The Owl

I hate it.  Plain, white and featureless, with just a hint of an owl.  It’s a mug – a giant teacup.  And I hate it.  ‘She’ owns three owl mugs; two I like – though not this one.  It’s big and fat; it must of greed take upmost of a gallon to fill – leaving me with nothing for my cup of tea.  It knows this.  Doesn’t matter how much water I put in the kettle. It feeds as a leech.

It reads my mind, and watches me, my every move.   Even at night, in my sleep, it looms like a monster.   I know it is there, lurking in the shadows of the kitchen.  Seeping into my mind.

Just a slight push, that’s all it would take.   Yet it knows this and simply glares at me, as if to say “try it…”  One day, my mind will snap.   It will be no more.   Leaving me to face ‘she who must be obeyed’, and her wrath.  Despite all though, it has to go.  I have to plan, very carefully so it cannot perceive my thoughts.

Yes, a plan.  I need a plan.   I will make one, then when they release me from my padded cell, the owl will face the demon inside me, and be no more.

Goodbye owl…


Watcha doin’ here?

Hey, you.  Yeah, de one who’s looking at this.  Where’s you at?  Spying, or interested?  Spy’s I kill.  Folk’s interested, you can stay.

Oh, ‘posed to be writing English am I?  Proper like?  An who de hell decided wot proper-like English was?  Oh, dem ‘cademics.  One’s dat like got pieces of paper dey ‘ang on de walls, say stuff like as in “Master Of English Literature”.  Heck, folk’s may ‘pose dey mus’ be right den.  Like “better than me” – superior, eh what?

“Once upon a time”, like me and some tohers, w’all used t’ speak English wi no problems.  Then dem ‘cademics, who used to afore like only write Latin – dey made up how to write it other than speak it.  Kid yet not – dey made it up.  Like as they was right and we was wrong.  As if not bad enough, they came out with “rules”, like as in “how to write (our) made up English” in a proper like way wi commas and semi-wotsits and how long and short sentences should be an made up adverbs n presuppositions (I though them ‘were things tha shoved up yer ass) and ‘aving made up adverbs then made up a rule surprisingly telling yer not to use them.  Sheesh, you culdn’t mek this stuff up cud ya?

Worra load a plonkers.


Who Am I?

At one point in my life, I went through many years of severe depression, it was a long dark period; one I would not wish on anyone.   I wrote many poems during that period, many of which I would not post.   This one though, I like.

Who Am I?
I’ll never know you, the person inside,
The spark which is life – hidden forever,
In veils of distortion and cracked, smoked, glass,
The less I may view you,
Clouded by past, and distorted by fear.

Who are you, I ask; – but the mirrors of my mind,
Reflect back a shadow, of what once I may have been,
You become but an extrapolation,
Product of imagination,
If I feel well, then also you,
And if I ail – again this is you.

Shall ever I know the windmills of the you?
A seed of starlight – the essence of truth,
I look and I judge,
I hear and imagine,
I feel only truth – when compared to yesterday,
But not your truth,
Not you.

Will I ever know,
The Divine being inside?
As again, I look, into the mirror,
And wonder –
Who am I?






The Shadow

Tip-toeing on my windowsill,
My shadow waits for me,
It was locked out one darkened night,
When I was late home for tea.

Tip-toeing over the roof above,
My Shadow looks for a way in,
it only needs a small little crack,
To be back with me again.

He’s horrible and nasty too,
He makes me do bad things,
Took all my mind and soul you see,
And won’t even let me sing.

Tip-toeing down the garden path,
My shadow plots makes nasty traps ,
It thinks I must come out one day,
And then it will have me, SNAP.

Tip-toeing in the street below,
It Calls and says “I’ve gone”,
But I’ll stay right here under my bed,
I will not allow him his fun.

I hunger now, so many weeks,
The dark it looms so deep,
But my shadow won’t get my weary bones,
So I’ll just slip off to sleep.


Artwork Chris Shamnee

I Didn’t See it Comin’

When in my youth careless and free,
I didn’t see it coming,
It was way too far to see.

My twenties, thirties, forties and more,
I didn’t see it coming,
It was an unseen and closed door.

I didn’t see it coming,
Not even when it was here,
It needed to mature,
O’re many a long year.

I didn’t see it coming,
when woke one day, changed,
I never quite expected,
To become so re-arranged.

And now there’s no way back,
to where I was before,
I wouldn’t even want to,
For life means so much more.

Some of you will understand that of what I speak,
Others still spend their time, happily fast asleep,
And if not a clue you have of the subject of this tale,
Don’t worry or fret, it matters not, there is no pass or fail.

Continue reading


Without moving into the deep area of “What is Freedom?” – an abstract concept anyway, one thing is sure: Most people do not want freedom.  (Do I hear cries of “you talkin’ to me??” – don’t ya just love the way you can use a double question mark in a Blog and no-one can do a damn thing about it?).

Yep, no-one – only a very select few – wants freedom.  What people want, much like truth, is the illusion of freedom together with the so-called ‘safety’ of bondage.  Instead, the cries for freedom would be better phrased “We want Freedom – tell us what to do!”.

We want the illusion of freedom without the responsibility of running our own lives.  Most of us would not even know where to start!  Responsibility?  What’s that got to do with freedom?  Simple, make choices; face consequences.  “Consequences?  Man, who wants dat rap?  Hell, just gimme freedom.   Don’t want none of that ‘consequences’ and responsibility.  Dey ain’t got nowhere man doin’ wit freedom”.

Yep. like anything in life – or rather anything that is actually worth having – True freedom comes with a price.  One that very few are willing to pay.   Far rather let someone else tell freedom2you what to do…