The flow, the path,

Finding a way through barriers,

Around obstacles,

Life-giving and destructive,

Gentle touch and tsunami’s wrath.

This everflow of water,

Life giver, while also the mediator of drowning.

All needed yet also hurting.

The intricate power, kindness and grace,

Of this everflowing of water.

You leave and dry up,

Leaving a scar in your wake.

Taking the life from this land.

Escaping into the unknown.

 Mysterious Name On A Bench

Your name, written, on a park bench.

The sights seen,

Journeys carried out,

The places been,

Exploration of cities, forests and far off places,

People met, loved, lost, hurt and helped.

All of the experiences,

School, a first love, a trip to a far off country, life-long friends.
Oh your name.

On a bench.

Shrouded in mystery.

Leaving me wonder.

The sights you’ve seen.

Who you’ve been.

Your mysterious name on a bench.


The shining beams through the green lush leaves,,

Pushing away the darkness,

Illuminating opportunity,

Making the unseen seen,

Highlighting what we should see,

The uncertainty,

An empty canvass for life’s painting.

Those bright times,

The ones to come,

The ones in the past.

The light comes, as it will also fade.

The finite resource,

Finite experience.

I will make the most,

Of the light I have been given.

Weeping Willow

Oh weeping willow,

Why do you weep like that?

Hunched over, and drooping,

Rooted there, crying.

Left there,

Alone by the lakeside,

Alone, with nothing to find.

But look around you, watch that view,

Look at the beauty,

Brought forth by the lake,

Just like you,

You add to this beauty too,

You do weeping willow.

You do.

Nature Thrown Away

The rubbish littered across the floor,

Transformation of my space,

The alien landscape, unfamiliar.

My own face, unrecognisable to me,

The stripping,

The losing

The transformation.

The ending of an era,

Ending of a face.

To be replaced by the fake.

The copied.

The edited,

Where we live,



When nature’s thrown away

Finding that Footing

Finding that footing,

Those delicate footsteps,

Growing heavier every day,

New directions every way.

New sights every side,

No indicationto direction,

That large guiding light,

The figure there to help,

To point and comfort,

To smile and cry,

While you. There. Find your way.

Letting you make mistakes,

Picking you up when you fall,

Comforting those tears,

Hearing through the solitude.

Bringing the brightness to your smile.

While you there,

Are finding your footing.

New Surroundings

New surroundings,

The birds chirping,

Wind blowing,

Trees rustling

And life ongoing.

The vibrant colours,

The ever-moving,

The ever changing.

Sitting in a new place, far from it all,

A place for escape, for hiding, solitude and safety.

One of those places.


In one of those new places,

Golden places,

Treasured places.


Defiantly rejecting the label,

The hate,

The failure in my past,

The failure in my mind,

To work for change.

To prove all wrong.

To prove all false.

To make my world my own.

To achieve what I want,

Throwaway the past,

Embrace the present.

To design and build my future.

Been a long time,

A lot of pain.

I stand in defiance,

To build the world I live.

In defiance of my past, my torture.

To build my future,

To be the architect of my own change.

A change of poetry, wrote this listening to Eminem’s “Survival” and Disturbed’s “Down With The Sickness”.

A productive day, defiant day, productive day. One I own. Sick and tired of the past.


The poem about the future for yesterday.


The future,

An endless, intricate complex web,

The pull of a thread, the change of the whole.

Intricate detail,

Unforseen until permanent,

Enshrined in total clouds of uncertainty,

Clouds of shrounded change

Until solidified.

The future holds great change.

Both good and bad,

Through this ongoing march into the future,

What choices will be made?

What paths taken?

What choices stuck to,

It will be full of happiness, regret, mistakes, love, health and happiness.

All together in a soup of complete intricacy.

A soup of…

The future.