Game Over. A poem.

I’ve tried to forget you
(I don’t want to forget you).
My emotions lay on the table
like spilt wine;
I tried to lick them up
in a desperate alcoholic binge,
without a care for my fellow
patrons’ regard.

Why are you fading from my mind,
like an Alzheimer memory,
like the seaside whispers
of a shell, broken to

I’ve betrayed me, so.


I should let slip the
dogs of war
to chew on my weary bones,
to remind me that I’m just a
lonely man,
that you’re just a
lonely woman
and that soon you’ll be


Swept off your feet
by some new broom,
who’ll sweep up the dust
of my passing,
and soon,
every trace of my passage
will be polished from the wood
of your floors,
as they rightly should.

A fitting end for the man with
no name,
who in the end, was purely an amateur
trying to play
in a professional’s game.

Haiku Friday. ‘Wings’, a haiku pentalogy.

Wings – a haiku pentalogy

1. Moment
One tragic moment
to turn your heart into ice;
extinguish the flame.

2. Deficiency
Such deficiency
within your mind, body and soul.
Pray you find the light.

3. Your Turn
Heaven weeps tonight
with all the unworthy souls.
Is it your turn now?

4. Redeemed
Walk the endless night,
a tightrope of redemption.
Return on gold wings.

5. Open Arms
Dare you try to fly
into heaven’s open arms?
The earth holds you firm.


Wow, this became a bit of a 5/7/5 syllable opus.

Oh well, sometimes poems have a literal life of their own.


Steve 🙂

Peak. A poem.

You conquered me
like a mountain (or a molehill).
Climbed me and then left me here,
another spire to aspire to.

Was I just a rocky crag used as
a monument to your success?
What was my reward, just a
wanton moment, better to forget?

Here I stand, wind blown
and forever circumspect,
a peak waiting on another expedition.
Hopefully, one that’ll show me more respect.

Black Rain. A poem.

I watched the black rain
from my window.
It spilled down the pane
in tarry streaks,
a Malevich canvas.

I watched the flowers
gently steam and wilt.
The dark water spilled down
onto the road and into the gutters.
It flowed into the sewers and
thence to the sea.

There it merged with
chemicals, plastics, dead fish
and carcinogens,
taking its rightful place
amongst humanity’s leavings.

Black rain
spilled down my cheeks
in tarry streaks.

Love Never Sleeps. A prose poem.

Are you faded and fated, to pass from memory as if you were an afterimage on grainy film stock? Or consume me whole like Jonah’s whale, where I will suffer forever and a day?

I have wanted/needed you so desperately that I could not move or breathe without you taking control of me, like some mad puppeteer, pulling strings while I dance to some obscure polka tune.

Why should I forget you? You, who stole anxious days and nights of worry, where my thoughts betrayed me and I wondered constantly if you hoped and dreamed (like me) or even felt one iota of what I feel?

Now I sit here in the dead of night, composing this troublesome melody that won’t leave my mind, the needle stuck in an interminable groove, like an annoying advertising line. A sleepless, endless night where I wish I could just hold you to me tightly and say the three words that rasp on my breath and catch in my throat like the rusted bearings of primal, petty conscience.

And pray you want to hear them.

Sometimes. A poem.

when I’m by myself
and the night has swept
daydreams away, like dust from
polished floors;
when lights click off
and the house settles in
with creaks and purrs
of contentment.

I wonder where you are
and whether I’m in
your consideration.

And sometimes,
when my mind plays trick or treat
with facile retribution,
I want you here
to play those games in person.

Haiku Friday. Anxiety. A Haiku Trilogy.

Anxiety. A haiku trilogy.

1. Harbinger
Tingling on your skin,
harbinger of darker things.
The skies open wide.

2. Run
Run while you still can,
‘fore this acid rain melts you.
Too much weight to bear.

3. Hide
You can’t hide from this.
A pall hangs over you that
doggedly consumes.

I suffer from anxiety, but manage it much more effectively now than I did a few years ago. 

These haikus are for all the anxiety sufferers out there. 

Stay strong

Steve 🙂

My Trajectory. A poem.

My trajectory:
sometimes straight
and narrow,
sometimes a drunk man
attempting to walk a straight line,
while the cop just rolls his eyes.

My trajectory:
never in doubt,
sometimes questioning.
A walk through a dark forest,
as the furry eaves and murky weave
close off any chance of escape.

Clearer in hindsight,
never misplaced.
God-given, forthright and true.

My trajectory:
is you.

Chat(less). A poem.

Fractious conversations;
half-hearted, lip synced.

Frantic fingers tracing familiar paths,
back and forth across time
and space.

How much longer until each
gives in, or
gives up?

Until the melodrama
unfolds, like poorly crafted origami
and becomes
a crumpled paper crane.

Aimless fingers tap dance,
until the music ends.
You need to be somewhere
other than your own space
and time.

Stop typing!
Feel the breeze on your face.

The world awaits.

Tired. A poem.

I’m tired.

And my drifting aimless gaze
settles on a distant mist-like haze
that wells up continuously inside,
like savage, misplaced pride,
and makes me drop like a stone
into waters unknown.
Lost on cruel tides that wend
the capitulating ocean to its end.

So tired.

If only sleep could solve this quandary,
instead of leaving me on the periphery
of a world that spins aimlessly,
through head space and trickery,
and leaves me wanting nothing less.
And nothing more.

Just tired.

Time to leave this place.

The Stand. A poem.

Just one tiny moment of her time.
Just one glint in her eye.
Did she look my way?
Is she thinking about me?
A lifetime of insecurities,
rearing like some untamed bronco,
kicking my ass before I’ve a chance to tango.

And now, here I am,
stupefied and indignant,
wondering what do I do to impress her next?
Maybe I could put myself down again,
or perhaps be less vexed.
Or maybe I could just retreat
with my tail between my legs.

Not this time.
Time to make a stand.
Let me just catch my breath,
pull on the gloves
and listen for the bell,
before I go down for the count again.

For one more little glimpse of heaven,
and one more
tiny moment of her time.

Dust and Rust. A poem.

Take down the green,
straddle the Earth with
the carbon footprint of giants.
Every tree felled, another wooden nail
in our meagre wooden coffin.

Let the next race be won
by whomever loves this
planet more than
humans being,
who in our rush to claim the prize
have won nothing but
dust, rust,
and forgotten lies.

Phantom Limb. A poem.

I’m forever haunted
by this

phantom limb,

writhing in my sleep,
guilt stricken for my

I see you in every couple
on the street, and at the
coffee shop,
where we drank each other in.

It feels like you’re still
across from me;
the conversation,
imagined and forlorn,
eyes that follow me
no more.

Your ghost absorbs my
days and nights,
a peripheral blur,
just out of

heals all wounds;
such perfect sense,
but not in my

You’re the limb I lost, that still

A phantom limb,
my will insists.

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