Look At Me

window and lake

If I could see what you see,
it would be just a memory of me;
ghostly visuals hidden in thinly
veiled chasms of shrieking whispers.
You see the far away cries,
if I see what you see.
And it is what it is,
to miss the glare of sunrise.

Derelict spaces inside your eyes
show abandoned, scorching reaches
and searing, aching longings once
belonging to vanity’s mirrors –
there’s no one wrapped around
our crimson talks, fingers touching
unfurled lips, or passion
etched onto the steely glass –
I see only me,
and it is what it is
to miss the explosions of sunset,

from our movements wetter
than oceans and in brilliant pain
from ecstasy’s bite marks – showered
by the moons and suns that pass on by,
gliding over the dark lake
calm and unwearied – and like us
she disappears until a new moon comes.
When I look into your eyes,
it seems so real –
that’s how deep my search,
and it is what it is
to only see the darkness.

I see you motionless in the doorway,
skin reflecting her face from
the window, and not in a dream
or unrealistic fantasy
read by a lamp that rejuvenates
tired paper.
If I could see what you see,
then I’d see me.
And it is what it is to have
our eyes opened once more.

World War I

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Rushed scribbles of war
Cry in mud’s suffocation
Sandbags promise death

Ghosted I am here,
from No man’s land’s melted snow
The shoebox is home

Red cross parcels drip
saturation of trench war
Sixteen million tears

Poppies lost petals
tears on Flanders’ knees in prayer
Keep our children safe




To touch it makes
my fingers bleed,
thorns of prickling envy –
its twinned face –
serrated jealousy
gashed green,
seeping fluids
that course the
uncharted nightmare
unprovoked –
they own it.
Stains like ink drops,
exploded long since
lie on crisp
penned by her legs
her smell
her arms –
tryst –
and you sit ruminating
on the edge,
meditating on
the outside
of my sheets –
spilling –
sponged trust
in their micropores.


Black Thursday


Divorce is never easy, it can be painful in fact.  This divorce is going to hurt and be a grim, long drawn out example to be set for the other naughty scoundrels caught red-handed attempting to upset the happy home..

Today is that dreaded morning, like the ones after bad sex with its cold, remorseful sweats and regrets that it was done without thinking – drunk on frustration,  too drunk to make a clear decision and so we regret…

decisions that we make… once so tantalising, perching heavily on full and pouted lips.

Clouds hang down, full
and plump – prosperity’s cushions;
heavy bosomed, full of promise,
poised – teasing us, but never quite breaking –
we were inching closer to the monsoon.
Let the pouring fall on us
mid gloom, let them pour silence
onto chaos too.
Silence is never wasted
it is full of possibilities
solutions to problems floating around us
Thunder has struck at the gamble –
tossed gauntlets were stolen,
abused and ran away with, leaving
us cast adrift.
We are speechless – shock bows
to more silence which gave way to
racism and bigotry long since,
misinformation has blinded
their view, and stifled our visions.
We are divided and torn –
ironic regret greets the dawn.
Chaos looms and the sodden clouds
hang further still.
The air of depression and pressure
squeezes the captain – leapt
from the sinking ship
that for years has rammed through
an infrastructure of an already unfair
and made us bleed with the ice breaker’s
spike, plunged into our hearts, making kebobs
of the meagre scraps we hold and generations
have fought for – pierced by
the poisonous tip of right wing fascist
masters of old – reborn,
dredged up today, back from the dead
when their graves became restless,
to drown the voice of our young –
who were muted –
their voices were taken from them
by outmoded perceptions
exhausted traditions, and hackneyed
mind set –
they have lost their say,
kicked and stomped on
by old hatreds, new intolerance,
resentments and economic
The cloud chooses to burst now,
bitter divisions rain down
to swell these uncertain waters
to fill a future that is
not thought out
dictated to
ignorance based,
The plebiscite are unafraid, blinded by panic
and misjudged retaliation, but afraid
of a single market
and an ever shrinking world
and the wrong colour skin,
and in this frenzy they are not so frightened,
and very willing
to scatter the rest of us to the four corners
of disenchantment,
estrangement –
brought about by
puppet masters in the south.
Bring them down, do not break something
because you can and are angry,
like petulant, naive, brainwashed children.
The United Kingdom is dead,
long live this separate, septic isle.
The Un-united Kingdom
of Phobic Hysteria.
disregarded –
we are united.
You ‘have your country back’,
and I hope you get wet.
It never rains but it pours,
and notoriously in Great Btitain.

Aristotle Mourns

The Ancient Greek philosopher, Aristotle once said that elephants were “the animal which surpasses all others in wit and mind.”


                          Wandering on migration’s
           paths in mud caked days and cooler night winds of the dusted parks,
  in search of food and shallow pockets to bathe,
three generations of elephants; a herd in tow, they walk – wafting on rumbling
storm clouds underfoot – in the ruddy, powder trails of the lazy, thirsty,
arid soils – they are drawn, respectful.
Delicate strokes for each long lost family, each historical bone is touched –
bleached white stoicism’s stark seeds in the ghosted graveyard terrain –
relics of familiar ancestors. Even the smallest mourner is tender;
curious reverence is succour while tranquil, emptied carcasses
await closure – life hollowed and stilled –
not abandoned but grieved for, not forgotten but reunited –
by touching caresses of long reaching
history and emotions, intimate gestures
reach these lost souls – wandering ghosts
of the plains. A family line stretching back
through generations sharply
pierces a family line’s
queued up approbation in
remembrance of a shared
past and haunting visions – blurred
by sickness, or bloodshed. Small
calves punctuate columnar
legs – unifying, intertwining,
brought closer together,
and closer still until bonds
can bear no more. The elder
turns one last time; long
lashed pauses nod to long
lost relics of ancestral
rains – slow motion
drips down tears
through times
and atrocity
and its victims.
His eyes have
it in farewells
and dark pools –
   still, they are all of them
       winners in the game of life

It Never Rains but Profundities Pour

As it Comes


Eyes peer from inside tiny raindrops. Warped and tortured faces
pry from behind the prism wall; colourful, pretty and benign. Screeching,
reaching and stretching arms vie for a place away from its very core
to the outer, fighting the elasticity, which suffocates them and their wants
while thin veneers hold them captive.

Subdued yearning pierces the thin skin and they bombard our senses fresh from their muted dreams. Dissipating onto our floor their ravenous spill mingles willingly with souls who have long since gone and flow in a languid wave of twitching people into the drains’ cavernous outreach only to be swept stoically into a gloom of a sombre journey that will end one day in some vast oceanic pool; only to begin again, someday, where someone will be waiting.

More downpours of lost hopes and twinkling, chiming wants pummel the ground. But as rain is rain and life is life and, not unlike like the weather, it often…

View original post 12 more words

Cry Wolf, Cry


The wolf has been part of the natural balance for thousands of years, in less than 100 years man through ignorance and misinformation has almost made wolves disappear forever.

To help protect the wolf, we will need to help protect the wilderness that is left.

For some, wolves live in the imagination as shadows of evil, fuelled by fallacy and fiction. With a better understanding and education and without willful need for bloodshed of most species by us, the wolf might emerge in the light of new understanding.

As winter skies replace the blue
with dark and greying embers,
I will sing a lullaby
though you’re too small,
and won’t remember.

As frost casts fire and freezing touch
and grips you with its fingers,
I will hold you warm and snug
now you’re older,
the memories linger.

As twilight falls still and shadows climb
we listen to creatures howling,
a lone wolf searches just like you,
now you have grown
you yearn to be prowling.

As magnificence, proud against the moon
and gentlemanly he shields her,
don’t fear him now let him be so
let his blood be still.
not petals strewn in slaughter



About my life and everything else 🙌 Inst:@nihilnove

my life as a piece of string

... from a silent space

Letters on my Heart

The Broken Cannot Rise Alone...

Discarded Recollections

A Repository of Discarded Poetry, Story Prompts, and Memories

Lluís Bussé

Barcelona's Multiverse | Art | Culture | Science

The Lonely Author

Pain goes in, love comes out.

Light Touch

Just wondering at the miracle called LIFE .

The Stories In Between

Author River Dixon


poetry by Robert Ford

Rachana Trp.

Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.

Story Of The Footloose

In the end all you want is a pen that writes well and a life that you've lived well.

Megha's World

A potpourri of emotions


Poetry and words

The Bouquet Gallery

A collection of beautiful things and thoughts

Stuff and what if...

Exploring writing and the creative randomness of life. Snapshots of moments.

Just Brian

"Not all who wander are lost..."


A Discarded Plant

A Cornered Gurl

I am more than breath & bones.


My poetry is my religion.

A Blooming Scribe

Poetry, short essays and other work showcased by a Scientist, Philosopher, and Adventurer. Posts on Monday and First Fridays.

Everyday Strange

Dark Writing and Strange Inspirations

The Words of Akunda

The Little Poetastry; The little stories

The Broad Spectrum Life

Exploring Rhymes, Reasons, and Nuances of Our World

Elan Mudrow


David Redpath

We're all on a road to somewhere.

Seductive Darkness

Provocative poetry and musings on life

The Renegade Press

Tales from the mouth of a wolf


Your Brain is a Radio that Does What its Told


Encouraging animal advocacy and compassion

Mark Deeble

A wildlife filmmaker in Africa


big book guy


Just another WordPress.com site

Hearing The Mermaids Sing

At Least Trying Too


Poetry by Mich

Frank Solanki

If you want to be a hero well just follow me


MarkovichUniverse AT gmail DOT com