upon a shot that lit the roof alight, June 29, 1613

The cannon cracked—too loud for stagecraft's game, 
Its echo swallowed jest and breath alike; 
That spark, unmeant, leapt high to catch the flame, 
Where thatch stood dry as tinder, ripe to strike. 
The players froze mid-line, their throats gone tight, 
Eyes tilted up where straw betrayed its role. 
A murmur passed like weath...

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The gears don't just turn; 

they gnash—teeth of industry, 

blood-stained from forgotten hands.

Whispers don’t drift;

they crack like breaking glass,

but no one listens.

Faces sink into hollow screens,

cogs spinning louder than their voices.

You scratch at the edges,

but the rust doesn’t heal—

it spreads, then consumes,

until the machinery roar...

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"hair in the wind"

Brown in the sun
of the midday born
Silken strands
of crested corn

sparks light the sky
brilliant welder's flash
jewel in disguise
jouster's winning prize.

Jack was nimble
he was quick
but he's not taking
that candlestick.

All the queen's horses
and all the queen's men
run their own courses
then run them again.

audio file

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The dilution of poetry is an unavoidable consequence of shifting literary trends—where the distinct, evocative nature of verse increasingly bends toward prose, losing some of its rhythm, compression, and intensity. In a world saturated with unfiltered streams of consciousness and sprawling narratives, poetry often finds itself absorbed into prosaic expression, stripped of its defining cadence and ...

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And what would I know of love? 

The merry-go-round creaks, but it isn't broken.

I hold on, white-knuckled, in the wind.

The world spins, a blur of lights and shadows. 
 

Each revolution brings a promise of love.

I grip the bars, painted horses rise and fall, 

neighing and braying at what love could be.

Faces flash past, smiles, laughter, tears, 

the carousel of emot...

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Under the golden boughs of ancient trees, autumn sighs,  
As leaves descend in a swirling, endless ballet,  
The earth receives them with a gentle embrace,
withering compost pile.
 

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That hamlet where mum's lineage dwells,
Ancestral ruins, where silence swells.
Foundation stumps, a faint design,
A phenomenon strange, yet mine.

History breathes in broken stone,
Family lore in whispers grown.
Sights and sounds, scents of old,
Stories in these ruins unfold.

But in this decay, a shadow's cast,
A reminder of life that cannot last.
Bulldozed, ground, swept away,
...

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long, top down drives

even shirtless tans

sweet strawberry kisses and

glorious watermelon stains

laughter lifting through the trees

glimpses of sun blest promises

sugar coated whispers

catching in the breeze

fruit bowls, waterholes

and refreshing icy poles

interlacing fingers share

starry nights and lazy days

_ __ ___ ✏

●○

°

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from the ground

the ceiling looks so much wider

from the ground

its cracks seem much finer

the paint peels -

minute flags, off-white surrender;

the paint peals -

egg shells of heavy footed plunder...

revelation fall free

on this soul that has been bound

revelation fall free,

release this pretender from the ground

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Fourteen billion ears and not a pair to listen Fourteen billion eyes Ignore the running captions Seven billion tongues Wag 24/7 on worldwide web Still, bosoms burn and burst Ne'er a lack of words to display Keyboard fingers clenching: Cacophonous asphyxiation.

_____________________wsd_________ ✴The Wimpole Street Devils✴ words, words, words, you'd get sick of words from them...

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Back in the day it was horrible to make a public spectacle of oneself. But these days we've outdone ourselves - and though we march to our own drums more than ever before - we do so "in your face,' snapchatting, webcamming, wickrdly off: and that can be a never ending disgrace!

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