If you are fearless, my love,

You will learn to entertain these shadows;

You will ask them their names,

Invite them to your table and be curious about their stories.

If you are fearless, my love,

You will expose your tender heart,

And if in the process, it is pierced,

You will water the ground with your tears,

And let flowers bloom in your wake.

You will be stirred to walk the untrodden path,

And learn to love the faces of things and people you could not understand before.

You will recognise whilst the wounds may be different,

Our blood and fears are all remarkably the same.

If you are fearless, my love,

You will not go to war with others,

You will seek the unknown places within yourself,

And also learn to call these home.

Mad Dog Musings.

The strangeness of these days,

Never seem to stop confounding this uncertain sense of ‘I’;

So many ways to be in such a limited space of time.

The ‘do’s’, the ‘dont’s’, the ‘should’s’ and the ‘should not’s’, never seem to run dry.

It often makes me wonder how those who are truly weary and broken must feel;

You exchange your cracks and imperfections,

For the ultimate, super-sized, pre-packaged, self-love deal.

Don’t get me wrong, I understand that presentation counts,

All that polish and allure.

But, all my fellow, mad dog members in this uncertain life,

How must one live honestly if none of us can claim to be completely pure?

I struggle, I must confess, with all this New-Age, glitz and glamour;

It seems to leave no room for those whose lives have been,

Auctioned under a far less, auspicious hammer.

It’s not rancid bitterness that prevails here,

Nor any claim to absolute truth;

Nor do I parade myself in the complete cynicism of the bored and vainly aloof.

It’s only an enquiry into our world’s current state of mind;

When did the desire to be replicant’s of false perfection,

Replace higher wisdom of simply being kind?

Bloom (for my son)

“Unfolding is never easy you know”, said the dark soil to the seedling who wanted to become a flower.

“You are going to have to resist the urge to stay hidden and asleep,

safe in this darkness.

You will feel pain as you start to stretch yourself,

And, my love, when your tender green shoots first meet the sun,

It may well feel like you will burn in all of that light.

And dear little seed,

The journey does not end there.

When you have grown and your first bud appears,

Unfolding can feel very difficult.

You must allow each petal to unfold without holding on too tightly,

And you must be willing to open yourself so fully –

That the most vulnerable part of you is revealed;

That’s where your perfume lies.

Little seedling,

This is what it takes to Bloom”.


A release from bindings,

The long sigh out.

A breath that travels from the base of the spine,

Out through the nose and mouth.

The uncaging of birds that flutters inside the chest,

The sweet release of throat constricting tears.

The celebration of the unruly and the wild,

The cultivation of acceptance and heroic surrender.

The crescendo of sound that falls to silence,

The wave that rolls with a roar,

And then a murmur to the shore.

A deep belly howl to the moon;


Hope in Hell

There is utter madness on the wind,

Chaos is blooming black and deadly scented flowers.

Despair runs screaming in torn clothes,

Her children crying like banshees,

As unchecked cruelty fills the hours.

Souls bereft of any kindness,

Drag their bleeding feet across thorny ground;

The discarded and the hopeless lie heaped upon a wretched mound.

Eyes that bear no light look sightlessly upon withered fields,

The monster harvesters with their barbaric hands,

Count their bloody yields.

The sky feels heavy and leaden,

A droning dissonance buzzes through my ears.

The world all at once feels like a soundless scream,

And existence, the endless crunching and grinding of weary fears.

Then all at once when it feels like there can be no more,

Some relief is gained from the intruding view;

A small green thing like grows wildly from the ground,

Displaying the impossible hue,

Of some retained hope for what feels like being an exile in a foreign land,

I am grateful for your existence;

A living thing of beauty still grows in the desert’s sand.

Modern Love

Love as a commodity,

A like,

A swipe to the right;

An exchange of sorts,

And important to remember,

Usually a fleeting connection.

It’s the diet-Coke form of love:

It offers you some remembrance about the full-fat taste of love,

Without the necessary calories to sustain,

Or even adequately sweeten one’s life.

It’s the swan -song to meaningful connection.

And the weary moth,

Mistaking electric bulbs for flames,

Still get burnt;

Ignominiously however,

In the search for modern love.

Another Stale Glass of Red Wine

Another stale glass of red wine graces my bedside table.

It stands as testament to the obvious:

You did not bring me anything new.

Sure, when the bottle was first opened, there was a pleasant aroma.

I think when one is thirsty however,

Even cheap red wine can smell like an intoxicating perfume,

And I was thirsty. I readily admit this.

You, however, paraded yourself in more expensive notes, hues and tones, than belong to you.

It was not by the way, an entirely awful seduction,

And when you’re thirsty, even stale red wine will do.