All Storms Must Pass
Hold my hand
because the world is changing.
Hold my hand
because we shall be going along for the ride.
Hold my hand
because you won't always be there to hold it.
Hold my hand
because thoughts like these leave me petrified.
Hold my hand
because our influence has diminished.
Hold my hand
because theirs is expanding by the hour.
Hold my hand
because they have the gutter, the gall to use it.
Hold my hand
because holding remains within our power.
Hold my hand
because, as of today, there thrives a forest.
Hold my hand
because various houses still yet unbombed.
Hold my hand
because upstairs the cats are sleeping soundly.
Hold my hand
because somewhere a girl sings her happy song.
Hold my hand
because one day, the holding shall be what mattered.
Hold my hand
because rain pitter-patters against our glass.
Hold my hand
because thunder and lightning are not that scary.
Hold my hand
because sooner or later, all storms must pass.
Maelstrom Dreams
Bathwater spinning, picking up pace,
suds disappearing, lost without trace.
Sultry and steamy transcend one room;
ravenous whirlpool will gather us soon.
Thrusting our tongues out, tasting fear,
(bubbles, tormented, collide, career).
Currents and forces beyond control,
foam effervescence concealing goal.
Curious rapture of minds not here,
tugging and teasing towards plughole.
From the Dirt Below
You muscle your muse to cinema seats,
flustering geeklings, weirdos, freaks.
Cliché descends on abundant gore,
holding of hands, surely something more.
Laugh as the heroine, twisting round,
loses acquaintance with firmest ground.
Scowl at the dummies who love this show;
me and my friends from the dirt below.
Trope number two, you'll be dressed for bed.
Did the bell ring? Was it in your head?
Scan through the porchlight, but no one's there,
probably kids on a drunken dare.
Back in the bedroom, last hackneyed scene,
piece of work snuffs it, swordsman's glee.
Countless lives better, one bad boy less;
ripe for reduction, deserving of death.
From Village Green
I rather like the sound of trains
across these graves at failing light,
transporting bones from village green
to floodlit city, burning bright,
where girl meets boy and boy leaves girl,
with every other shade amidst,
sings overture, strikes wedding bell.
For some, departures, never kissed.
I also like the rise and fade
in volume, vision, scheme and hope;
soft flowering, slim withering,
twelve roses red, romantic trope
as train, with several stations left,
though just arrived, departs once more,
strange vacuum lends to atmosphere
new quiet never felt before.
Witness
Upon the midnight heath, below the veil,
sequestered in salacious fairy tale.
Bright exorcist for spectral ball and chain,
a rhyme's commencing word, last verse refrain.
Immaculate, precocious, unprepared,
along the ground, whilst floating through the air.
Boat engine lost, insistent with the tide;
one hundred million miles away, you lie
and I, mere passive witness, face your glare,
see no one else around, may wonder why.
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