This Shabby Place


The odour leaks through the gaps

around the twisted window frames

It spirals over that weed grown obstacle

that was once and is no longer a path

and pollutes nostrils, so pure and so polite

Rank and bitter, bile rises in response.


It is an honest smell

that speaks of decay

and the natural processes

of creation and renewal


The house is dead

Death leads to life

but we hide from its honest perfume,

blotting it out with the bland and safe

A pretence, maybe to hide inside

safely hidden from the march of time

and deaths looming grasp.


This Shabby Place


Long and sharp,

the best spikes are.

this one was

just a bit longer

sharper than

surrounding spikes,

its precision point ,

protruding proud,

protecting its plant,

guarding its future

What creature would

risk its sharpness

To capture seed

ripe red fruit alluring

spike ready to impale

Hungry whiskers and teeth

held at bay

Overwhelmed by grasping fingers

Blood drawn

But fruit picked and consumed

Spike broken and gone

Its sharpness embedded for a moment

then discarded

Its work done

Its memory endures

My finger still hurts



Smashed down the drain

Escapes the pain

Hostile to this change in

Life that is tragic

Full on Spanish nuns fly

Fronting the show

Let’s flee the scene

Its bonkers in here

Just string the words

Phrases follow

Sense is nonsense

So it must be fun

Then not


Snap Dragon Waltz

Cards dealt chance or stacked by  (?)

life’s whims of fate or is this a land

of space and plenty

where opportunities abound

to confound the senses.

How then the flame of pain

and fame lost

in the shake

of a head

the blink

of an eye

the snap

of the jaws

cruel bite, crunched.

This dance of life so

polite and ordained,

the floor

a field of battle,

complex fields

of ebb and flow

Released to spin and surge free

for space to roam and dance

Avoiding contact (well mostly)

missing others only just

grazing the edge of

each unseen wall of

space  that surround

and protects our

solitude alone

Faster then slower

the pace of their dance,

but music is lost in the

silent echo of fear that

shouts louder than

anyone can hear,

But I dance on,

how can I stop,

this floor,

this war,

this battle,

is closed ,

no way off

to rest and relax,

surrounded by walls that

bound this dance space,

At war to the end

it seems this

dance in the dark of

night cloying battle

to be won

but likely lost

And who sits above

in his lofty tower,

alone and uncaring

as the dance plays out

But loves blood shed

and pain washed floor

sweeps losers and winners

to face their maker for

rewards beyond measure

heart’s desire achieved.

Snap Dragon Waltz