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Falls of Deceit

The gaping mouth of the waterfalls is forged by the river of lies, which flows with the tears of the suffering, the falls flow constantly, even below the surface.

Liars float above the current, greedily feeding on their victims, before bathing fat and bloated on the shore.

The deceived are drowned beneath white capped waves, held heavy with the chains of loyalty that shackle them.

Their broken bodies are weighed down by great stones of deceit, before being swept over the falls, discarded onto the rocks below.

Falling out of their dreams, and into the horrible reality of facing a new day’s sun.

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Just Another Tuesday

With one last exhale, he steps from his doorstep and into the inky black darkness outside,

His body begins to rise gently in the warm black scentless air, slowly drifting up into space.

He always felt that his front door led to the end of the world, and he was correct.

Crossing his feet together, then arms across his chest, he closes his eyes and lets the drift take him,

Within moments he’s in the atmosphere, still, no longer rising, there above the earth he hovers,

Invisible currents gently tug at him as his body floats in orbit above a bright glowing world below,

There is a serene internal warmth, a comfort, no more pain, stress, or sadness, a feeling of relief.

The glowing warmth of the sun reflecting from the earth below him doesn’t last however,

He feels himself violently tugged into the darkness behind the earth, cold and anxiety fill his system.

Now in complete darkness, he begins to fall back into the dark world below him.

There’s no heat as he re-enters the atmosphere, but he begins to freeze, blinded by ice and darkness,

Rocketing downward like a human missile aimed at his own rooftop, at impact he opens his eyes. He finds himself standing inside his home, hand on the front doorknob as he prepares to leave

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Sleeper Beneath the Mountain

Asleep, yet awake, deep within the black range,
Her breath a rumble felt in the bowels of the earth.
For six thousand years she has slept, waiting to rise,
Her fury quelled by the darkness in which she lies.
Every thunder crack of storm is a cry from the cosmos,
Her distant Prince pining for the one he’s denied,
Beneath a black mountain of forests deep and peaks divine,
The lightning, a conduit of love between the earth and the sky.
Worshipped by the surface-dwelling cult of the serpent,
Who enact rites, preventing the ancient sleeper from stirring,
She remains imprisoned below, while away in the stars,
The fury of a love lost Prince grows without her in his arms,
Two divided serpents with eyes of fire, and mighty limbs encased in scales,
Kept apart by a death cult of outsiders, who fear the prophecy of their union,
She is an imprisoned deity, coiled up beneath a mountain of rock and dirt,
And he, her leviathan lover, has a black heart made of stardust, shadows and hurt.
A time will soon come when the ancient princess will awaken,
And her prince will punish mankind, by whom she was taken,
They will bring the earth total doom and utter devastation,
And once united, they will erase all traces of life in retaliation.
When the prophecy is fulfilled, they will return to the cosmos,
Back beyond the stars where the ancient ones reside,
Existing beyond all time and space in the infinite darkness,
Two serpents entwined once again, far from the earth’s lifeless carcass.

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Ocean of the Dreaming Mind

Closing your eyes, you exhale the stale air of the day’s hurt,
The clean, cool new air of home replaces the sickly, anxious heat,
You are wrapped in your safe darkness, your sanctuary of solace,
The darkness behind your eyes begins to erupt into a misty haze of colour,
You feel yourself begin to lift, and light as air, your mind begins to drift,
Your journey to the kingdom of colour, across the ocean of dreams, has begun.

You float slowly, facing the stars, as time, planets and reality slip from sight,
You feel the breeze as you speed across a calm ocean surface,
Eventually slowing as your mind makes landfall, crossing a coast into fields of azure,
You drift slowly above fragrant flora, and a pink sky spirals into cool blue clouds above,
As the warmth of the sun embraces you, caressing your skin,
You begin to rise, the stars reveal themselves, sweet fragrances fill your senses.


Gently, you begin to spiral, drifting through space, your toes leading the way home,
Time passes, the drifting gently ceases, and you float weightless, motionless,
Below you lies your sleeping body, open and peacefully awaiting your return,
You gently roll, floating back into yourself, your mind cleansed by the journey,
The colours cease, you open your eyes, and once again breathe the cool air of reality.

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Beyond the Screaming Arch

Just one slip into unconsciousness,

Beyond a screaming doorway drowned in ocean water,

Razor sharp thorns pierce the skin and shed the blood.

A black blood drifts from wounds like storm clouds in salt water,

Serpent-like tentacles grip, tug and constrict,

Dragging the world down into the darkest shadows of sleep,

Into the realm of desolation and despair,

Doom absolute, engulfed by the blue green deep,

Here we sleep, floating, lifeless, and motionless,

Struggle is over, everything here is silent, cold, and still.

The stars overhead continue to shine upon that false calm surface.

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The Clockwork Boy

There was a clockwork boy, with a clockwork heart,
He tried to be like the other kids,
But he felt different from the start.
They would run and play together and seemed to be as one,
But the clockwork boy could not join in,
For he felt sad and that was not much fun.
He’d wear a different mask each day to trick his clockwork brain,
But his clockwork heart was broken,
And he soon felt sad again.
He met a girl with a golden key, that she used to wind his heart,
And the boy never wore a mask again,
For she was clockwork just like him, and they would never part.

I thought I'd try my hand at a poem for younger people, I grew up with the poems of the late Doug Macleod, whom I got to know in later life.  This was inspired by his book  In the Garden of Bad Things, the very first poetry book I ever owned as a small boy. I like the rythm and the fun of this type of simple poetry, and while I'm doing my best to develop my writing on this site,  I think I'd like to explore this area further.
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One Step Away

My mind feels too much pressure, the outside world has gone insane,
There’s information overload being crammed into my brain.
No matter how I try I cannot turn off the constant digital grind,
Of useless information that will never nourish my mind.

I’d like to disconnect permanently from information age damnation,
To just enjoy some days of peace, without constant irritation.
I’m unlike those out there, without a clue or a personal identity
I have always known who I am, and what is best for me.

I’m a quiet man, in a quiet place, with the person that I love,
Yet outside opinions won’t be silent, down my throat they want to shove.
All their points of view, and constant need for instant gratification,
Just keep it to yourself, I don’t care about your social misinformation.

I’m stepping away from screens where I can, and the bitterness they spread,
I’ll spend time with art, books, and music, interposing a little peace inside my head.
Technology is a creative tool for good, not a projectile to spread social dissension,
From now you’ll find me one step away, in my quiet place, while your mind is in detention.

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Why 6 is a lonely number

The device in my hands writes to distraction as my stomach awaits nourishment,
A swirl of competing sounds battle with foreign voices from another room,
A stove top crackles as a radio competes for audio supremacy against a crying infant,
The radio noise is soon defeated, as voices rise and fall comforting a now content baby,
I feel heat, as fire belches from the stove top while the contents of a large pan are tossed.

As I write, Customer number 6 is shouted aloud in a thick accent not typical in this area,
A surprise to me considering I’m the only person waiting patiently in the shopfront. 
I check the small receipt in my hand and notice the number ‘6’ crudely printed in blue ink,
And wonder why I’m only the 6th diner to call into this quiet place on such a busy Street?
This is a struggling family, but the low number is on my mind while I stand and pay for my meal.

Once collected, I thank them for their custom, my smile is genuine, as is theirs in return,
On dark days like these, I wish all who work hard for so little reward, the brightest of futures,
They strive to create a new world for themselves, not unlike their infant, they also seek contentment.

I bid them farewell, the husband smiling, the wife exhausted, the infant crying once more.
Beneath darkening clouds, a cool wind blows, so I find a quiet place to sit and dine,
I eagerly open my food, and again ponder the lonely number six printed on my receipt,
A mouthful confirms what the plastic lid can no longer conceal, yet the rubbish bin now knows.
Hard work, smiles and hope, do not always make a good cook.

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Isle of the Dead

I am adrift, my face and body are bound in gossamer-like fabric as I lay aboard an oarless boat floating across a lake unknown,

The shroud I wear has been worn by many, I’m cast out by unseen hands and drift silently,

Mist covers the lake, smothering the sky like a pale heavy blanket weighed down at its ends.

My senses are as blind to the starlight above, as the water is to the reflection of the moon.

A small island reveals itself through the darkness, crowded with ancient trees held back by a stone gate,

My vessels path has been true, and it soon halts in the dark wet sands that welcome my arrival.

The stone gate opens, and the great thorned trees stretch backwards creaking, to reveal a hidden path,

I find myself floating along the path, no longer by boat, but carried by the invisible hands of the mist,

Through the shroud I see the dark branches above me, like great cracks across the bright moonlit sky beyond,

I hear the distant clank of the gate closing, and sound of the trees I’ve passed creaking back into position,

The moonlight soon fades, and I drift off into nothingness.

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The Rainy Day

By H.W Longfellow

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882