sunset dazzle

You live in the land of the Dawn,

the place where Light is being born.

Darkness grips you still, as labour

pains begin. You exist in the

Between, the not-yet, the middle

of the fairytale, where witches

cast spells and evil triumphs and

your happy ever after has

no power – but your story

is not over. Not yet. That dawn

breaking leaks words on your pages,

penning resolve, perseverance,

hope, courage into existence

and you, awake in the dark, see

stars before they shine – prophetic

promises – with your eyes of faith.

Hope Unfolds


Hope unfolds, a wrinkle in time,

boutonniere in a funeral pocket.

It whispers to the weary

when gale-force winds shout,

yet its stir conquers kingdoms

and uproots emperors,

one pale pink petal at a

time. Hope is one drop

of one wave of one ocean,

yet it carves out its allotment

of the shoreline with a steady

hand. It dares to grasp the moon,

sleep with stars, paint the

Sistine Chapel, bow at the throne

of heaven, bloom on a cursed earth.

Hope is the candle in the window

to call its sons home…

Healing Stars

The niches where life’s cruel claws

have scratched and torn through surface skin

draw blood from veins, where pain leaks through,

and trace the places you have been.

A surface coat of ‘happy paint’

can’t cover up your precious scars –

in sharing yours with all of us,

your wounds can shine like healing stars.

My Fair Lady

My Fair Lady, what do you see?

You retain a visionary’s air,

a nonchalant wisdom

as you gaze upon the spectacle that is Life.

And of what do you whisper when the night falls,

and the Mourning Dove coos her lullabies?

Where do you hide the dreams that liven your waking hours

and dare you to reach for the stars?

From whence do your thoughts flow, when the shadows stalk?

If you could but drop me a hint,

a nudge,

I could join your Kingdom and take my place,

a courtier,

a novice,

a fledgling Fair Lady

whose dreams would mingle

with your own.

The Stars are Witnesses

Roses tend to be rather less roses this way,

but hailstones, Nature’s Mafia,

convinced you that life would be safer,

more bearable,

cast in the role of ‘Victim in a Puddle’.

You tremble in your cement boots.

Extortion always exacts a price, unequally applied.

Your grip on reality relaxed

and here you lie,

‘She Was a Good Mother’ carved on your tombstone.

Your fall was silent,

a gradual descent into madness,

and only the stars

are witnesses…