Category: 1. Poetry

Tide of lust

The lustful man may seek true love
and find none but dead flowers’ stems.
Oblivious and innocent
are men who find the sweetest rose.

Aesthetic greed lies in the eyes
of those who’ll find fake love will blind.
Whilst those with sight shall see the light
and be engulfed by passion’s flame.

There are some who wear a ring,
a matching girl upon their sleeve.
But ‘tis the man with naked truth
who wears none but life’s finest weave.

For lust itself is like a tide,
and draws in those who’re yet to find
the vessel known to sail upstream;
guided by love, powered by dreams.

Trail of thought

I cannot think
to whom this odes,
nor do I care,
they’ll never know.
The light is low,
and in this air
my life is slow,
I cannot think.
The reason fair,
my mind doth groan,
I cannot think,
it’s blank as snow.
My life is slow,
I cannot think.
The light is low,
the reason fair.
I cannot think
to whom this odes,
nor do I care,
they’ll never know.


Can we miss what has never been possessed,
or be content with having all the wealth?
Is love a lie to which we must confess?
Can we be inspired by inspiration itself?

Can we mourn what has not yet come to die,
or leave before we have even arrived?
Can we be proud enough to save our pride?
Of what’s not known, can we be deprived?

Forever be

My love is cursed
and so my lips
shall never taste
the love they miss.

It is a lone,
cruel destiny
to walk alone,
forever be.

She bears no name,
I know this well.
I’ve searched the sea,
found only shells.

I guess this world
was not for me.
I’ll turn to ice
this heart that bleeds.

The play

Alone in the dark, I write
as I dwell on thoughts into the night.
The world, my stage.
My life, the play.
The moon, my spotlight.

I perform to all who wish to see;
my solo act, myself and me.
There’s no applause,
no chants or roars.
My mood, the scene.

The lines I speak cannot be heard
by ears that listen alone for words.
The length unknown.
Its pace, my own.
The theme, absurd.

The performance, it continues still,
‘till suns don’t burn and looks can kill.
I know no more.
My future, unsure.
The play, my will.

The last Summer evening

God’s palette, it seemed,
had not much to spare,
for the sky was painted a monotone blue.
All through the trees,
was a still, silent air,
standing in wait like a crowd for the Tube.

They all hung like towels on a rail,
stood like guards at the gate.
They whisper with their leafy tongues
to let me know it’s getting late.

The bird houses now vacated
as summer bids farewell.
But my smile will not be faded
so long as I’ve stories to tell.

Watch me

I am a stranger to success,
but be not fooled by my past.
My time is rising like the morning sun;
watch me.

Upon the golden cup of glory,
there’s a part untouched by names.
‘See if it won’t be mine!’ are my words;
mark them.

I do not shine like the open fire
nor boast like the Olympic flame,
but I burn like them, none the less,
and grow.

I‘ve made no name for myself,
though I bear the initials APM,
the God of Time;
learn them.

Where the water looks like sky

The water’s reflection made it seem
like the island was floating upon a sky.
A carpet of grass glowed magnificent green,
and its shore undisturbed, less the boats sailing by.

The coolness licked my toes and my feet,
and the palm trees hugged me with shade.
There’s a man, tenacious, at the top of the beach,
reliant upon his traditional trade.

Back in my chalet, I rest alone,
lit by an attractive blue light.
I savour the moon, let it turn me to stone,
and lay down to sleep for my last island night.

Leaving by plane, I know in my heart
how I’d rather have said goodbye.
I wish I could leave upon an old wooden raft,
and dream my way home across this blue sky.

The friend

I’m the friendly face that greets you in the morning.
I’m the sympathetic ear that listens to you.
I’m the strong shoulder on which you choose to cry.
Trust in me, I’m true through and through.

The lover, the player, you know I’m not them.
I’m the carer, the mentor, the brother, the friend.


In a metaphorical world,
where reality and comparison meet,
we fill our pails with choices
from wells, running deep.

Those shallow wells make shallow souls.
For her you mustn’t weep,
she spilt herself too many times;
ain’t tears that wet her feet.

And though his well swims to the brim
you mustn’t be mistaken,
for his hot water runs blood red,
and best be seen forsaken.

But when I look into your eyes,
I know your well is true.
Let me dive into your heart
and drown in it with you.

We shan’t be tempted by colourful waters,
nor fill our pails beyond their peak.
He’ll show us where the well’s dug true,
where the water still runs deep.