Categories
Poetry

A Little Boy Returns

Dementia erases moments and they are generally not predictable. One event reminded me that even as a grown adult we are still children in the hearts of our parents, and thought they may stop telling us what to do, they still have a discreet eye on us and our well being. 

A Little Boy Returns

Short trousers flash,
Wrap themselves like sand grains on wet skin.

He instructs, points failings, 
corrects the incorrect with the incorrect. 

Rain clouds are disappointed
Standing on the edge of sunlight. 

A little boy returns, smiles with love
As a father walks the ever shortening path.
Categories
TV

Live TV

When I am not writing, you will find me on Twitch. Maybe at some point there will be some creative content or mental health discussions.

Categories
Poetry

Chess

A kindness and a loving character in a person can be interpreted by others who see an opportunity for exploitation, manipulation and personal benefit as a weakness.

Every so often they come to sit and play their games. No one returns for another game. 

Chess

Bone on marble scrapes Death's inscription,
Stitches scars on the street jacket.

Kings sit on plumes, preach their stories, 
Recite blood with inked eyes on pristine parchment. 

The game set, they face in duel.
King confident smiles, makes a move, fails to hear the 
cock of the hammer.
Categories
Personal Blog

Better

D

ownwards. Sometimes things pull you downwards and it is an effort to lift yourself up, dust down your clothes and walk on. This particularly true when circumstances you find yourself in do not change, but go round in circles.

And this is when you have to remember for things to change you must make them change or else nothing will change and enviably you will find yourself being pulled down yet again by the same circumstances and elements.

Y

yesterday I wrote in reply to a message “Every day is a day of opportunity”.

Seeing it was like seeing something in a mirror, a note to myself and with it a positive boost. If depression and anxiety cannot kill you, the world is world of opportunity to be explored.

Categories
Poetry

Ares

Ares

The Hangman's wash taps the noose,
Pastes shrouds on flower heads and wheat fields. 

Village spaces stand silent in unengraved stone,
Scratched and stacked on a black dog's collar.

Feet on the door, the Hangman grips the noose, 
Suggests lines from a bound leather book.