A Battle Pined

Too frail the hands for battle
A fledgling will lost on mettle
Yonder the crested peaks lure
As slain blood the vales endure
Of pillaged chests they hope to pry
With silent pines their lone war cry
In gazed meadows tales of unplanted flags
In grazed thickets trails of lassoed stags


Shows for Talk, Talks for Show

Bound together in tragedy’s cord
Brought are they in one accord
With words etched into a rivers course
A carefree plunge into the seas of discourse

Swirled are they with waters kindred
As eagerly waits the calm waters to wed
Unseated particles weathered off dissent
With the unwelcomed stir of a tidal trident

The Second Grace

Under the spell of this unwavering will,
Confront I must its unregarded ills,
Onward into battle to head on move,
Or in sombre coves to retreat?
In bloody groves to find victory wounds,
Or in nightly round-tables to weave white flags?
Yet still waylays that capricious saving grace -,
To win the battle one need only risk losing to it.

Frank O’ Phoney

On the deathbed of a tongue
A leased pair of lungs sang
A jingle for the jingo
In a jungle of lingo
Where graciously one beat gave
As dug quiet the other a grave
To bury the freedom treasure
In vaults of despotic pleasure

What lies beyond?

A silent sphere in a loud vacuum. Its emptiness harnessed to venture beyond the dark enshrouding clouds where darkness and silence is one. In that expanse to set forth into the void and escape that tyrannical sun with its pervasive rays. To journey past the manifold glimmering constellations in hope of finding that empty cosmic canvas. Yet does emptiness not still escort to there? Take heed stray cosmonaut: beyond the lie only an imploding truth may wait.

Inflamed Drapers

Pristine the hearth once stood
Till the maid gathered firewood
And betrothed the hunter’s kill into food

As the bubbling pot sent out its first shoot
So did the chimney billow what had taken root
And inside its walls hide the gathering soot

Too weakened a fire not to tame
The smouldering embers soon choked to fame
And with it welcomed guilt to rekindle the flame

One Achy Fund

Airy castles are all there once was. Overcast by grey clouds of uncertainty, soon the silver lining came to view on a clear sky. With no hovering clouds, gone were the chances of precarious hail. The beaming rays of ambition could now finally find their way down to those eager fledgling germinants. And sprout they did on that once barren landscape. Enticed from their humble hives, the diligent worker bees soon joined in at the behest of their hungry queens and from their enterprising efforts, the seeds of success took root far and wide. Yet above, a blanketing darkness had now pervaded beneath the overarching canopies. Up there in their over-luxuriant growth, only few birds of prey could scale to find the light, and as it followed to keep it to themselves. For down below, the weakly undergrowth could only stretch out for the scraps of overripe manna whilst suffocating under the weight of occasionally shed deciduous guilt; which though putrefying, momentarily let in a few rays of light before that evergreen avarice rushed to blindfold once more.

How many other fools like me
Have lost their lives contractually
Believing there must be far more
Than nine to five – the factory floor?
Have countless thousands watched their dreams
Corrupted into things obscene
By money minded bastards who
Don’t give a damn for me or you?

A Bellyful of Emptiness, Martin Walkyier



It took tears to wring showers of thankfulness, blight to harvest granaries of generosity. In those eyes of suffering, the blind man momentarily found sight only to be led back to his abandoned walking stick. A short-lived lot of luck that owed its much from a usurer of lack.

The Darkling Light

Who are these that live in the dark?
By day under the eternal flaring spark
Come night under the pale celestial mark

Who are these bringers of light?
By day escorted by lingering fright
Come night silhouetted against flickering candlelight

Who are these that dance by the fire?
By day quenching the earth with blood from the pyre
Come night chanting and ululating without tire

Who are these that spit words of fire?
By day drying the land’s spiritual mire
Come night engrossed in ritual choir

Are we not one of you?
Though of your ways little we have clue
Of our much we seek to imbue
To free and yet chase the true