Fear of Life



Such fear: I am the captain of my fate,

Reticent retainer of the helm;

Where rapids, rocks and widened waters wait

Is my realm.


Do I dare, to fasten to the rigging,

And pin those seven colours to the mast;

To fly under the flag of my beginning,

Not the past?


By what inconstant stars, divine my course?

I cannot tell. The words are wild and windy,

But mine as well. And so I pray the force

Be with me.



Another poetry request from a follower of mine. They wanted a particular sci-fi reference to be woven in: marks for those who spot it. (It ain’t subtle)



“You Did Not Come Back”



Sleepless dead past midnight hours,

Downstairs the front door harkened to a crack,

Returning to this tomb of ours.

But you did not come back.


Footfalls led the floors to creak,

Staircase subtle, guilty landing black –

You darkened to the bedroom, sneak.

But you did not come back.


Slipped into uncertain sheets

Where just beside me slept a you-shaped lack.

Got home from him, and your deceits.

But you did not come back.



Requested by a follower of mine, who provided me with a rather handsome bottle of wine in recompense. Cheers. 






Lapped by waves of lapis lazuli,

Every touch is summer’s softest kiss.

Paddling rock pool fragments of a sky,

Untouched by clouds ephemeral as this.


Sea salt scents your lips, and braids the hair,

Brings that lazy bronze to softened skin;

There’s memory in texture, in the air,

In seeking where the sea and sky begin.


Tactile sands remind the toes to touch.

Waves chop white on cresting, catch a breeze,

Recede to sounds of missing this so much:

Returning to the subtle, sleepless seas.




Imposter Syndrome



I’m not sure that I could be happier. Once presented

With such great news – the very, very best –

The congratulation’s preciously resented.

I’d shake your hand, but I dare not: lest

You read a fortune in a frosted palm.

For a man who’s doing oh so very well,

The blood seeps in my veins like frozen clam.

I’m very glad. And I can hardly tell.

Flaunted feats – I’ve won the lot, in spades,

And praise is laid as though I’d even died,

Haunted by laurels and gilded accolades.

I couldn’t be happier – and heaven knows I’ve tried.



Honeyed Gladness



Leaves, lovesick for summer, have in mind

Another scent, preserve of honeyed gladness.


Upon the whispers of a loving wind,

The coloured death descends in flurried madness.


The world is silent, ever-shifting, here:

Ochre windfalls, gold and rusted showers.


There are lands where it is summer, all the year.

But autumn only ever comes by hours.



Wine: Comedy in Three Acts



In her case, suspended of all motions,

A wine so red she stands inscrutably.

Her glance so tacit, dark as deepest oceans,

Black as an unfathomable sea.


Released at last, she chuckles bubbling bright,

Pours forth a fulsome, fond frivolity,

Her lips take ruby redness in new light

To tempt a taste of lissome quality.


She dances sunlight, catches in her thrall

The scents of summer, headier than this:

Ready to take colours of the fall,

Whispering for one last sunlit kiss.



Where Angels Are



From the Dark I here beseech,

Travel in myself so far

That by a candle I may reach

To where the angels are


Before, behind, to left and right

My ancient guides invisible

Summoned from across the night,



The path I take, I here begin,

By following no sainted star:

The search both starts and ends within.

I know where angels are.



Requested by, and written for, a follower of mine.