Archive for January 12, 2017


unreasonable rhyme …

​unreasonable rhyme …



reaching out for handfuls of hope, the scarlet sky painted bright, shedding the detritus of day, welcoming brooding night,

shattered dreams like shards of glass, litter the crimson floor, punctured wounds flee, behind every closed door,



the rain falls like ashen tears, sweeping the boulevards clean, tattered rags shroud expectations, famished and lean,


rainbows merge into a raucous canvass wildly sketched, feelings stab at the heart, each dagger deeply etched,


is there really only one truth, standing naked and bare, beyond the alleyways of darkening emotions, stripping away all care,


the smiles turn plastic, all joy fleeing past, leaving stranded passengers, never knowing how long the wait will last,


when does sorrow end, scabs and wounds just starting to mend, or is pain like hope, ever elusive, ever just around the bend,


when trees weep, as poison slowly into their roots begin to seep, how long do the thoughtful frolic, how much longer do the sentient sleep,


left behind to mop up the coarse floor, humanity slithers out the main door, the legacy – a rotting festering sore,


these words make no sense to me, they prance on the page blinding my eyes, discarding reality as ever hurried time flies,


why write such drivel at all, knowing the words will slip and fall,


perhaps to jar me into wakefulness, or else I would sleep through it all … …

​Why does the sun dry up so many scattered tears

Slipping down the coarse cheek of a million hushed fears

Where no one is scalded though the searing fog clears

While prayers are mutely spoken even as the end nears


We shatter and scrape on demented knees

Blindly begging for mercy as it silently flees

Searching listlessly for salvation drowned in the breeze

That spits at the soft rose suffocated by a wheeze


I know now what I need never have known

Of hope that was trampled before it had flown

Into a wasted sky filled with hate that could drown

The giggling of the crowd and the crying of the clown


A hope so fragile its wings were of brittle glass

Ripping the veneer off the sewers of class

Twisting the fabric of the weighed and costed mass

Who numbly waited hoping that it too may pass


For when shards of that hope in all hearts scurries away

To a darkness where crowded night is emptied off the heaving tray

’Tis then when sewn eyes behold that doleful day

When all shall tear at each other while on demented knees we still pray


For a lifting of the veil of that wilful deceit

That’s wrapped up in a flag swollen with conceit

While the limbs splinter in the claw of a winner’s defeat

Yet still the drums roll for the ill-fated souls chose never to retreat


From that drenched battleground where blood flows through a sieve

And love’s lost song plaintively begs for a reprieve

From eternal loss which into raw emotion does cleave

Only to slip through the fingers and like grains of sand leave

​I looked down and saw her calloused hands, as we tried to make ends meet, we worked hard and lived frugally, feeling ourselves mired in the bog, barely having enough to eat.


“these days must pass”, we whispered to each other, after yet another gruelling day, through night in and day out, the pain gnawed silently, as we saw our dreams receding,

farther and farther away …

​the girl with the beret on the bus … … …




i saw at the bus-stop on a bitterly cold winter morning, her beret tilted to the side.


we exchanged polite smiles and furtive glances, till along came our ride.


we sat across each other and soon we spoke, breaking the ice with talk of the ice battering our bones.


we spoke of the coldness around us, the frigid souls we’d encounter, and we spoke of life’s pathways and where we were headed.


thus began our short morning ritual, a bus ride with a stranger, not knowing anything about the other except our names.


we often laughed about duelling parents, about the weight we felt we had to carry, the seemingly heavy burdens wracking our selves.


our talks were blisteringly true, as happens at times with strangers, yet we opened ourselves up to each other, trustful of the depths in our eyes.


we spoke of earning a wage, paying the bills, discarding the frills, we spent hours in those short-haul trips baring our souls to each other.


she was to me the girl with the beret, fierce yet gentle, knowing and still wanting to know, as was I on those mornings so long ago.


we spoke of lovers lost, of lost loves, of our ache for something tangible, something less gaudy, something more true.


I showed her my scars, she showed me hers, a lifetime of half-promises built on mounds of dust, as we spoke of escape, into each others dreamscapes.


there was nothing romantic about us, nothing but truth distilled, an understanding that someone out there in this cold, cold world understands, though never judges.


our conversations churned into the butter of each morning, easing the coming day, and we smiled knowing no one else knew us except ourselves.


her eyes danced with a fire, when sharing her insanity, and she said my eyes raged as well, embracing the craziness of it all.


then came that fateful day when she was there no more, and I felt the icy chills deep in my bare bones.


I often think of her, at another bus-stop, her beret tilted just slight, waiting still for the ride in the morning chill.


I think of her often, and I know that I always will … … …




( with thanks to Bruce Springsteen’s “Bobby Jean” )




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