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I worked as a domiciliary carer and a carer for realtives so this song is based on true stories of those losing loved ones to dementia:      Day after day – the lines crawl across his face     Memories keep him warm – by the unlit fireplace     The bills lie in the hallway – as the bailiffs come and go     The shadows at his front gate – always stop to say hello ...

Short poem, slightly amended since posting (thanks to Swep) ...

We all have our battles to fight. The wee sma' hours are the worst. Dedicated to Mike Verdie ...

A promise made, is a debt unpaid.For my grandchildren ...

The cycle of life ...

A poem about Culloden Battlefield today and the effects of the subsequent highland clearances. And so, t'is a bitter wind that blowsaround Drumossie.A plaintive crow that lends a single voicepiercing guilty silence.The moss itself, whispers among the slanted stones,footsteps sinking into sacrifice.Distant, calm blue firth betrays the battle-yellsawake forever on the breeze.Over heathered moors, ruined cottages stand sentinel to different times;The Rowan, redundant now.Red berries speak of spilled bloodand failure to protect hearth and home from ...

Written a few years ago now about global ascension..now in progress.A poem that speaks of the coming changes for humanity. The darker the world gets the more we need to concentrate on light and love. Dawn slips upon me like a night’s reprieve, a few more hours, to love some more. There is a chattering on the breeze that speaks above the city’s humid hush... It whispers in the mirror of my mind. Behind my ...

In dream analyses water = the mind, emotions, unconscious ...

An older one taken out and re-arranged somewhat. He does not know me Although I wander through his dreams and leave my calling card at his door, speak his very words.He does not know meThough I move his chest in breath and surround him in sleep Though I wake with him at dawn see through his empty eyesHe does not know me… ...

  A poem about my introduction to Shamanism He warned me, all those years ago, when dogma had left me soul-dead, cracked-tongue thirsting for living waters. I found them in the morning dew, the cleansing, healing rain... The crashing power of the angry sea. I’d yearned for vibrancy and passion. Not dusty diatribes of confusing constriction, condemning life-force urgings, as spirit-suffocating sin. I found myself in silence. Then, Communion in animated bonfire flames and visceral, ...

The tenure on this dalliance grows ever less appealing. All hell has broken out and the zombie masses are too painful to witness. Surely there is more to humanity, than clogs to clogs or indifference to truth in two generations? Mindless lemmings soldered to mobile phones asleep. Far from clinging on for dear life my life is no longer dear. My bags are packed and I am in the departure lounge waiting... My allegiance is ...

A poem that decries the New World Order and its minions. The time is almost upon us when the light will shine with lucid exposure of all those who put themselves forward to help the unfolding of the New World Order. Oh! Please do not try to loosen the noose around your neck. The knot is not for turning....(or loosening) The hang-man's grip is determined... Anyway, if he should falter, the queue reaches round the ...

Drifting into midnight, loosening ties to waking illusions, we enter the greater place. Vaguely familiar but shielded by misty confusion to those who fear. For death comes nightly and resurrection with waking. So why reject the natural progression of day to night, or life to life again? Unpredictable, perhaps challenging, the path ahead... but earth years are little more than sign posts on a hazy, forgotten road. And Karma rules, as sure as my belief ...

Will you walk in the Bluebells with me? For times are changing; And only yesterday I was young and now, older, tomorrow? older still… Come, meet me in the woods, where light is shredded by the pines and ground becomes our sacred bed, full circle for one born to love out doors. I will caress you in sun-speckled splendour; Skin on skin in moss and leaves, Heart to heart and swapping breath for sighs alive ...

Since Atlanta, she had looked out the dining-car window with a delight almost physical. Over her breakfast coffee, she watched the last of Georgia’s hills recede and the red earth appear, and with it tin-roofed houses set in the middle of swept yards, and in the yards the inevitable verbena grew, surrounded by whitewashed tires. She grinned when she saw her first TV antenna atop an unpainted Negro house; as they multiplied, her joy rose. Jean ...