Saturday 31 December 2011


The Perfect Year

Ring out the old
Ring in the new
A midnight wish
To share with you
Your lips are warm
My head is light
Were we alive
Before tonight

I dont need a crowded ball room
Everything I want is here
If you're with me
Next year will be...
The perfect year

Before we play
Some dangerous game
Before we fan
Some harmless flame
we have to ask
If this is wise
And if the game
Is worth the prize

With this wine and with the music
How can anything be clear
Let's just wait and see
It may just be
The Perfect Year

It's New Year's eve
And hopes are high
Dance one year in
Kiss one goodbye
Another chance
Another start
So many dreams
To tease the heart

We don't need a crowded ballroom
Everything we want is here
And face to face
We will embrace
The perfect year

We don't need a crowded ballroom
Everthing we want is here
And face to face
We will embrace

Is There No Escape?

Lingering in the darkness
unseeing, fearing, fearing
not the dark, but the light
fearing the light
for with the light comes discovery
with discovery comes him
with him comes a touch
oh, what a dirty touch
why oh why
what have I done wrong?
this is normal, he says
this is our little secret, he says
you tell anyone, I’ll kill you..
maybe death would be better
he could not touch me then
he could not touch me in all
those private places
he says he loves me
I should love him
but I don’t
I can’t
I won’t
there is no escape
only death might suffice
his death
or mine
and then

A Midnight Waltz

A midnight waltz with a fallen angel
And your dreams will be fulfilled
The stars will twinkle with the beat
Of knowledge for which some have killed
Behind the curtain of darkness
Lies a single ray of light
Shadows of the past at your heels
A pain that holds you tight
I come to you with a simple offer
A dance to meet your every goal
I'll give you your dreams on a burning plate
But in return, in return, I want your soul
My enchanting tune will lure you in
And test the power of your will
While a breeze of suppression hides the truth
My intent is purely ill
I'll take the form of anything
To beguile you with my charm
Don't worry! It's just a little dance
How could it bring you harm?
A moonlit dance with destiny
Will cure you of all your ills
Will you be able to withstand the temptation
Or will you submit to a midnight waltz


For Once

For once in his life,

he was serious.

For once in his life,

he meant what he said.

No one took notice.

They were listening without hearing.

For once in his life,

he needed help.

For once in his life,

he wasn’t in control.

They had no way of knowing how it felt.

His pain unfolded before them.

For once in his life,

he really needed someone.

For once in his life,

he needed assurance

They didn’t understand the pain and

humiliation involved.

For once in his life,

he wanted to be left alone.

For once in his life,

he had it all figured out.

They just couldn’t understand.


Friday 30 December 2011

The Darkest Hour...

                             Hold me close, I cannot see
                             This Darkness has taken over me
                             I feel lost; I feel this pain
                             I am alone, I cry in vain

                             It is too heavy, I cannot bear
                             These memories, this hurt, is always there
                             The shame I feel; I hang my head
                             There are times I wish I were dead

                             Is there someone here; Listen to me
                             Can anyone help?  How can this be
                             I am all alone and it is dark
                             The hurt, the abuse has left it’s mark

                             I am drained, cause against this night
                             It is so very hard to fight.
                             Someone tell me this cannot be true
                             All of the things they put me through
                             I cry until I can cry no more
                             Then I cry again, just like before
                             Wait what is this..somone heard?
                             Someone understands these horrible words?

                             What are they doing safely holding me?
                             They tell me this will not always be
                             They tell me now that it is night
                             And the things that were done were not right

                             A Survivor friend is drawing near
                             Somehow with them, there is less fear
                             All of my strength is almost gone
                             The Darkest hour is just before dawn

                             Just before the sun starts to rise
                             It is darkest because of their lies
                             But the light will come, this I know
                             It’s dark now, but the light will show

                             The Darkness now  slowly leaving me
                             The Warm Sunlight now I start to see
                             I am now facing this long, hard fight
                             It’s darkest here just before it gets light.

                             I will not give up, I will go on
                             The Darkest Hour
                             is Just Before Dawn

Soul Searching

I've been looking for all my life,
And now I wonder...
did you ever feel my soul searching?
I wonder... Is anything going to ever feel right?
Will tomorrow ever be something I can share?
Sometimes I just sit alone,
looking at the heavens,
and I can't help but wonder...
Will your tender heart hear my call,
understand what I'm trying to say?
Will you know when I hold you in my arms,
will you look into my eyes,
and know without any words,
that this love, this love will last forever?
So I still sit by myself and wonder,
wonder where you might be....
and hoping you'll be here soon....

One Solitary Crush

You are a fire
and I am burning
You are temptation
and I am yearning
You are the magnet I am drawn to,
the one I'd kill just to belong to,
yet I cannot break the spell
that you have cast.

From far away my heart is beating
from your glance so far from fleeting
But your clever smile has hidden
all the words that I have written
neatly packaged from a time
that's long since passed.

Your every move I watch and see
You're moving closer now to me
And when you stop
the world stops with you
in my mind.
This feeling gnawing and eroding
my silence ever more forboding
I long to speak yet lose control
to look within your very soul,
yet when I try it seems my eyes are stricken blind.

I can't control the feeling
My God, my mind is reeling,
when you say my name I don't
believe it's really mine.
You know exactly what you're doing,
this wicked spell that you've been brewing,
seeing past my gaze and knowing all the time.

All things have lost their meaning
this torture practically demeaning,
but I do nothing now for
I feel no need to rush..
You have blown away my senses,
stricken down all my defenses,
For love begins with but
one solitary crush.

The Greatest Gift

I was asked on Christmas day if I wrote poetry when I was angry.. I was also asked how I could bare my soul so easily.....

Anger is a wasteful emotion. It eats way at you. Yes, I was angry for a very long time, and yes, I have written when I was angry. Did it help me? Yes. The biggest lesson I have learnt though is to put that anger where it belongs. In the past.

When I write, I do so from my inner core. My "soul" if you like. I am what you read of me. There are no tricks, no disguises, no surprises.

My writing gives me a release, a way to let the emotions that have built up inside have a voice.
In my youth,  my life and my soul were ripped apart. Violated and soiled by those vile creatures of which I have spoken before. I rebuilt the man I am today from a shambles, a mess of emotions and expectations.  I did so alone. This was through choice as I trusted no one. In this process I chose to leave a window open, a window to my soul, my heart, my life. I guard that window well....

I share this with you. I ask nothing in return, other than that you listen and hopefully learn something from what I write.

I have made many friends these last few months, connections that I hope will stay with me through my life's journey. Where my life leads I do not know. What I do know is that for the first time in my life I feel it is ok to be me. Thank you.

One of the greatest of gifts is that of friendship. The other, the greatest gift of all, is love.

I am grateful for the connections I have made through my blog, I am grateful for my life.

May your holiday be full of glad tidings, may your new year be filled with the gift of love.

Live life, don't just exist, don't just survive. Live, set yourselves free. Anything is possible, you just have to believe. My road ahead is uncertain, probably rocky, but I have put the pain, the abuse and humiliation where it belongs... In the past.

Survive and then Thrive. If you want to know me better then join the Survivors and Thrivers Tribe on Triberr. Message me and I will send you an invite.

I think 2012 is going to be a very difficult year for many of us. Economic and political gloom. Poverty, and uprisings. Stand together, stand proud and strong.

Together we can be a voice to be reckoned with.

Wishing you all a magical, prosperous and above all HAPPY New Year.



Don't look
too close at me
You might not like
what you see.

I don't want you
to see inside
To see the tears
that I hide.

and I'm feeling so cold
... been crying all night long
and everyone tells me I am fine
and I'm assuring myself they are wrong.

With my head in my hands
can't stop crying.
I wonder if there's a reason
for my pain and lying.

I want leave the world
leave it all behind.
Know I'll get there,
just take some pills with wine.

and I don't wanna talk to nobody...
and I don't want to smile.
Just want to curl up in my bed;
like a frightend, saddend child.
look at me again
like a mirror that often lies
the corners of my mouth quivering
with a vague distance in my eyes...
...wishing I could die.


Thursday 29 December 2011

Nightmares Of My Life

A mist falls upon the evening
As the days travel nears it's end
A cross seen beneath me
Down where the waters bend

The way is lined the map is drawn
The secret told to you
Accept the chance or turn away
Your answer lies in you

You take the chance to live your life
Your journey to begin
Enjoy yourself it's time to feast
The epic is within

Release yourself it's time for flight
The wings of faith we fly
A million for a moment
As years flash before your eyes

Now once again denounce my sight
That foggy misty night
I'm lying down and resting well
The nightmares of my life.


Having problems dealing with nightmares?

Click here for help.

Stop Child Abuse.

There MUST be an end to the sexual, physical and emotional ABUSE of children. In this age of the Internet and social media, we have a real chance to make a difference. Let's all stand united against this heinous CRIME. Together we CAN make a difference.

The Little Boy

The little boy is locked in the cupboard again.
He tastes blood in his mouth.
The little boy can't see inside the cupboard.
It's oh so black.
The little boy is hungry.
The little boy is black and blue.

The little boy is locked inside the cupboard
He tastes hate in his mouth.
The little boy can see clearly inside his head.
His mind is oh so sharp.
The little boy is plotting.
The little boy is planning.

The little boy is locked inside the cupboard.
He tastes the barrel of the gun in his mouth.
The little boy can see freedom even in the blackness.
The desire is oh so strong.
The little boy has to be courageous.
The little boy is praying.

The little boy is locked in the cupboard.
He can taste nothing anymore.
The little boy has freedom from the pain.
His body is oh so limp.
The little boy is flying.
The little boy is smiling.


He walks on, bowed
but unbroken, in black
His strong fingers grasping
with strength, his shopping
far removed from his youth.
Back hunched, face wizened
by the same sun miles apart
the trip the humiliation
and sorrow and joy
Escape and torture
as he left Home forever,
in body, not mind.
He is there now
walking the fields,
blue skies as now,
hot dry,
his younger legs running,
too fast for the others
wanting to be caught
legs now bowed, not broken
he walks on,
not to Home
rather to home
he walks on

Wednesday 28 December 2011

Almost Home

The walls look so blank
the way they never looked before,
used to call this almost home,
before I longed to let you in the door,
the way I never longed for that before,
pictures and colours, pretty things,
somehow don't seem to mean as much,
the walls look so bleak,
the way they never looked before,
used to call this almost home,
before I longed to let you in the door,
the way I never longed before,
to want you in my life, my love,
the way I never wanted before,
used to call this almost home,
before I longed to let you in the door,
the way I never longed before,
you would not come nearer,
you pushed me further,
now nowhere feels like almost home
I longed to let you in, anywhere I go,
the way I never longed before,
with you it felt like I found home
the way I never felt before,
before I longed to let you in,
the way I never longed before.

Missing Mists

Mist clouds the edge
of a mountain
of missing you,
seems I climb to the top
and it gets higher
every day,
the mountain
of missing you,
missing too much
in this missing you,
the simplest touch
another missing you,
missing you
the way a bird
would miss its wings
want to fly to you
so missing you,
while there is you
in this world,
I'd love what there is
of you in this world,
love every part of you
except kept apart
from you,
to missing you
in this world,
don't want to be
missing you
in this world,
instead of having
what there is of you
in this world.
The gear turns,
Wherever you are
I am missing, missing you.
where are you,
I am waiting, missing you.
Come back...
I'm missing you
trying to climb up,
that growing mountain,
trying to move,
that growing mountain
of missing you,
it has happened
in this world before,
this kind of missing you
this time
it's worse
this missing you,
mist clouds the edge
of a mountain
of missing you,
missing too much
in this missing you.

Tuesday 27 December 2011

Water and Air

The sea is best seen while diving.
The sky is best seen while flying.

In two eyes one can see
the beauty and the magic of the sea.
Emotions are another world.
My ocean. My water universe.

Nature is so generous
in terms of beauty in the sea...
So wonderful, mysterious,
and rich in purple, blue and green...

Variety of fishes and corals --
a plentitude of each.
A harmony. A treasure
far from any beach.

You have to go so deep
to touch these rare treasures.
But diving pays: you reach
immeasurable treasures.

Yet, sometimes there is urge
for just a breathe of air...
You swim above. You see the sky.
You want to fly.

I switch between
the ocean and the sky.
It's always me.
And difference I just don't see.

Because it is that dream itself
that gives you wings.
To do the swimming
you need first dreaming.

And flying your heaven brings.
It's such a joy to see from there
how far you are,
and you are not scared.
And how more, and more,
and more you dare...

The sea is best seen while diving.
The sky is best seen while flying.

Life is best experienced while living......

So Deep, Deep In My Heart

Last night I felt your pain
felt you tears drip through my heart.
I felt the desolation
before we were even apart.

I ached at the thought of you leaving,
to the chaotic streets of far away lands.
Thoughts that took me to bed with a weary head
woke me painfully craving for your loving hands.

I felt I had lost you...already gone.
I cried..silently...alone
I yearned to call you back...tell you...that... you could not leave me...not here...not so alone...

Last night I failed to find proof
that said I was foolish to worry.
But I had no words to say,
only silently I said I was so sorry.

I held you tight,
so you would not see my tears.
I was strong, trying not to let you know
that you had brought to reality my greatest fears.

I felt I had lost you..already gone.
I cryed..silently...alone
I yearned to call you back...tell you...that... you could not leave me...not here...not so alone...

Last night something deep in my heart called to me
showed me the love for you I have inside
told me something was going to go wrong.
Still all I did last night...was cry.

Monday 26 December 2011

What Are YOU Doing?

Maybe it's much too early in the game

Ooh, but I thought I'd ask you just the same
What are you doing New Year's
New Year's eve?

Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it's exactly twelve o'clock that night
Welcoming in the New Year
New Year's eve

Maybe I'm crazy to suppose
I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations
You received

Ooh, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance:
What are you doing New Year's
New Year's Eve?

Maybe I'm crazy to suppose
I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations
You received

Ooh, but in case I stand one little chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance:
What are you doing New Year's
New Year's Eve?

Hands Bound

Every hope
of the heart
seeming to be wrecked,
and one wonders
if ones closest
have played the role
of becoming another kind
of Judas again,
as one's own tongue
is tied up,
to forbidden to say,
one's mouth closed up
again tight,
forbidden to express,
and one's hands
tied up tight
behind one's back,
unable to touch,
while circumstances
that could have been
so very different
kick at one's heart
the way machine gun fire
would kick at one's heart
and one keeps falling
into the dust
of a wrecked dream,
of an original instance
came along,
whom one could really love
and one wonders
whether ones closest
have played the role
of another kind of Judas,
one wonders
not knowing anything
from the existential facts
of circumstances
kicking at one's heart,
thinking ones closest
never did say
that there is someone
who really loves
more than anything else
in this world.

Sunday 25 December 2011

Whatever You Believe

After The Rain..

When the sun comes out, after the rain
Shinning down, easing the pain
Giving you another reason to hope
Giving you another way to cope.

The rain gives the seed all the growing power
to raise up out of the ground and become a flower
When you're down and out, remember the sun
Look around, your not the only one.

We've been through pain, been through sorrow
Keep your head up, there's a brighter tomorrow
Remember lightning will crash and thunder will sound
But when there's saddness, look at the ground.

Remember the seed that turned into a flower
Out of this gloom, it gets all it's power
It opens it's petals, and get the suns' rays
And all of nature dances and plays.

Christmas Without You

Christmas without you
White Christmas and I'm blue
Like fireworks with no fuse
Christmas without you
The fireplace keeps burning and my thoughts keep turning
The pages of memories of time spent with you
Old Christmas songs we knew and used to make love to
Make it hard to get used to
Christmas without you

Christmas without you
White Christmas and I'm blue
I love you I miss you
So sad but so true
Christmas without you
Like a mystery with no clues
Like fireworks with no fuse
Christmas without you

The sweetest gift I know would be if the new snow
Could fall on your footsteps on this Christmas Eve
The most joyous Christmas if luck could be with us
Would be if Saint Nicholas brought you home to me

Christmas without you
White Christmas and I'm blue
I love you I miss you I need you
So sad but so true
Like a mystery with no clues
Like fireworks with no fuse
Christmas without you

The poem you hold in your hands

The poem you hold in your hands
is a very special poem.
Not just because it's from me . . .
but because it says something
I want you to know today
and that I want you
to remember

Within the words of this poem
I want to say that
you are incredibly special to me.
You are so important
to my days, and so essential
to the smile within me.
That certain space where our lives
overlap is the place that brings me
the most understanding,
the most peace,
the nicest memories, and a joy that
comes to my heart so constantly.

When you hold this in your hands,
I want you to think of me
smiling softly at you,
and thanking you . . .
for all that you are . . .
to me.

Friday 23 December 2011

How To Roast The PERFECT Christmas Turkey

When you’ve gone to the effort of buying a beautiful Christmas Turkey, you’ll want to cook it to perfection. A delicious roast turkey is not difficult to achieve but - especially at Christmas - there is often so much else going on that it’s easy for the cook to become stressed!

The secret is in the cooking times – follow these few, simple guidelines, which have been meticulously tested by the British Turkey industry, and you can’t go wrong.

Weigh your turkey after stuffing.

Cover the breast with strips of bacon or smear with softened butter then cover loosely with foil.

Preheat your oven to 190°C (180°C for fan assisted ovens), 375°F, Gas Mark 5.

Less than 4kg weight? Cook for 20 minutes per kg then add another 70 minutes cooking time at the end.

More than 4kg weight? Cook for 20 minutes per kg and add 90 minutes cooking time at the end.

Remove the foil for the last 40 minutes to brown the top.

Ovens vary, so always test your turkey to make sure it is thoroughly cooked. Pierce the thickest part – this is usually the leg of a whole turkey - with a skewer or sharp pointed knife. Hold a spoon underneath to catch the juices as they run out. If they are clear the turkey is done. If they are pink it needs further cooking.

Allow the turkey to stand for 15-20 minutes in a warm place – it won’t go cold and will be easier to carve.

It’s as easy as that!

Here are some examples of cooking times for popular size turkeys – and remember the times also work for turkey crowns and other joints:

Turkey weight Cooking time

2kg (4lb 7oz) 1hr 50mins

2.5kg (5lb 8oz) 2hrs

3kg (6lb 10oz) 2hrs 10mins

3.5kg (7lb 11oz) 2hrs 20mins

4kg (8lb 13oz) 2hrs 50mins

4.5kg (9lb 15oz) 3hrs

5kg (11lb 0oz) 3hrs 10mins

5.5kg (12lb 2oz) 3hrs 20mins

6kg (13lb 4oz) 3hrs 30mins

6.5kg (14lb 5oz) 3hrs 40mins

7kg (15lb 7oz) 3hrs 50mins

7.5kg (16lb 9oz) 4hrs

8kg (17lb 10oz) 4hrs 10mins

8.5kg (18lb 12oz) 4hrs 20mins

9kg (19lb 13oz) 4hrs 30mins

9.5kg (20lb 15oz) 4hrs 40mins

10kg (22lb 1oz) 4hrs 50mins

Enjoy cooking and eating your Christmas Turkey!

Thanks to The British Turkey Society

Happy Christmas

I Saw Daddy Kissing Santa Claus

Coming Out at Christmas

Angel Without Wings

Angel without wings
thought I could show you how I feel
but I don't want to let you down
with a pain that is so real.

Angel without wings
You tried to teach me how to fly
while I was falling in desperation
from a seemingly endless sky.

Angel without wings
I clung on to you for dear life
But even your deep loving
can not saving from the taunting knife.

Angel without wings
you give me the heaven in which to hide
and if only I could forget the aching memories
I could forget the reasons for which I cryed.

Angel without wings
My heavy heart weighs me down,
and in the casket that I lay
I see your tears and I frown.

Angel without wings
You tryed to teach me how to fly.
My sweet angel with no wings
I'm sorry my aching made you cry...

Thursday 22 December 2011

The True Story of Rudolph

A man named Bob May, depressed and brokenhearted, stared out his drafty apartment window into the chilling December night.

His 4-year-old daughter Barbara sat on his lap quietly sobbing. Bob's wife, Evelyn, was dying of cancer. Little Barbara couldn't understand why her mommy could never come home. Barbara looked up into her dad's eyes and asked, "Why isn't Mommy just like everybody else's Mommy?" Bob's jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears. Her question brought waves of grief, but also of anger. It had been the story of Bob's life. Life always had to be different for Bob.

Small when he was a kid, Bob was often bullied by other boys. He was too little at the time to compete in sports.  He was often called names he'd rather not remember.. From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in. Bob did complete college, married his loving wife and was grateful to get his job as a copywriter at  Montgomery Ward during the Great Depression. Then he was blessed with his little girl. But it was all short-lived. Evelyn's bout with cancer stripped them of all their savings and now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the Chicago slums. Evelyn died just days before Christmas in 1938.

Bob struggled to give hope to his child, for whom he couldn't even afford to buy a Christmas gift. But if he couldn't buy a gift, he was determined to make one - a storybook! Bob had created an animal character in his own mind and told the animal's story to little Barbara to give her comfort and hope. Again and again Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling. Who was the character? What was the story all about? The story Bob May created was his own autobiography in fable form. The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was. The name of the character? A little reindeer named Rudolph, with a big shiny nose. Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on Christmas Day. But the story doesn't end there.

The general manager of  Montgomery Ward caught wind of the little storybook and offered Bob May a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book. Wards went on to print,_ Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer _ and  distribute it to children visiting Santa Claus in their stores. By 1946 Wards had printed and distributed more than six million copies of Rudolph . That same year, a major publisher wanted to purchase the rights from Wards to print an updated version of the book.

In an unprecedented gesture of kindness, the CEO of Wards returned all rights back to Bob May.. The book became a best seller. Many toy and marketing deals followed and Bob May, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort his grieving daughter. But the story doesn't end there either.

Bob's brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to Rudolph. Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as Bing Crosby and Dinah  Shore , it was recorded by the singing cowboy, Gene Autry.  "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed  Reindeer" was released in 1949 and became a phenomenal  success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of "White Christmas."

The gift of love that Bob May created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning back to bless him again and again. And Bob May learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph, that being different isn't so bad. In fact, being different can be a blessing.

Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer
had a very shiny nose.
And if you ever saw him,
you would even say it glows.

All of the other reindeer
used to laugh and call him names.
They never let poor Rudolph
join in any reindeer games.

Then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say:
"Rudolph with your nose so bright,
won't you guide my sleigh tonight?"

Then all the reindeer loved him
as they shouted out with glee,
Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,
you'll go down in history!

A Piece Of Perfection

flawless face
slender arms
enchanting eyes
musical laugh
magic hands
sweet words
stunning smile
incredible charm
Were once mine.

tear stained face
weak arms
apathetic eyes
bitter laugh
useless hands
confused words
sad smile
mournful charm
Were once hers.

I am lost.
She is perfect.
I am not.
I want
a piece of perfection

Wednesday 21 December 2011

Some Of My Favourite Songs At Christmas

O Holy Night

Secret Of Giving

Mary Did You Know

Blame It On The Mistletoe

Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

Always In My Heart

Everyday I think of how we're so very far apart
No matter how far, you'll always be in my heart

My love for you can not be explained
But your love I finally gained

A day without hearing your thoughts seems like forever
Don't worry, I'll never leave you, not now, not ever

Have you ever had a deep feeling of dread??
With you around no such thought pops in my head

Although you're so very, very far away
I can't help thinking about you each second of the day

I never ever want you to forget
I'll always be there in spirit

Everytime you see a falling star
That's me, sending my love from afar

I love you too much to stay away
You'll be in my heart each day

The only thing I want, in the entire universe
Is to be with you forever, for better or worse

I've never felt this way about anyone before
And with you, I could ask for no more

Without you close to me I feel like I will go insane
I need to be in your arms so there will be no more pain

Monday 19 December 2011

The Storm Within

                         Surf Roars, moon hides, and the clouds roll on in
                        wild nights like this call up the turbulence within
                          Is it pain is it sorrow is it memories stirred?
                       Is it you drawing me closer to your soul as it were?

                    Ocean breeze it is fierce and my Hair whips at my face
                        and time seems to stand still to let me embrace
                    all the darkness and the moisture and the elements here
                        to remember the passion we once used to share

                       The darkness of night dwells within my own soul
                        the pain and the crying  and the cold takes it toll
                           I remember it as in a dream sequence here
                        yet its clear and around me and calling me near

                         How many years ago did I stand up out there
                        watching you leave me to go who knows where?
                            and never a tear did dare leave my eyes
                           the pain and the passion I kept well inside

                     Some named me 'callus', some called me 'quite strong'
                       never a one knew the pain in my heart or my song
                            to the ocean I cried deep inside all along
                      and shared the emotions all the days and nights long

                      And tonight I remember, the storms brought it back
                         I can feel you beside me as I wander this track
                      to my heart you've returned once again and we know
                      you should never have left me to do battle long ago

Sunday 18 December 2011

Time To Let You Go

My heart is tired of hurting.
My eyes are tired of tears.
My mind is tired of thinking of you.
I've loved you for so many years.

I thought you were perfect.
I thought you treated me so well.
But now I look back and see
That my heaven with you was hell.

More than once you made me cry.
You left me all alone.
You would tell me you were going to call
So instead of having fun, I stayed at home.

Then one day you left for good,
Never to return.
You left me here to miss you,
You left me here to yearn.

I cried all day.
I cried all night.
Without you in my future,
Nothing seemed right.

For many months I waited.
Waited for you to come back to me.
I'd do anything to make you happy
You could live in ecstasy.

But then I saw you yesterday,
With someone new you danced,
It hurt my soul so badly
Made me so blue, my heart entranced.

But then I looked him in the eyes
They were the same as mine.
I knew that he was hurting.
It was just a matter of time.

Soon you would leave him,
You would make him sad.
But for now he has you,
And I don't want what he has.

I realized then,
Although the realisation was so slow,
At that moment it all came to me,
It was finally time to let you go.

Winters Hideaway

In the somber stillness of the winter air
When sunset orange melts on skeletal trees
The low sun path dims the daylight landscape
And cooling air paints frosted diamonds everywhere.

Dying, the summer memories filled with gladness
Of beaches, blooms and balmy nights
Now buried under mounds of drying leaves
Barely shaded by naked arms of trees skyward reaching

Dimmer still as evening grows early across the land
And numbing skin stings in crisp chilled beckoning night
Chimney breath stands tall against a bright moonlight background
While life fades deeply into a long winter hideaway

Saturday 17 December 2011

A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas

One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they stop at the rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.

It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs. Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.

We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.

"Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.

And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. We bounded into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of the smoke-filled room.

Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking at the smoke with a slipper.

"Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.

"There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."

There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting.

"Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to the telephone box.

"Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."

But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and dissolving snowballs, and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"

"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."

"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"

"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."

"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."

"There were church bells, too."

"Inside them?"

"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."

"Get back to the postmen"

"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles ...."

"Ours has got a black knocker...."

"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."

"And then the presents?"

"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs.

"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."

"Get back to the Presents."

"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."

"Go on the Useless Presents."

"Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched tickets and rang a bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it, a most unducklike sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the trees, the sea and the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and pea-green birds. Hardboileds, toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers, marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin soldiers who, if they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete with instructions. Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to shake our picture off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours, in vain, for an old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."

"Were there Uncles like in our house?"

"There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I would scour the swatched town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all but one of his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel, with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their stiff black jarring feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and bottled beer and crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts and the mulling pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding them out judiciously at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some few small aunts, not wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like faded cups and saucers."

Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always, fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of snow, would take his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale young men, with big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge, unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow away the fumes, who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I would be slap-dashing home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of a snow-clogged side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch, leering all to himself.

I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when suddenly he, with a violet wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with goose, would press against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after dinner the Uncles sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers, aunts and sisters scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the sideboard and had some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the middle of the snowbound back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst, which they all did, the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit among festoons and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and produce what might be mistaken for a sea-going tramcar.

Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to pad through the still streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.

"I bet people will think there's been hippos."

"What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"

"I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his tail."

"What would you do if you saw two hippos?"

Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.

"Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."

"Let's write things in the snow."

"Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."

Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"

The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped dogs, with flasks round their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We returned home through the poor streets where only a few children fumbled with bare red fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock birds and the hooting of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the table like a marble grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year.

Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when I dared not look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing carols once, when there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we stumbled up the darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a word. The wind through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the house. "What shall we give them? Hark the Herald?"

"No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in the snow-felted darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked out On the Feast of Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry, eggshell voice from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the front room was lovely; balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything was good again and shone over the town.

"Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "

Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.

"Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we did that.

Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's Drum." It was very warm in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another in which she said her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again; and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into the moonlight and the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising from them up the long, steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.

Part One

Part Two

A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas


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