Missing

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Take me back in time a year,
before we lost our stars
The place was very different and
We still had Alan Rickman
And gods they fell to earth, perhaps from Mars.

Let me be back there again, when Richard Adams wrote
A planet with Dave Brubek meant
we still had time-out music
And Charon still had spaces on his boat.

Would that I could travel there, back to the past so rich
When Wilder’s Genes lit up the screen
And Garry Marshall was still here
And Ali fought his fight out of the ring.

We would share the air with them; their artistry we’d keep
Then Harper Lee’d write number three
There’d be two more in ELP;
Guitars would sing – they wouldn’t need to weep.

On Christmas Day George turned a different corner at the end
Choose Life he said, but died in bed
So musically thoroughbred
A loss so hard for us to comprehend

Postcards were sent from the edge
A life so unrestrained
A daughter died, a mother cried
And due to all the pain inside
She left to join her girl, to sing in rain.

I wish that I could write us there
Let Cohen’s days return
Erasing all the loss this year
So Doves won’t cry their purple tears
But me, I am no Caroline Aherne. image

Santa, Maybe.

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I’d really love that Santa Claus
To do my shopping and my chores
Perhaps he’d even make a brew
And fill the car with petrol, too
Or maybe he could bake the pies
To keep me fat with sweet supplies
And while he’s at it he could bring
An end to people’s suffering
Perhaps he’ll stop the greed and hate
And start the love, for goodness’ sake
But something small would do for now;
The quiet ones are just as loud
The sound of many voices peal
From Santa – who might just be real
A unifying, big fat bloke
A symbol of a winter’s hope
So now I have a single wish
I’ll whisper it, and it is this:
Oh, please bring homeless folk indoors
I’d really love that, Santa Claus.

 

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BLOODWOOD

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BLOODWOOD

Everything bleeds here, from trees through to bodies, in this wonderful, horrible, story-filled forest. With Blood underfoot and with pus overhead, it’s a place of the stickiest, sappiest red.
But in fact it’s a place where your suffering’s good; for all pain is a virtue right here in Bloodwood. Here all murders and meltdowns are forms of release, our anxiety’s why there’s a calming, a peace.
We will write of our life or imagine, invent – all the hues, black and white, accidental or meant. All the stuff from the past and the words from folks’ heads, whether rough or perfected we’ll curl up in bed with their books, writ in blood, as the best horrors are – as ink pours itself in to each page, verse and bar…for their words they are songs and we dance to their tune, on a dry crispy morning or damp afternoon.
For a book’s more than paper to writers, you see – for what’s paper but wasted and shaven old trees?
It’s the words that are us and as WE are the words, well – watch life turn to dust as we make your blood curdle.
We will kill and we’ll scar and let battle commence as we can’t go too far, we can’t stay on that fence
There’s no line any more as we’ve already crossed it, inhibition’s a bore
– out the window we’ve tossed it
And dear readers, for you, writing’s never a bother
It’s no chore to explore this Bloodwood filled with horror
So whatever you read, or whatever you write
Have a wonderful time with your stories tonight.

 

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Gable End

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Eternity has passed since you escaped; infinity since we were meant to be. We’d watched the hours and we’d anticipated countdowns to togetherness, so real.
Four decades each had we to replicate; to live again and from ourselves be born – unfinished futures shared infinite fate and static blackness hid a love so warm.
Two persons new, one couple left to fate; foundations laid in poetry and word. The mortar ruined – too wet to be embraced; our house it fell as sonnets went unheard.

For all we were, we loved our universe; a blessing and a fucked-up little curse.