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Frivolity, My heart

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Wouldst thou call
on love’s embrace
and its clumsy cuffs
of flimsy lace
to wrap warmly
and surround thee

when spectral lights
adorn the sky,
and snow ghosts,
haughty, loom at night
only to come and haunt thee,

and if thou were touched by such
as she and her lustrous trumpery,
wouldst thou still forswear
under this black maire,
our undying love, but yet vow
to leave me?

Wouldst thy call on it?

Merry Christmas

I’m still so busy, so reposting this. It’s ten years old now and one of my favourite writes. Have a wonderful holiday!

Haeddre – _{haeddre is thought to be the ancient origin of heather/Heather.}

Image:unknown

i
It is fine to be in balance, to hear wistful
cries like invisible veins in the winds,
to see lucky white strands among
the heather’s Scottish highlands type
of sobbing and to listen as the wind speaks
in gusts; inhaling deeply as if sucking
up a thought before breathing it out
smoothly in a musical phrase.

ii
Our giggles are swept away instantly
as we try to stand with pale, bare,
chicken legs; goose pimples and heads
lift deliberately so that we may
be bludgeoned by the wind – our cheeks
are malleable like Playdoh as we turn
to face the brave. Lana’s spectacles
are nudged from their cosy space; nudged
all the while with nary a murmur or complaint
right up until she would trip – her straight
edged, rimmed nose would turn red
underneath freckles that are faint traces
of sunlit birds across a pale expanse
of water rippling.

iii
We chat to silver grey, wise, stone heads
happily serenaded by loose petals and grass
quills that are a cosy squire collar for the rugged,
Celtic boulders we sit on. Our nimble fingers
grazed with youth pull dandelions from the roots
amid awkward silences – our actions solicit
a cheeky shrug because we like to hear
them tear – it is a validation of their freedom
from the tough soil as they relinquish
mystery and ghostly Celtic charm,
which is the flesh of the sturdy hillsides
that creep up to all but touch blue zircon sky.

iv
Craggy tutus tentatively hold large birds
that once settled will disappear
into trances; filtering the world as it sails
by the bewitched and twisting heads
of the Little Owl sleeping while hawks
pierce our eardrums as we fight on, tumbling –
in a race to be the first to conquer this hillside.
We brazenly slide down part way; rough
and ready vanquishers of these grassy mosses
aching from its boulders – our bruises
become the glorious, purple heather down
of our flesh – an indelible tattoo of these glens
already strewn with magical, inked
emblems.

v
Exhausted high jinks and chattering
laughter are heightened by stiffening
cold bones – windstorms activate
the grasses motivated by our tomfoolery.
Atop the hill we are puffed, exhausted
and we heave breathless for a while.
Our pigeon chests make us feel like king
and queen, but crinkled noses redefine
our stature and we settle for duke
and duchess given our ragamuffin
elbows and dirty knees, proudly assembled
as witnesses.

vi
I kiss my Haeddre, Duchess of Green
Flowers and the White Heather – night giver
to the moon – and I take her slender wrist
until we sit cross legged on nested fauna
and we are draped in the dying sun’s finery;
our shoulders’ shadow becomes a black cloak
glinting regal charm, and her crown is scattered
sun drops escaping the last squeeze of citrus;
they caress her head, anointing it,
just as surging, billowing clouds bid the day
farewell. Gusty breaths deepen around our hilltop
and dozing birds grip their stake with talons
on point and ready.

vii
The common buzzard circles in the subdued
hints of autumn’s orange skies, and sounds
of the playful Little Owl sing out.
As our red hands and cold, white knuckles
sit together over our dirty knees, I feel
her pigtails shudder on her shoulders
when I catch her staring at me staring
with eyes full – made moist by the wind.
Aye, It is fine to be aware and look down
on our blustery kingdom’s fine swathe.

The Unfinished Loop

in death,

laughing skeletons

rattle – sobbing is scarce

among the bleached white

sticks stuck in inches of pose –

some half climbing, some half sitting,

some still crawling like babies to escape the blood of war –

memories of home fumble in the ether –

and life does not disturb such ruination,

as mists wander soullessly

through tired rib cages basking on the sun baked mud

where imprints of warring fists,

seized up with time,

lie abandoned on the ruddy soil – mulched with

spent shells and ironclad machinery;

rusted, stuck, cold –

benumbed, like their makers sleeping in these shallow graves –

all still laughing, still unaware

in death.

I worship

Not so long ago, tin-pot genocidal maniacs and sadistic war criminals were held to account — sometimes paying with their lives for the sheer savagery they unleashed on innocents. And so they should.

Today, in 2025, a psychopathic egomaniac waging an illegal, genocidal war because he is hanging onto power by the skin of his teeth (and who regularly goes to war to stay alive and in power) was given the ‘red carpet’ treatment by his no. 1 top fanboy.

Four hundred pounds of subservient flesh quivered at the airport, starstruck and oblivious — pathetically unaware of his own intellectual decline, of global politics, domestic affairs, or the existence of most other nations he couldn’t point to with a sharpie on a map.

Despite convincing himself that he stands on equal footing -ideologically and in strength – with his beloved despotic messiah, he remains too weak, pathetic, and ignorant to ever achieve the status he craves in his own country. Worse still, he is a convicted criminal, a sociopathic (if not psychopathic) and malevolent force the world could well do without.

Accountability no longer matters when there are deals to be made. And since fanboy is a failed dealmaker, countless more innocents will die while this ceasefire charade—this clown show of drip-fed press moments for Bozo—runs its course. All the while, he’ll be led by the nose by his hero. No doubt he walked away today with a signed photo to treasure.

In essence: be sure to greet your burglar with open arms. Why not offer him your wife to rape and kill, and your home, or kidnap your children (if and when they leave – all of which, Russia does today)? But whatever you do, don’t defend yourself – lest you risk offending or scuppering elusive and unfair ‘peace deals,’ world-shaking headlines, or that ever-tempting whiff of a Nobel Prize—no matter how many lives are lost. No, instead, roll over. Remain silent. Welcome the invasion. For in the end, they’ll tell you, it’s all your fault. You the victim – it is all YOUR fault! Let’s throw a party for your aggressor – he is bigger than you, and we have no balls, or spine, or many fucks left to give.

Slave Ukraine!

Remember: Ukraine good. Russia evil. USA…MIA.

Sultry Autumn

Trick the Treats

Warm, ruby red blood spilled over onto the cruel hands that had just squeezed life out of her latest victim. ‘Such a strong little girl’, she mused, before laughing. The same dry cackle exuded from the ravenous bellows deep within her mottled soul. Bizhar stopped and looked around; her long nails scratched uncouthly at her long, flowing ragged garb. The evil witch saw herself as something completely different. No tatters or drab, grey bloodied cloth covered in dry blood stains. She only saw a ‘true’ beauty, which she most definitely was not. Her large feet, squeezed into torn boots, clunked around the dusty grit. She sniffed the air before running a tawdry sleeve across her blistered and generous nose.

“Ye gods! Another day another year; it gets monotonous,” she said sighing. “Little, shitty kids tying to out do me. Will they ever learn?”

* * * * *

A few miles away Jane, Sarah and Sasha giggled in a bedroom littered with costumes and lipsticks, high hopes and plans for a Halloween to be remembered. This was to be Sasha’s initiation. Thomas, her major crush was to be there at the woods party. Sarah looked at the clock and wondered where Susan had got to.

“She was due here at 6 after practice, we don’t have her costume, and we haven’t much time.” The others were not so concerned.

“She probably can’t leave go of Bobby! She’ll be here.”

But, Susan lay all alone. Her hair, once a golden shrill of curls, lay dank, lifeless on the muddied floor near an old oak tree. Bizhar stared at the dried, bronzed autumn leaves and kicked onto it the bag of fancy dress Susan had with her. With hands astride her hips, the decrepit, gaudy witch grunted to herself.

“It takes more than costumes and weird hair to make a witch, I should know,” she laughed mercilessly again, pointing gnarled, bony fingers at her pile of wanton savagery and watched the blazing fire consume the bag, old leaves and – Susan. The wind had carried an item of Susan’s clothing without Bizhar noticing, and it was swept away until caught on branches near the road.

* * * * *

“Where the hell?” Bobby checked his phone for the tenth time and paced. He wondered whether he should start to head Susan’s way or try to meet her coming, but he changed his mind. He reached for his phone, his fingers hovered over the keypad. Agitated, he tried once more.

The ring tone startled crazy old Bizhar still knelt beside the blazing pyre. The sound startled her, but puzzled her only briefly. She stood bolt upright, aiming her lifeless, grey eyes at the hungry flames. Inside of them was the source of her irritation. She rolled back a sleeve and held it firmly before plunging her arm through the stinking cloud above the inferno that was Susan’s burning flesh. She reached about blindly before she lowered further onto her knees cursing and spitting smoke and embers.

Finally, she pulled out one of Susan’s charred arms before flinging it back into the fire. She eventually found the offending phone, still ringing and just about intact. She turned it every which way, fumbling and cursing, before, and quite by accident, she heard a voice. She stepped back, still attached to the phone.

“Ah, I know. Yes!” Bizhar murmured, stroking the greying hairs under her long chin before continuing, “OK.” She postured vainly mocking hideously. It showed her contempt for these scrawny mortals; the bane of her life, with their toys and fancy, superficial ways. She was stopped by a high pitched, frantic yell.

“Susan, are you there?” Brian’s voice was panicked. “Where have you been? Where are you?”

Bihzar ran ragged nails through her unruly, long wizened hair and lifted a shoulder slightly, at the same time casting a glance to her trophy set ablaze, recalling Susan’s pitiful screams and pleas for mercy. Bizhar had little trouble mimicking Susan’s voice –

“I’m here in the woods. I had a little trouble, but I’m OK. If you could come and meet me though – about half way, we can go from here and it would save me walking.” A pointed fingertip traced the dried lips that held a grey, green smirk

“OK, no problem,” Bobby replied with relief. “If I go pick up Thomas and the others, we could just meet at Ted’s old farm since time’s getting short. How does that sound? I’ll call them…or you can.”

“No, no, you call I am er…” the old croc said, scanning the interface for clues. “I am low on something… battery?”

“Ha! OK, you weirdo, I’ll call them. Talk to you soon.”

* * * * *

Bizhar began to smell things, good things amid the charcoals and debris that were Susan’s remains. Her cruel and gruesome plans, visions, more young blood and meat; treats for a deserving soul such as she this Halloween Eve.

She was irked by the passing of time. Becoming more morose with the fragility of age as the years dragged on into centuries. But, it was a day for celebration, nonetheless, as birthdays always were. She cackled at her own devilish humour. ‘I am still as beautiful and as strong and as powerful as ever.’ She then picked from her teeth a bit of flesh that had been trapped. She wiped her fingers down her front and began to walk, waving her arms wildly, anticipating the wicked revelry planned for the evening ahead.

As she perched on the old, rotten timbers in one of old Ted’s run down barns, Bizhar swung her legs like a school kid. The farm had stood derelict for years, but it still housed the dank stale smells, the cobwebbed tools, rusted machinery parts and old hay. No one had ever bought the property due to the rumours. It became the local ‘Bermuda triangle’ as far as missing people and unsolved cases went. This was half the lure and appeal of kids around those parts, especially at Halloween.

* * * * *

Jane and Sarah came downstairs first and gave Jane’s folks a twirl.

“You look gruesome enough, given it is kinda hard to tell,” said her half pumpkin, half victim-oozing- blood, kid brother all geared up for his night of mayhem elsewhere. Sasha soon followed equally decked out except for a change in theme, as this was her night, one she’d dreamed of.

Jane’s parents cooed and walked around her, “What’s the occasion? I thought this was Halloween not a fairy tale.

Sasha wanted to be stunning, just right for Thomas, and answered, “I, er well, let’s say we get enough of the same old, same old. I wanted to be different, a beauty among the beasts.”

“Well it hasn’t worked, you are still a witch, ha, ha.” The kid then hastily scarpered through the front door, “See you guys later.”

The girls on the other hand waited for Bobby’s car and their ride to fun. Sure enough, the horn sounded and there hanging out of every orifice were the three friends ready to give their dates a night to remember. Sasha had eyes only for the suave vampire as he jumped out of the car and swooned at her feet. The hunchback greeted Jane and picked her up, screaming ‘Esmerelda, the bells!’ before she’d even had a chance to compliment Luke on his hump. Her favourite idiot in the bloodied bed sheet was Brian, who escorted Sarah to the car. Bobby yelled for them all to get in,

“Susan will be waiting. Hurry it up!” Susan wasn’t waiting any more.

Loud music thumped through the lanes as they drove towards Old Ted’s farm, and laughter trailed with the hedgerows as they went. A heavy fog had begun to appear as they wound down the tracks and turned into the farm. Bobby slowed down, lurched forward and peered hard, looking for Susan through his windscreen. “Maybe she’s further in. It is cold.”

A barn maybe?” said Jane trying to pick out a rubber eye nestling near her wench like bustier.

Bobby nodded, slowly crawling along on the dirt road. Shit! The car screeched to a halt, which threw the others slightly. It was a rabbit, then a flurry of them, followed by critters of all kinds, wide eyed and panting as if running for their lives.

“What? That’s crazy. It’s a stampede,” yelled Bobby, who couldn’t believe his eyes. They all watched from the back window as the animals tailed off into nowhere.

Smoke billowed steadily as Bizhar added the last of the slaughtered pests and vermin to her makeshift stove. It rested on bricks and sticks and was held on an old tractor’s engine lid. Impatient and peckish, she stirred at her broth – rich and thick with the blood of her captured guests. She sat, legs agape and stirred on, twitching and murmuring now and then at the thought of the treats for later, and who were now steadily approaching. The burgundy sauce bubbled as Bizhar saw a glimpse through the murky stew, a telling of something…

The ‘wedding’ ceremony began. Sasha’s big day. She stood smiling next to Thomas, his fangs gleaming. Jane and Sarah held their bouquets, which seemed incongruous amid the costumes and setting, but before their Halloween festivities could begin, the wedding had to take place first. It was Sasha and Thomas’ initiation into their group. Luke and Jane, Sarah and Brian and Bobby and Susan were old ‘married’ men and women. Sasha, apart from it being unusual, was doubly keen for since starting college, she only had eyes for Thomas and if this was a way of getting him, then who was she to argue.

Bobby, a bit amiss without Susan, but resigned to the possibility that she might have given up and gone home, pronounced Sasha and Thomas ‘man and wife’ and they all ran out into the slightly chilled farmyard where the others jibed and threw lose straw and any old things found about them. Stale manure as a confetti substitute was one that did not go down too well.

Bobby’s head jerked around when he thought he heard Susan shouting. “Hey, listen up. Quiet! Did you hear that?”

They all fell silent as hot air poured from their exhausted mouths from laughing and carrying on. “No, you’re imagining things,” came a reply.

“It was Susan I’m sure of it. I mean, how many kids would come here – sane kids? I am going to take a look around” Before Bobby could take a step, they all heard a scream and a cry for help coming from one of the barns.

“Susan! You were right,” Jane spat out. “Shit!”

They ran towards the barn and hampered somewhat by over sized cloth slippers, Luke soon discarded them together with his mask from which sweat poured. Luke issued instructions to Thomas and Bobby. “You two search that one. Girls, stay here!”

“No way, Jane piped up, “we are coming.”

High in the rafter they heard the sobbing from ‘Susan’. “I am up here, I cant get back down,” she screamed. “I’m hurt. Please get me down!”

“How in the hell did you get up there?” said Bobby as he ran his hands through his hair frantically. “OK, girls, go get help. The damn phones are in the car. Go! Call for help and tell Luke we are over here will you?”

Luke studied the smells emanating from inside the other barn and he edged in. It seemed to explain the animals somewhat, but it stank grotesquely. He’d killed a few rabbits in his time and eaten them, but this was something else.

From nowhere, a hand was on his collar, and the jagged nails were piercing his skin meeting his bone as Bizhar lifted him up effortlessly and dangled her dessert as she licked her lips. She nonchalantly placed it on a nearby hook, still twitching and dripping warm juice, ‘Sweet,’ she thought, ‘very sweet.’ She cackled, grazing the air with putrid breath and put on the mask she’d taken from Luke’s pocket.

She stripped off and donned herself with the rest of his garb including his slippers, which she’d collected from where he had dropped them. Bizhar made her way to the barn where she could hear the others desperately trying to rescue ‘Susan’. She laughed and shook her head coolly and swayed across the yard half wondering how good she was at ‘throwing’ her voice as well as impersonations; she could not remember, it had been a while since festivities had been so full.

Bizhar poked her head through the frame of a window and they turned.

“Luke, she’s here, give us a hand.” ‘Luke’ didn’t respond. Instead he beckoned with a finger and left the window.

“What the fuck?” Bobby said in disbelief. “We don’t need games.”

Just then they heard a muffled voice saying something about ladders so they followed. ‘Susan’ had gone quiet. They shouted reassured her and said they’d be back.

Outside, the three young men stood perplexed, as they saw no sign of Luke.

“Great!” Brian said as he swung around, “What’s he up to?”

Appearing from the broken boards nailed across an end window, they saw ladders steadily poking out and ran towards them, hands out to receive them. They tugged but had to declare them stuck.

“OK,” said Brian, “Thomas, you and Bobby go around and help Luke. I will pull from here.” The two shot off through another splintered slot and disappeared. He yelled after waiting and tugging some more, “Where the heck are you guys, it can’t be that hard. Luke?”

“OK, I am here.” Luke’s voice seemed strange. “Give it a pull now. Reach in a bit first I need your arm through the window.” The unfamiliar voice did not deter Brian who was thinking of Susan and wondering how the girls had done about getting help. He reached in with his arm and felt a sharp tug and soon he was wedged between the frame and the ladder.

“Whoa, strong man, be careful!”

Bizhar removed the mask and Brian saw behind her the full hideousness of his fate. He was brought in slowly, piece by piece. First an arm, neck then head, whist the torso dropped to the floor outside the window; it was severed and gouged with little effort. Bihzar decided she’d treat herself with some of the delicacies and gorge tomorrow; she would have all day tomorrow. She hung the pieces on the hooks available, all had been filled with what was left of Jane and Sasha along with the boys.

A grumbling stomach roared, which brought Bizhar back from her vision and she stirred once more. With grotesque and unmelodious laughter, she shook her head and kicked over the pot of animal slime and started again. She proceeded to add small, carefully selected pieces of last year’s aged ‘sweet treats’ to her new and hideously thick broth of blood now simmering before her. ‘Mortals are sweet,’ she decided, tossing her head side to side and continued, ‘they’re also very stupid, very tasty creatures.’ She cackled, giving a contemptuous chef’s kiss to the putrid air.

Autumn Mourning

Image: Unknown source

reaching into the night,
my outstretched arms pierce
autumn’s rainfall,
while making peace within a lonely mind.
I remember when he lay still, dreaming
in a beautiful sleep,
amid a lullaby’s pitter patter.

The wind’s gentle breaths
would extinguish the oil lamp –
disturbed fragrances
permeated the old wood,
and ashes still warm
from his fire
would make way for sunlight,
where he would sit
for breakfast.

his bowls sit empty,
as hollow hearts
sing in the distance –
usual breezes
come to waft away the spirited
red leaves covering the steps,
always cleared for him,
ready to greet the cold; but today,
a spent pot’s fragrant smells
dissipate without him,
clutching the rain as they leave.

Chalk Bones

My polished cheeks inherited

these whispered blushes.

Above them sits one jewel

in the traverse

of my brow’s flesh –

a stream of teardrops,

permanently nestle

in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child

caught crying

in ink black darkness

where the silver shadows

of pale moons would try to invade

her solemnity –

Occasionally,

we would dance

a reflection; swooning and

dipping, dodging emptiness,

faded scars and the morass

of past pain, redacted,

and the remains left to degrade.

Calm, moon chalk

expressions would beat down

in rhythmic shadows on my chest,

imposing stoic interruptions

where my stolid heart should be;

still at press pause, afraid of my

own heartbeat, of my organs,

of mnemonic patterns –

countless disjointed

memories have scattered,

fluttering endlessly like crazed

butterflies –

out of control

in chasms of grey, fleshy matter

where pretty cacti run my veins –

flower buds, seldom seen,

are happy there

forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…

until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,

the pain of my disease

is ingrained –

it cannot be wiped away –

so my reflection oscillates.

I roll my cheeks one at a time;

offering warm flesh pressed hard

against cold glass –

my orange painted lips linger,

to mouth a prayer –

‘let my bones break

so that I might heal.’

I resolve one day to stop this

dance of attrition – and smear on

the neon, shop bought face mask,

swapping sorrows for sin,

and wade out from the steamy mire –

memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while

at least.

Cold cupped hands beat

the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine

is still smothered in shade –

ashen faced, I stare out from

inside the mirror –

but at least, I am whole.

Sunset Senses

I smile at sunset’s throng of small songbirds
singing out while nuzzling their nested fauna,
dreamily chirping ‘til sleep stills them.
Resting in treetops higher than dusk,
but still lower than the scattering raindrops,
they are held firmly by devoted arms that reach
forever into the night, soaring upward
to heaven to sleep there ’til dawn.

I stare into the long, last looks of the sky
before unused clouds crawl along alone
into dark slumber where dreams wait to explode.
Glancing at the flowers’ closed petals
in graceful sleep, the moon casts a shadow
on their last blushes as the day grows weary;
their scent lingers freely and comes closer
to me through the tranquil grace of nightfall,
and we walk hand in hand through the garden
at this quiet time.

I listen to the tinkling of ivory
from the stream playing right underneath
my window as it wends its weary way into the
night, moving freely in its dream state;
asleep already but forever moving
closer to a new dawn in another
world somewhere out there and beyond
our scope – to bask always in moonlight’s
infinite pond.

I love the setting of the golden sun as she lays
out her gilded robes; all too soon she will
adorn them once more, but for now she rests
and allows the beauty of an argent face to watch
over us in the darkness. Once inside the night,
the moon caresses the tips of nightfall wherever
it touches and we all slip silently into sleep.
If we’re lucky we soar high and meet
the heavens in our dreams and wake to live
them a thousand fold once daylight’s
waking moment’s blossom.

Nascent Ripples

I stood, as if naked,
stripped by the haughty sheen
shimmering
against a backdrop
of infinite darkness,
just a few faltering steps
before the earth’s moon tide.
Sharp highlights
played across the vast, black silken sheet –
and struck the deathly stare
thrown up from its ruptured surface;
with each nascent twinkle,
a wink of adulation
ran across its undulating body.
Murmurs in faint echoes ache
from more tender moments;
the sounds of their soft crescendo
hushed in tune to the ocean,
blow past my still feet
until its quiet fade
takes a life flowing within me.
Our lives, no longer enmeshed,
are hungry and empty.
Slowly, surely, quietly
the stars lay down with me, peacefully,
in the guise of a restless sleep.

Remembrance

Picture: unknown source. The sad plight of the hot spots in this one world lingering on the brink, makes me wonder, have we forgotten? I have a picture of my grandad in the world war as young boy in uniform sitting on his horse, his mates fighting in trenches… they’re doing that still in Ukraine. Slava Ukraine!

‘Miss me not ‘til I have died,
then always remember me…’

In the early glow of dawn,
silence rolls on the bosom
of heavy clouds –
solemn doves, in a new formation,
accompany sunrise, as if hearing
the sound of an abundance of rain.

Above tumulus soil,
peace remains a warm blanket
for all who were lost there,
since death is an aching cold,
and mired in these fatigued
and embattled lands –
lands where life spilled,
and courage was mulch
to the seeds that were sown.
Acres of crimson mist undulates,
to waft forever in cool breezes;
its pitch black eyes peer
through the ruddy murk,
we feel the pulse of its stoic heart,
and, we are touched
by the dew atop each poppy’s blade –
all are there to remind us still,
and without words
often drowned by time.

Raindrops sheet in silver threads
to lace our silent tears. And, as the flight
of doves let loose like windswept petals,
to surrender one by one, we humbly
promise

to always remember,
and, shame on us if we fail.