Emerging from the Chrysalis

She waits, damp in the stillness of a new day,
and lifts her dew laden wings high to greet the sun.
The warmth ripens her colours that no artist can capture
nor the most skilled poet find the words to describe.
Then, when the moment is just right and the chrysalis just a memory,
she catches the breeze and rises high on nothing but hope.

Right March

As we turn away, the horns of celebration loudly blare,

and tear escapes my eye, betraying the pain of this farewell.

Here amidst the union flags and flowing cheap champagne

I stand, a spectre at the feast, wishing it could be another way.

You were my brother, but now, at best a distant friend,

across the sea, behind a bordered wall you stand,

and here as bulldog barks aloud of treasured hope,

I feel deep emptiness surrounded now by nothing but fools gold.

In the shadows, as the Westminster bells begin to toll,

the warmongers watching from the wings wring delighted hands,

as the extremists fuelled by nationalistic fervour brace,

and begin again the march which leads to Auschwitz’ hidden gate.

An old friend

The promise of the day on the distant horizon

Where the parting clouds reveal an indigo sky

and the clarity of the light speak of the waiting warmth of sun.

Here even the suggestion of rain carried lightly in the wind

only exist to coat all creation with a breathtaking depth of lustre

and the seagulls haunting cry completes the score of nature’s symphony.

Here in this familiar place time takes on a different dimension

and the urgency of expectation is dispersed by the outstretched sea.

and where every footfall is a delight, not an obligation

the weary heart is reminded of its oft forgotten song.


Wonder; An instant our eyes synchronise perfectly with the vision of our heart

and we see with transformative clarity the unobscured fabric of reality.

It transfixes the mind for an instant, beguiled by such unimagined beauty.

The vision implodes, igniting in every synapse the vibration of the universe,

flooding the wiring of our being, every nerve tingling in the aftershock.

Eliciting a joy so deep that language cannot hope to capture it.

All we can do is ride the wave of ecstasy almost excruciating in its bliss

as the very atoms of our existence are changed in universal upgrade.


Emerging from the anxiety that stalks the deepest darkness,

beginning to trust again the sense that points towards the day.

Learning how to keep the prowling tigers at a distance

whose stare has paralysed, saliva-ed teeth waiting to feast.

This precarious hinterland between sanity and madness

Just takes a well aimed hit from an assassins cyanide dipped tirade

to unbalance the fragile psyche, and as the cracks corrode integrity ,

the mind is gripped in terror of falling into the bottomless abyss .

But hold gently now, and allow the fears to walk away unhindered

and hope the shadow of their departing reveal that, which what once was you.

Friday night feeling¡

He walks a little slower now, the years keep on advancing

but every Friday night he knocks, to take his lady dancing.

Fresh bloom in his buttonhole and hair with brylcreem sheen,

suit and tie and trilby hat, and shoes black mirror clean.

They walk just round the corner, she holds his arm with pride,

The lights of the Astoria inviting them inside.

She has a port and lemon, and he drinks a whisky mac,

and suddenly like magic all the memories flood back.

They find their usual table and he offers her a chair

and there’s really no denying that they make a handsome pair.

The tune begins, a waltz no less, he offers her his hand

and guides her to the dance floor as they listen to the band.

She likes the way he makes her feel as they glide in close embrace

so light upon their feet these two, a paragon of grace.

A foxtrot, then Valletta, they’re barely off the floor,

until the band stop playing and they leave by the side door.

He walks her home, a gentleman, and leaves her at the gate

and stays to see the lights go on, though she tells him not to wait.

She watches as he walks away, her eyes reveal her sorrow

as she thinks how nice it would be to remember this tomorrow.

It’s always fish on Friday


It’s always fish on Friday, with chips and mushy peas

From the chippy on the corner where they never fail to please,

and the owner in her apron and a ciggie on the go

Serves up local gossip when the fryers cooking slow.

Lads on each street corner playing marbles by the kerb ,

Feigning mild disinterest in the skip rope jumping girls.

When they hear the foot fall of the bobby on his beat,

suddenly the boys are gone, to haunt another street.

The Landlord’s here for rent again, he knocks at number three,

He always stops, the rumour is she offers more than tea.

Neighbours chatting loudly as they scrub the stone front step

Before they go to bingo where they haven’t won big yet,

and dinners in the oven cos the old mans always late,

as the barmaid at the Gaity lets him put one on the slate.


Bright lights and kiss me quick hats

Bright lights and “kiss me quick” hats along the promenade,

Couples sat in café’s by the slot machine arcade,

youngsters with buckets building castles in the sand

granny at the water’s edge, plimsoles in her hand.

Deck chairs for a ‘pound a pop’, chips in paper wrap,

Sweeties from the shopping bag, joe eats on Mother’s lap,

Ice cream cones with chocolate flakes, and candy floss galore

Grandad with his calamine where the sun has made him sore.

Donkey rides and Ferris wheel, and photos on the pier

Collecting shells to take home as a treasured souvenir.

Bat and ball and sun hat, sandals on your feet,

Sandwiches that got too hot, that no one wants to eat.

The happy sound of children’s play, in rock pools with their net,

Mum with a list of all the things she’d otherwise forget.

Dad becoming Bremner as he scores another goal,

and sleeping in the shade as the exertion takes its toll.

Packing up at half past five and rushing for the train

objections only mollified by the oath to come again.


I really love an aged door

it speaks of possibility,

concealing behind heavy oak

the paths of opportunity.

Its weight protects against the pains

that stalk my vulnerability

and from the storms, that life has known,

now shields my human frailty.

Yet, when I feel the time is right,

with hand outstretched excitedly

I lift the latch and pull the weight

to find it opens easily.

And with firm step upon the path

walk out full of expectancy

where blessings open every day,

in the joy of deep discovery.

Morning Treasure

Dappled light on shallow waters edge

bending perspective as though to fool the mind

as sands dunes, like arms outstretched for flight,

embrace the scene, of this rare mornings find.

Driftwood bleached by salted waves and sun

adorn and scar with twisted arthritic grace

beneath two toned clouded schizophrenic skies

framing the awful beauty of this now discovered place.