper,
glue sticks and pens,
cushion built forts,
and a princess den.

Soft sheets of felt,
so pretty and bright,
cut into piece’s , to
be what they might.

There’s glue in the
carpet, paint in my hair,
It’s only day one, and
we don’t really care.

Red in a dark world.

I miss you.
I miss you when i pour
Red dye onto my hair,
When i apply black eye liner,
When i pull my odd socks up high,
I miss you, when i listen to songs of our past,
when the day goes too fast,
I miss you, when i see an empty glass.
I miss you in the dead of night,
when I’m filled with fright,
When there is no light.
I miss you.

I miss the dinners you cooked me,
The teas, the coffee’s the cake,
the cider we drank just for the sake.
I miss you.

I miss the days we had planned,
The times when we ran,
and the days spent getting my impossible tan.
I miss you.

The keeper of my soul.

I am the keeper,
Keeper of my soul,
There’s something I
Should tell you
Something you should
I will defend my honor,
So break me if you dare,
But a soul as strong as this,
Is distinctivrly rare.