Rage on the page

I shout!
I let it all out.
Rage on the page;
turn it before I burn it.
Watch the ashes fall as lashes from tear-stained eyes,
blurred from cries formed by streams of stormy dreams
Phoenix in the remix
Reliance on defiance and steely gaze
Glazed through the haze of salty windows
Grey dog days replaced with luminous rainbows
Grow softer as I proffer myself from pyre to a higher being,
freeing my soul to sing as I take control, spread my wings.
Angelic gifts, impending pandemic lifts mending the hurt
I flirt with a spell once denied; ride the swell and glide

Shallow grave

What is this poem that I see before me
It’s dagger towards my heart
Would the words by a poet of any other name
Read as sweet

Does a poem require meaning or feeling
To become more than letters on a page
Or is it suffice to roll a dice and randomly string them together one after the other to form an adage in which some dope might hope to find coherence or a piece of their mind

But not of yours
Where words are just words worth nought
A shallow grave where you misbehave
And, shy from a life of hidden depths
And bidden deaths,
Your peace of mind is betrayed

Romancing the poet

Romancing the poet

Where is the romance in a poet who does not feel?
Does he dream, perchance to sleep?
Or does he lay awake all through the night;
words tumbling
round and round,
perfectly structured,
immaculately positioned
ironic parameters,
or the like?

Words worthy of…
a rub… in his tub
Aye! There it is!

While I wait for a love letter from the heart
to ignite my passions,
All that arrives is a not-so-pleasurable ‘B’.

There’s a bee in his sonnet.
Bobbing… buzzing…
A sting in the immaculately coiffeured bee hive styling;
honeycombed ejaculate bursting forth
from his rod of ink;
leaving his mark like skunk stink -
scents to sense his ability for nonsensibility.

Starts from the heart then, starts from his art;
backtracks to the flat-packed shelter of his wit; so it seems.

Where is the romance in a poet who runs from his dreams?


Will I always be that dope, who,
Having found the end of the rope
Holds on with fragility to any glimmer of hope
Of finding the simmering passion
The binding of our love-making
The ignition of the once-shimmering embers now fading
Growing dimmer and dimmer
Whilst hopes become slimmer



When lovemaking becomes a fumble
Nothing more than rough and tumble
When no more “I love you”s pass your lips
No more gentle caresses with fingertips
When a sudden grab replaces a tender touch
What once were moments of desire become such
a chore, for you to gain your relief
Taking liberties like a desperate thief
in the night. Disparate from who you were;
a once adoring connoisseur
of exaltation
Now I say, “no”
until such time as you can show
some love, affection, selfless feeling,
understanding of the course of healing
a heart and mind full of confusion
of what now ‘is’. Just an allusion
to things yet to transpire,
or can we set ourselves afire
with how we used to be?
Two hearts afloat on a passionate sea

Feline cognoscenti

Feel a little hit and miss
Settling for domestic bliss
From the fire to frying pan
Struggling to pledge to any man
Love is aching
Mind betraying
Trust absent
Heart deficient
Everywhere and nowhere baby
Destined to be a crazy lady
Cats aplenty
Feline cognoscenti till the end
They’ll never let me down
In my solitary funky town

Energy vampire

You take our breath
Inhale us into yourself
Energy vampire
rampant with hostility
exhaling souls into a void
for fear we see the truth
of your design
You seize
You grasp
We gasp until we are deplete, or,
choosing to ignore your existence
You cease
to be