Edmond de Couitier

Our host, Edmond de Couitier,
lived in a castle miles away,
a seven hour journey.
Thus began this tale of woe.

Our coach,

of people,
was quite full,
was cold and barely comfortable;
so spoke we to the driver
but he didn't want to know.

So in his charge were carried forth

the passengers whom headed north
towards the lands
where folk like us
were rarely seen to go.

And filled thé hours

reading, writing,
chatting, nothing near exciting.
Anything to distract
from a trip painfully slow.

Midway we stopped to taste thé air

and give some time to bladder care
and whilst we did
a quirky looking fellow caught my eye.

Hé wore à feather in his hat,

a waist coat and à créam cravate
which if à question prompted
thèn my question would be, 'Why?'

My friend,

known to me as Pierre,
A rasta man whose dreadlocked haïr
was always courting compliments
from ladies passing by,

took pleasure in reminding me that, 

to embrace diversity
makes moral sense,
so simply something
everyone should try.

Whilst moving on we noticed how the sun had gone

behind thé clouds and how so many fields were filled
With horses, cows and sheep.

Soft pastures laced with buttercups,

vast golden âcres,
farmer's crops,
sat bold against the backdrop
of the mountains grand and steep.

At 9pm we reached our desination

and with sheer elation
dragged our aching bodies
from their angst of
'woken sleep'.

Then gathered our possessions

and with no further digressions
Travelled east along à pathway
packed with gravel
dense and deep.

With painful feet,

emerging then into à street
that finally would lead us to the castle grounds
And to De Couitier's door.

Our baggage

now akin to boulders
weighing heavily on our shoulders
which in turn screamed loudly
'Tell us why we feel so sore'

With bâcks now arced

against thé since prevailing winds
we clamboured forth
towards thé entrance doorway
that would end this acrid tour,

When suddenly in spoken word

a voice from high we clearly heard
yelled, 'Friends, havé you not heard the news?
De Couitier is no more'.





The Birth of Paradise

I can see the coming of the dawn.
The new day greets you with a smile,
with all the gusto of the virile
heartbeat of a new born child.
The new day smiles,
unfurls its wings.
The sunshine sings
as morning brings
a new beginning,
bursting open
like the petals of a flower;
glorious in this new born hour.
In song it's like the Nightingale
or Blackbird
whose melodious word
can now be heard amidst the silver clouds.
Oh heavenly enchantment reigns
and through our veins
new zest for life;
a universal empathy;
what's best for you is best for me,
what brings you down
I won't allow.
No hunger will you ever feel
unless mine is the same for real
And so we live and die together.
Birds of the same feather.
Yet still a magnificent diverse parade
of sound and colour.
A new dawn rises
and with it brings new enterprises.




The Maze

There are no easy paths today it seems
No simple way to realise our dreams
It's hoola hoops
Or spinning plates
Or tightrope walks
Or twists of fate
Which permeate and punctuate life's themes.

I'll be no Saint no matter how I try
There'll be no pound nor penny for the guy.
No Spiderman
No Tonka Toy
No Duracell
No Rover's Roy
My closet skeleton filled till I die.

There are no simple answers take my word,
No master plan to make life less absurd.
It's bullet holes
banana skins,
Reporting stolen wheelie bins,
The arctic melt,
The fiscal freeze
There's fighting wars
more than disease
Mad millions spent on football stars
And even more on reaching Mars
When all around confusion rules
From Parliament to Primary Schools
The Rubic Cube that we call life
Like beef under the butcher's knife
Like Jack and Jill without a hill
I'll stop
But I could go on still
I'll make this point
Oh yes I will.
There are no simple answers and
I've had my fill.

Except...
We're born
We die
We laugh
We cry
We work the day
We sleep the night
We bleed the same
We need the same
We share one Earth
In depth and girth
In all its heights
For all it's worth.
We cultivate
Enumerate
Articulate
And seperate
Depreciate
Then delegate
And finally we relegate
In an attempt to elevate
Enslaved by that which we create.
Then procreate to populate
the mass that we inebriate.
The map is lost
No buried treasure can be found
In any measure.
Can't be found in sensual pleasure
Not in richness nor in leisure.
Pieces missing from the jigsaw.
What we get we always want more.
Seeking that perpetual open door.

There are no easy paths
Of that I'm sure.



Freedom

Freedom
Freedom
Freedom

I'd like to feed myself

Freedom.
And clothe myself
Freedom.
And feed my child
Freedom.
And clothe my child
Freedom.
Shelter myself
Freedom.
Shelter my child
Freedom.
Live far away
Freedom.
Be here to stay
Freedom.
Sit on a wall
Freedom.
And if fall...
Freedom.
Release my soul
Freedom.
Enjoy my self
Freedom.
Swim 'cross the sea
Freedom.
Impunity
Freedom.
Rise in the night
Freedom.
Bed down at dawn
Freedom.
Be natural
Freedom.
An actual
Freedom.
No need to pay
Freedom.
Bills every day
Freedom.
Willing to give.
Freedom.
To how we live
Freedom.
As long as my
Freedom
don't compromise
Freedom.


Mechelle


She's open to suggestions.

Doesn't need directions.

Nurtured her perspective

as an urban native.

Has the darkest eyes

that let you know she's wise

and she's watching as time goes by.



Light coffee complexion,

some might say 'perfection'.

Hair dark, soft and flowing

on the warm breeze blowing.

Has the saddest eyes

that tell you that she cries

and she's watching as time goes by.



She's standing at her window,

sharing her within glow.

Words she says, not speaking,

whilst her heart goes seeking

sun in clear blue skies;

Peace

The Gift

The Prize,

and she's watching as time goes by.




The Emptiest

This evening,
as I quietly sit alone,
you dark ale,
my night black liquid friend,
are chosen to turn me from the day
and ease me into blissful mindlessness,
so that I may embrace this journey's end
with nothing, more than soft and weightless groan.

In solitude,
as the log fire warms me through.
Its flames spawn spectral figures black and wild
which dance across the walls with dark intent.
You silence,
scarce and formless entity,
consume me in your presence undefiled,
as all around slowly subsides from view.

In mourning,
sorrow feeds me from its breast,
the poison that is smooth and without taste.
Dark Angel,
you have seen my soul arrive
and with this have revealed the ancient path;
a journey I traverse now without haste
which sees me leave behind the emptiest.

Works of Peace the Poet