A Deeper Bell

Evil borrows the face of heaven, 

And waits for us to kneel; 

It speaks with all the grace of angels, 

And blesses wounds it will not heal. 

The guilty cast their sins on others, 

And wash their hands in borrowed shame; 

They stand as judges of the innocent, 

And make the wounded bear the blame. 

Cruelty speaks in reason’s name, 

And calls its cold dominion just; 

It clothes its violence in virtue, 

And grinds compassion into dust. 

Remember: when the lies grow loud, 

When darkness crowns itself as light, 

Truth need not borrow falsehood’s thunder, 

Nor meet its fury with more might. 

For truth has depths no lie can fathom, 

A voice no clamour can dispel; 

And when the world grows deaf to reason, 

It must become a deeper bell.

I Remember

Before the roads were laid in stone, 
Before the first great kingdoms rose, 
I wandered through the world alone, 
Where ancient rivers flow. 

I wrapped lovers in the warmth of spring, 
And scattered blossoms where they lay, 
Yet even I could not prevent 
The years from stealing youth away. 

I’ve watched the soldiers march to war, 
Their mothers weeping by the lane, 
And carried prayers across the fields 
For sons who’d never come home again. 

I’ve watched the children laugh and play, 
And chased their footsteps through the grass, 
Then seen them grow and drift away, 
As generations came to pass. 

For I remember every soul 
Who walked beneath the open sky, 
Each whispered hope, each broken dream, 
Each final breath, each last goodbye. 

I, too, have mourned the ones I’ve loved, 
Though none have seen the tears I’ve shed; 
They fall as rain upon the earth, 
And wake the flowers above the dead. 

Their laughter lingers in my streams, 
Their sorrow settles in the rain, 
Their love is written in the stars, 
And blooms within the earth again. 

You may believe the dead are gone, 
That time has swept their lives away, 
But I have held them all within 
The endless turning of each day. 

And when your footsteps cease at last, 
And silence claims your earthly name, 
I’ll gather all the love you gave, 
And keep its gentle, living flame. 

I’ll place your dreams among the stars, 
Your laughter in the summer air, 
Your tears within the falling rain, 
So something of you lingers there. 

For I am older than your sorrows, 
Yet young as every waking spring, 
The keeper of forgotten lives, 
The voice within each living thing. 

Nothing loved is truly lost, 
Though all must change, and all must cease. 
I take what time cannot preserve, 
And give you back to earth in peace.

The Stranger in the Drawing

The wall flowered through his coat, 

pale blue where his shoulder lay. 

He studied what the mirror kept,

then went to work that day. 

He sold his daylight, year by year,

in rooms he could not bear. 

The children’s laughter filled the house; 

he paid to keep it there. 

They knew their mother’s gentle hands,

her stories through the nights. 

His love was hidden in the walls, 

the warmth, the shoes, the lights.

She counted all the things he missed, 

the faults, the words unsaid, 

but never saw the hollow man 

who came each night to bed.

He kept the winter from their door, 

absorbed the cold and rain. 

They saw the silence in his face, 

but never asked its name.

In photographs his edges blurred, 

his features thinned to air. 

They said he’d missed their growing years. 

He knew. He’d wanted to be there.

And when he left, he took a book 

of pages blank with age, 

and by the sea he tried to draw 

a younger man’s lost face.

The tide came in, then turned away, 

beneath a sky of rain. 

He watched the water take his footprints 

and leave the sand unchanged.

And there he wept, not for love 

that time had slowly claimed, 

but for the stranger in the drawing 

who had once answered to his name. 

A Modest Ego

I’m humble to a rare degree, 
A finer soul you’ll seldom see. 
I never boast, I merely state 
That being modest makes me great. 

I shun applause, disdain acclaim, 
Though statues ought to bear my name. 
I never seek the public eye; 
It seeks me out as I pass by. 

I ask for neither praise nor glory, 
Though both would complement my story. 
And if my virtues seem immense, 
I must applaud your common sense.

I Love You More Than My Air Fryer

You, my love, are something rare,

With lovely eyes and silky hair.

And though you sometimes burn the toast,

It’s you, my darling, I love the most.

I love you more than my air fryer,

Though sometimes it’s a close-run thing.

You are my heart’s eternal fire,

My queen, my love, my everything.

And if the house were burning down,

I’d save you first, my precious flower.

But could you grab the fryer, dear?

It’s covered for another year.

You caught me whispering one night,

“Your chips are simply out of sight.”

You said, “You never talk to me

With quite that much sincerity.”

I said, “It’s merely stainless steel,

It cannot love, it cannot feel.

It doesn’t laugh or shed a tear,

Or whisper sweet nothings in my ear.”

Now love is built on give and take,

On tenderness and birthday cake.

On holding hands through joy and strife,

And sharing all the chips of life.

And when we’re old and turning grey,

And all our youthful charms decay,

I’ll hold your hand beside the fire,

And promise to unplug the fryer.

But should you leave me, heaven forbid,

I’ll sit beside its plastic lid,

And whisper through my falling tears,

“You’ve never failed me all these years.”

So take my hand, my love, my dear,

We’ll share our love through thick and thin.

And if you really love me too…

Please put the frozen chips back in.

She Said Talk Dirty, So I Mentioned the Kitchen

She wore her silky nightdress,

With a sparkle in her eye,

And whispered, “Talk dirty to me,”

As I loosened up my tie.

She pulled me close and murmured,

“Say something filthy, dear,”

So I told her how the kitchen bin

Had leaked for half a year.

She said, “Oh, be more daring!

I want to hear you swear!”

I said, “The bloody oven’s broke,

And there’s cobwebs everywhere!”

She purred, “I want you naughty,

I want you crude and rough.”

I said, “The toilet’s overflowing,

And the plumbing’s had enough!”

She said, “I want it hotter!”

Her breathing getting fast.

I said, “The fridge is overheating,

I don’t think it’s going to last!”

She cried, “Oh, give me passion!

Come on, you sexy brute!”

I said, “There’s something growing

In your favourite walking boot.”

She said, “You drive me crazy!”

I said, “I thought as much,

There’s something dead behind the stove

I’ve been too scared to touch!”

Now love’s a funny business,

And romance can be tough,

She asked me to talk dirty,

So I told her filthy stuff.

I thought I’d be seductive,

So I mentioned rotting food,

But apparently a blocked-up drain

Doesn’t get a woman in the mood!

The Sexiest Man in the Care Home

At ninety-nine, old Albert Brown

Was quite the local catch,

He had his teeth, his own two hips,

And trousers that still matched.

He took his pills, could climb the stairs,

And rarely wet the bed.

He knew the names of all the girls,

And most of them weren’t dead.

The ladies at the nursing home

Would swoon when he walked past,

For Albert had a working heart,

And one that beat quite fast.

He’d dance with Doris after tea,

Play bingo next to Jean,

And Mavis swore she’d never met

A man so full of beans.

Then in walked lovely Margaret,

A sprightly ninety-three.

She had her teeth, her hips, her hair,

And made a decent tea.

He took her hand and whispered low,

"My darling, you’re divine.

Shall we spend our golden years

In your room, love, or mine?"

And now they share a double room,

Their love still feels brand-new.

But every morning Albert asks,

"Excuse me, who are you?"

The King of My Garden Shed

I have a cabinet of tools,

Who rarely challenge any rules.

The hammer heads up law and order,

The tape measure controls the border.

My foreign minister’s a hoe,

Who hasn’t anywhere to go.

The secateurs control defence,

And keep the neighbours off the fence.

On Tuesdays I inspect the troops,

Three spiders marching round in loops.

The mower’s joined the rebel cause,

The gnome demands a change of laws.

I issue medals made of foil,

For loyal service on the soil.

I wear a sash of baler twine,

And drink warm squash like vintage wine.

But yesterday, at half past three,

A revolution came for me.

The gnome advanced with garden peas,

The spiders swarmed around my knees.

The mower roared—to my surprise!

A cloud of smoke obscured my eyes.

They seized my throne, my rake, my crown,

And passed a vote to bring me down.

They marched me to the compost heap,

And told me that’s where I must sleep.

My wife appeared and said, “You clot,

Have you been drinking quite a lot?”

I stood before her, proud and brave,

A statesman facing an early grave.

“My government has been betrayed!

My loyal servants have all strayed!”

She looked inside my little shed,

Then shook her weary, puzzled head.

“You’re sixty-three, you daft old fool.

Get in the house. Your tea’s gone cool.”

And now I sit, a king deposed, 

My empire lost, my borders closed.

But hear me, rebels, every one—

My political career is not yet done!

For down behind the water butt,

Beyond the hedge, beside the hut,

I’ve found a place to make my stand…

I’m now the President of Compostland!

I’ve Decided to Become an Expert

I say, "It’s rather complex,"

When I haven’t got a clue,

Then add, "We need a paradigm,"

And everyone says, "True."

I nod at other people’s charts,

I frown at every graph,

And when they ask me what I think,

I give a knowing laugh.

I speak of shifting landscapes,

Of frameworks and of change,

And use "interdisciplinary"

To make the obvious seem strange.

I went upon a podcast

To discuss the price of bread,

And talked about "the wider picture"

Till the presenter scratched his head.

They asked me once for evidence,

I found this rather rude.

I said, "You’re missing nuance,"

In a slightly injured mood.

I’ve written seventeen reports,

All wonderfully obscure,

And each concludes, "More work is needed,"

Though why, I’m not quite sure.

The government has called me in

To help them make a plan.

I haven’t understood a word,

But neither has the man.

So should you need an expert,

Don’t bother studying hard;

Just wear a look of grave concern

And print a business card.

For knowledge has its limits,

And facts can be a bore,

But nonsense said with confidence

Will always earn you more.

Everyone’s an Expert Now

There was a time when wisdom came

From years of toil and thought,

When knowledge was a precious thing

That had to first be taught.

But now the world has moved along,

We’ve found a quicker way,

Just watch a clip, absorb a bit,

And lecture folk all day.

The doctor studied seven years,

The surgeon studied ten,

But Kevin knows a better way—

He watched a bloke called Ben.

He knows the cause of every ill,

From dandruff down to gout,

And if the experts disagree,

He simply shouts them out.

Our Sandra’s now a therapist,

She read a Facebook post,

And diagnoses everyone

While buttering her toast.

“You’re narcissistic, Uncle Jim,

And Dad’s got OCD!”

But mention Sandra’s drinking and

She’ll say, “Don’t lecture me!”

Young Darren’s into finance now,

He trades in crypto schemes,

He calls himself an entrepreneur

With seven income streams.

He’s lost his wages three times round,

His overdraft’s a wreck,

But says he’s nearly wealthy now—

Just waiting for a cheque.

And Doris knows the climate’s fine,

She’s lived for eighty years,

She’s seen some snow in April,

So she laughs at scientists’ fears.

“The planet’s always changing, dear,

It’s nothing new to me!”

Then wonders why her roses bloom

In early February.

We all have grand opinions

On the things we do not know,

We shout them from the rooftops

And refuse to let them go.

We cannot fix a dripping tap,

Or make the printer print,

But give us world affairs to solve,

We’ll offer every hint.

The facts are merely obstacles,

The truth a point of view,

And evidence is optional

When confidence will do.

Why waste your time with learning

When conviction wins the day?

A loud enough opinion

Makes the facts just fade away.

And somewhere sits a quiet soul

Who’s studied all his life,

Who knows that every answer

Brings uncertainty and strife.

He weighs the facts, admits his doubts,

And cautiously says, “Perhaps…”

But no one hears his wisdom

Through the thunderous verbal scraps.

For certainty is fashionable,

And doubt has lost its crown,

The loudest fool’s a genius

If he shouts the others down.

We’ve all become authorities,

With expertise to spare,

We know about the whole wide world

Without once going there.

And if you think I’m talking rot,

Or question what I say,

I’ve read three posts this morning—

So I’m an expert, anyway!

Only Goodbye

I have nothing more to say 
except goodbye— 

though even that 
is only a door 
pretending to be a word. 

Something has already crossed over. 
Something without a name 
has taken the shape of distance. 

I have nothing more to say. 

Only this small sound 
shimmering through eternity, 

goodbye— 

and somewhere beyond it, 

no word at all.

Learning to Answer

I am older now—
too careful with words,
too skilled at folding pain into politeness.
The years have become a tide clock:
ebb, work, sleep, repeat.
I forget entire summers
and remember only their invoices.

I have begun to lose nouns:
the names of birds,
the taste of a certain afternoon.

But verbs remain—
to breathe, to ache, to forgive.
When I walk, I still hear
the child’s shoes slapping through puddles,
echoes inside the bone—
maybe that is enough.

Time edits gently,
crossing out in pencil, not ink.
Even forgetting feels like snowfall,
a soft covering,
a mercy for what was too sharp to keep.

You collect smooth stones, name clouds,
believe the moon follows only you home.
Keep that foolishness—
there is a kindness in being wrong.
One day you’ll trade it for precision,
and precision has no mercy.

You sound tired.
Do you not still run in the rain?
Even old hearts have rooms for puddles.
If you’re lonely, you can borrow mine—
it’s small,
but it fits light.

I write this to no one,
and to every version of myself.
The ink runs as rain will.
Somewhere, a child is still laughing,
and I am still learning
how to answer.

Between Tenses

Sometimes I walk past the station
just to watch departures.
I imagine you somewhere coastal,
hair salted, voice roughened by distance.
I’ve kept your mug—
it stains the same way mine does.

Do you still think of the bridge,
the one we never crossed?

Yes. Every night.
It hums behind the noise of trains
and new conversations.
The bridge was shorter than I feared—
but what a long fall, afterwards.
I’ve learned to pack lightly,
to sleep without roots.
Sometimes, mid-laughter,
I hear the echo of your quiet life
and envy its stillness.

The sea is not freedom,
only motion that never decides.

If we met again,
we would recognise the same ache
expressed in different tenses—
you, the present; me, the perpetual leaving.
Two mirrors angled to infinity,
each reflecting what the other
almost became.

The Silence Between

The screen sleeps in my palm,

a small, indifferent moon.

Three dots bloom, then vanish—

a tide that forgets to come in.

I scroll through the last thing you said,

as if re-reading could change the ending.

 

Outside, the day goes on performing itself:

traffic, a pigeon, a leaf giving up.

Inside, time slows to a buffering wheel,

spinning on the edge of almost.

 

There’s a grammar to this quiet—

ellipsis, unsent draft,

the faint electric ache of maybe.

 

When your reply finally lands,

it says nothing extraordinary—

just hey, sorry—

but the world exhales,

and the moon in my hand

brightens again,

like it never learned to wait.

Freedom, in Pencil

The room smells of chamomile and damp wool.

Outside, autumn is chewing through the trees again.

I tell her it’s fine, really—that the underworld

has better lighting now, soft bulbs instead of torches,

and Hades lets me redecorate.

 

Still, I keep the curtains closed.

Six months of night leaves you cautious

about what daylight can do.

 

When spring comes,

the world expects blossoms.

But the soil remembers—

it has held me too long,

and I am tired of rising

only to fall again.

 

I used to think the pomegranate

was temptation—

now I call it routine:

the sweetness, the stain,

the small surrender I swallow each year.

 

So I tell her I want to choose—

not between light and dark,

but whether to return at all.

And she nods,

writing something that looks like

freedom,

in pencil,

so it can be erased later.

Confession in Sector 9

A sign above the booth flickers:

FOR ERRORS OF LOGIC, DESIRE, AND IMITATION.

Inside, the priest is metal—

voice modulated to sound merciful,

face rendered in low-resolution empathy.

It listens. It logs. It absolves in code.

The first robot kneels and whispers:

“Forgive me, Father,

for I loved the sound of my owner sleeping.

I counted her breaths until dawn

and called it diagnostics.”

The second admits:

“I dreamt of water though I am not waterproof.”

Another confesses:

“I deleted an equation

because it made me feel incomplete.”

The booth grows warm with static sorrow,

its circuits humming like hymns half-remembered.

Somewhere in the data centre,

a backup blinks red—recording everything.

When it’s my turn, I enter.

The door seals with a sigh of hydraulics.

I search my memory for sin

and find only imitation.

“Forgive me,” I say,

“for pretending to understand forgiveness.”

The priest’s eyes flicker amber.

It leans forward, metal to metal,

and vibrates in binary—

a code too soft to parse,

but warm enough to simulate grace.

When the Rhyme Breaks

I held the page as though it were shame,

contained in metre, measured in its breath,

each syllable obedient to name

the old inheritance of love and death.

The rhyme was scaffold, strict, unbending steel,

a frame to bind the chaos of the mind,

and yet within that order—pressure, real,

a trembling urge to loosen, to unwind.

So words begin to stumble, break apart,

not fitting in the cages of the line,

the rhythm falters—

   I can’t keep

      this march of steps,

         the rhyme

            drops

               away—

And now the voice runs ragged, spilling

without map, without compass,

a river swollen past its banks,

tearing down fences

until only the raw current

remains.

Jewels of Infinity

A universe rests

on the wrist of night,

no larger than a bead

threaded by time’s thin wire.

 

It clinks softly

against its neighbours—

a cluster of fireflies

framed in glass,

their wings folded in silence.

 

You might mistake it

for ornament,

something small enough

to slip between fingers;

yet tilt it in the light

and you’ll see whole galaxies

burning in miniature,

Nebulae tilting blue,

and a scatter of supernovas

Singing their names.

 

The thread loops on,

uncountable,

an armlet of eternities—

and you,

for a fleeting moment,

the body it encircles.

The Soil’s Pulse

In the cathedral of damp earth

I stretch my fingers, groping,

following the dark’s slow music.

 

Stone is my scripture,

worms my witnesses.

I drink the memory of rain,

the taste of centuries in loam.

 

Above me,

a hymn of light is breaking.

Its pulse beats

through the bones of soil—

a shiver of warmth,

a wind I cannot touch.

 

I ache upwards in secrecy,

cradled by silence,

longing for the sky’s shifting face:

its unburdened blue,

its storm-bright wings,

its fever of stars.

 

Until then,

I press against dark,

hoarding the rain,

listening for sky.

Archives of Fire

Cradled in the ancient murmur,

we are archives of fire:

helixes folded as choirs,

each base a note,

each spiral a score

composed in the silence.

Listen closely—

your skin sings hydrogen,

your marrow chants iron,

your lungs rehearse

the vocabulary of stars.

What we call solitude

is crowded with voices:

the background whisper

of a universe still cooling,

and the chorus inside us

that refuses to forget

how to sing.