Anger – The Just War

That tournique on reason, rage provokes
hard narrowed eyes and shallow breaths. It stokes
a boiler full of reined-in pain that yokes
men’s hearts to raw revenge. It proves they care.

‘Just’ fury won’t excuse the callous kills
or planned commando muscle-flexing drills.
When pressure boils the blood until blood spills,
It’s hurt-for-hurt: a no-win thoroughfare.

Is tolerance a Cinderella coach
reverting to a primitive approach?
Some hide behind a reason like a roach
with pre-historic tendencies. Beware.

Party People

Who Climbed on the Climber?

False accents stretching truth-scraps into webs
that glitter prettily, are only meant
for social climbers. Conversation ebbs
if ego-boosting isn’t the intent.
Zirconias and diamonds side by side
convince the group you fit. You love those props –
French nails and French knickers worn with pride
are waggled as you taste the gossip crops.
Your thoughts are all of silly secrets shared –
from partner swopping with the richest men,
to chins that electrolysis has bared.
You’ve long forgotten comments like one when
a friend’s mum saw your house, “I can’t allow
my daughter to attend your party now.”

Who Lost the Loser?

The weedy girl who longs for Mr Right
to pluck her off the wall, would be all eyes
if he approached her late one dreamed-of night
and tried a pick-up line. He’d mutter lies
her mirror could deny, so doubt would lock
her tongue and legs – until defensive mode
began to sabotage her chances – mock
his words, avoid the eyes where interest glowed.
That glass of foreign courage doesn’t quench
her thirst for confidence… but one more might…
She wants to be a player, leave the bench
to join the game, instead of feeling fright.
But contact sports are for the fit and strong
and she has been a loser all along.

Who Whined to the Whiner?

She reapplies her lipstick and her smile,
resigned, although she’d rather be in bed.
Her queries act as oral stand-ins while
she waits to whine of stressful work instead.
The prize for being put-upon is hers
and cronies understand each time a tale
reiterates her grievances. Their purrs
are grumbles that reveal they’re growing stale.
The music frees her head from knee-jerk fears
and she can twirl in complicated moves;
pre-disco steps she hasn’t changed in years
are comforting. Age settles into grooves.
She’ll dance around the issue with old zest;
her worn-out mother also knows what’s best.

Who Heard the Listener?

Subdued, you stand and sip your sparkling wine,
suspecting huddles (loudly unaware
of your arrival) guess that magazines define
your conversation. Turning, you compare
the weather with the forecast, then you ask
a sour woman who she knows. You chose
so well, she’s glad to have the chance to bask
in some attention; an alliance grows.
The mention of a filmstar scandal sets
her off. You nod and murmur, leaning in,
repeat a phrase on dieting. It whets
her appetite for quotes on staying thin.
You parrot what you’ve heard, safe from attack.
No father lets his daughter answer back.

Who Used the User?

One wicked eyebrow lifts and captivates
the audience by daring what they dream;
pretending to be careless titillates
the ones who dread they’re losing all their steam.
Manipulation is a spoon you stir
to mix reactions where you have a stake.
Perhaps a counter-plot nonsequitur
will be an unplanned icing on your cake.
Your boredom drives creative urges that
develop into private broadway hits
where players follow scripts that leave them flat
on faces you forget. You live for skits
and you don’t understand what pathos means.
You’ll stumble solo in your future scenes.

Friday Night Blues

It’s Friday night and I’m
a stuffed potato, couched
in weariness and slouched
in stress-related grime.

My wine glass magnifies
a teenage mess that leaps
aggressively and sweeps
glazed shutters from my eyes.

Torpedo words are aimed
as peevish temper flares.
Retaliation swears.
All combatants are maimed.


When nightmares gallop over frozen thought,
a pounding heartbeat drones in false alarm
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.

The terror stuns. Undone and overwrought,
unhinging tremors shudder through each palm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought.

A brooding, storm-like force that’s tension fraught
soon kidnaps all volition, mocking calm,
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.

In panic, petrifying shame is brought
to bear on self belief. Dread authors harm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought.

Disabled, I’m devoid of courage sought
in prayers; all fight or flight. There is no balm
when nightmares gallop over frozen thought
to paralyse a creature, spotlight-caught.


Guilt is a wind that whips up a fire,
feeding a secret, enflaming desire.
Guilt is a gust that flattens a dream,
echoing morals, a tormenting scream,
funneling fury of self-imposed blame,
condemning awakening joy into shame.

Guilt is a tempest, stirring up panic,
confusing, misleading, chaotic and manic,
savagely tossing all tender new growth-
excitement and terror combined into both.
Feeling all wrong and resistant within,
emotions so strong, a twister of sin,
guilt is a gale-force, internal law,
a cultural, crippling self-slamming door.


Alone – we journey through our lives –
our companions play bit-parts;
for the stage is often empty
like our lonely searching hearts.

Alone – we clothe ourselves in manners –
those we wish the world to see;
then as confidence increases
inner spirits are set free.

Alone – we seek out an admirer –
whirling egos in a dance;
but the joy of peaceful living
often equally enchants.

Alone we journey through our lives –
needing others just to share
those moments when Earth’s beauty
seems so infinitely rare.


The nectar of emotion overflows –
her molten fears unfrozen in full force;
a tidal wave, then ebbing, as her woes
escape between damp lashes on their course;

A brimming sap, each seeping droplet lost
like precious pearls he’s stolen from her heart –
to live a life with passion there’s a cost,
when bonds of love and need are torn apart.

Remembrance of a thrilling timelessness
may temper tears as she recalls devine
fulfilment, such a flood of happiness,
that also lent her eyes a liquid shine.

To taste the wine of love needs sacrifice:
an altar will await the weeping price.

The Streets of Net Lingo

A ballad to be sung to the tune of The Streets of Laredo

As I wandered into a chatroom one evening
As I wandered face-less, I chose a new name
I logged in and then I assumed my persona
My name was a mask I could proudly proclaim

The list of the chatrooms was seemingly endless
The list was divided by interest and age
I clicked on my decade and watched as they chatted
I watched as their words quickly scrolled up the page

The names that were chatting were cause for amusement
Some names were so clever they showed me a face
But faces are masks there, I knew from my own one
And romance buds falsely at too fast a pace

I read what they said there and thought I could comment
I read and I thought I could challenge them all
They seemed to be stuck in a rut of agreement
Agreement, flirtation, behind that chat wall

My challenge unnoticed, at first I was shattered
My challenge, “Define that, please say what you mean”
But answers came slowly and wisecracks came quickly
Discussion soon lit up all over my screen

I heard silent laughter, all types and all typed in
I heard hehe-haha and wanted to scoff
But Lots Of Laughs really, so R.-O.-F-.L.-ing
I Rolled On the Floor Laughing, Laughed My A. Off

A personal message then flashed up before me
A personal message from one old masked rat
I thanked all my stars then that only I saw it
The personal invite to tête a tête chat

‘Though I soon remembered the masks and flirtations
Flirtations so many seem tempted to try
Yet still I responded and joked though despondent
The mask I was wearing, a masquerade lie


Some moral fibre stretches in the dark
that offers us a cloak in which to stray.
Temptation circles, dolphin turned to shark,
as black and white merge into silver grey.

These shadows shine like treasures beckoning
but greys of in-between will only gleam
for tempting moments, then the reckoning:
when consequences shatter such a dream.

Beliefs are founded on a culture changed,
so many now pursue what once was wrong:
priority for choice is rearranged
in shady corners when the light’s too strong.

We weakly claim to satisfy a need,
betraying with a self-indulgent greed.

The Affair That Never Was

She’s started wearing skirts again. And heels.
Her lips are lick-bright crimson; what they say
is whispered promise… even while she reels
off information (with an overlay
of laugh-congested, low massaging tones).
Professional and married, she’s confused.
A neck caress still fuels her daydream moans-
but was it only friendly? She’s bemused
and wonders if his mouth stays sweetly curved
for her, or is that just habitual charm?
She meets his eyes but shies away unnerved,
then chatters on with business-minded calm.
She’ll dwell on tiny incidents for days
but guilt won’t let a hint infect her gaze.