In the early days I imagined myself wandering the lanes of England with a rucksack on my back and, maybe, something lively in my hip-flask. I saw myself sitting on a hill somewhere, scribbling poems and, hopefully, making enough to keep body and soul together. But life isn't like that and, after a few years at sea and in the army, I found myself with a wife and kids to keep. So now, with three novels wallowing on Kindle, I scribble the odd rhyme by way of a hobby and shove it on my blog. Hope someone out there finds them interesting.
Two lovers by the ragged strand once trod the sooty sand; slender maid with raven hair, fisher boy of bronze; the dazzling sun a gold doubloon, the moon a silver coin. From rocks, ink-black as witches’ cats, they saw the
Sometimes she whispers in my ear, a tapestry of pain and fear whose warp and weft weave haunted days and nightmare dreams through woeful sobs and blooded screams; till phantoms from a private hell enshroud me in a chilling spell.
Orang Ulu… loping through mottle-green light of the jungle-track, lighter than dawn-mist and nimble as wild-cat. Hunt-hounds around-him are bounding and wailing a death-hymn or baying for deer-spoor or fat-ox or wild-boar. Ulu agape at the edge of a clearing,
She descends from en-suite and the balcony-shops, sways down the stairway, leather-mini concealing, sometimes revealing, lace stocking-tops; carries her bruises where nobody sees. In the hub of the foyer the faces are probing, sharp as the glare of the night-patrol’s
Smoky dingy café, workmen shout and curse, she floats among the tables, tending like a nurse. She pauses when she sees me, breaks into a smile; skips behind the counter, lingers for a while. Chatting while she’s serving, shedding all
“State the fact,” he tells the board; “announce mid- morning without warning; too late then to retaliate; say, ‘times change – so on your way; redundancy accompanies age.’” Walks easy through his fortress-grounds of trip- alarms and snarling hounds. Youthful
“There’s magic in the Coolroe-stream, or pucks weave herb into the browse to make me dream… In Killorglin town I bowed before a virgin-queen, who gave a crown to make me king with vision over everything. Our match remained unconsumate.
We’ll settle by the bar and watch the women dance, then split a likely pair when we think we stand a chance. I’ve one eye on the bridesmaid with the skirt that’s riding high, showing off the daisy, tattooed upon
He falls and snuggles like a lover to the floor; dreams spilling from the bottle in the weathered-hand. Beyond the door, dead-brochs lie buried on the moor. Forebears are but sepulchral-weals upon the land. Dreams spilling from the bottle in