Welcome to the Poetry Page. In it , you will find poems on War, Love, Pain, Religion, Life, and Owls! These are all references to some point in my life, be it good, bad, happy, or unhappy.

You are welcome to use any of them, but I would ask you to mention the source, as these are all personal to myself, and are copyright. And, plagiarism always comes home to roost.

I am hoping to publish the selection on this page under the title 'The Ring-Ousel Tree', which is the opening poem. This is about change. Some years ago, I visited a childhood haunt, called Horse-shoe wood, wherein grew a gnarled old oak I called The Ring-Ousel tree. I loved the tree, and the wood, and spent as much time there as I could. In this tree lived a Ring-Ousel. To me, this was almost a mythical bird, and I would watch it's comings and goings, and when it finally left, I felt something had gone from me too. Maybe an omen of what was to come. I was eight when I first started haunting Horse-shoe wood, and when I went back last, I was fifty. In its place, was  a huge estate.  Graffiti, broken down cars, and rows and rows of little boxes. Shocked, I stopped to get my bearings. A police car slowed down, and the officers eyed me suspiciously. I never went back again.


Poetry on this page

Choose a poem by clicking on a link below

 The Ring-Ousel Tree             Valiant Cause                  The Bay Tree                            Moorish Tent

 Battery Row                              Roofs                                    When I Was Young                  The Rope Gatherer

 A Prayer                                      The Owl                               Tudor Morning                         7:42 am

Distant Drum                             Observations                    Time                                             Sakkara Road

Night Train To Cairo               The Secret                        Via Dolorosa                            Gone Fishing

The Fisherman                          Carnival                              Erin Manor                                Ship Of Fools

Blechkoller [Tin Can Frenzy]                                              Pilgrim                                       The East Side Of Town

Another Sunday                        War Bride                           La Haie Sainte                        When

Blue Moon Over Cairo          

The Ring-Ousel Tree


Softly waits the Ring-Ousel tree

Deep in Horse-shoe wood

Amid a springly light ray afternoon

Down in hollow dell

Where rusty leaf drinks deep of floating water

As wood nymph sprite and water boatmen ply

And dance to tune of  Cuckoo and of  Bee

That wear a new path every day


 Of prickly hedgerow dunnocks nest

The knee high waving grass

Kissed lightly by the morning dew

On route to Horse-shoe wood

The sound of fat contented pigeon

Gorged his soul at farmer Jones' expense

Or wise old owl that roosts

Within Ring-Ousel tree

Guardian of lesser mortals

Mother moorhen clucking cross

The dead tree watery hole

Nowhere going so quickly

Past blackened bough of oak

That breaks the water surface

 As if to catch Excalibur


Field mouse that runs from danger

For him that has no name

Save only that he hears his beating heart

And father willow sweeps the water edge

Oh! How he weeps for what has yet to come

He knows his time is up

His grace consigned to kinder days


And still the nursery rookery high

In trembled windy leafless bough

Orchestra of rook and crow

Proclaiming ancient rites

And oft the ripple flat top oceanic corn

Will hide the young of Skylark  Meadow Pippet

Whom rise to pipe the sun across the blue

Not far from Horse-shoe wood


And so to winter hoary frost

On scattered tussock watery sun

With wind so cold

To bleach the bone

Of all that tarry long

Except for father time

His scythe stone sharp

Will wend his way to Horse-shoe wood

And wreak his special havoc

Pon my sanctuary

Father willow

Wise old Owl

Ring-Ousel tree



      [click to enlarge]


All rights reserved

Return to menu



Battery Row


And up on Battery Row

Where now silent, heavy duty death slumbers

Breach and muzzle cold

But not for long

And  as if to compensate

Great coat private

Balaclava, mitten, hasty rolled cigarette

Coughs with collar up

And curses the living God that made him

Shell shock, snow blind

Crazy from the mustard gas formation


Stamping foot

And trying to remember

What the Rose and Crown smells like

On a roast beef Sunday afternoon

Ha! the bitter taste of soul sickness

Is the soul sickness for the taste of bitter

The tar macadam smell of summer

Gives way to churning smell of cordite

Living Hell, and nowhere to bury the horses


That boy, that lucky boy

David was his name

That bled to death this morning in my arms

As we spoke of Gospel Oak

Dale road, and Queens Crescent market

Shiny cod laid out upon the marble mongers slab

By the number twenty four bus stop

Their beady eyes indifferent to all

And he went before I could tell him

Where I went to school


But not before he told me of the measles

Ragged doll kept by his bed

His mum, his mum, she's come at last

"She's there look !"

Come to take him home

To tuck him into bed

An early night

Because they are going

To the bucket and spade sand castle seaside



And up on Battery Row

Where silence never waits

The great coat balaclava private

Spits in the wind

And thinks of Elsie

Not for long though

To painful for a broken man

And not that far away

Not even two hundred God dammed miles

Piccadilly looms

With buses, lights, good old Eros

Barrer boys

Their cheeky caps askew

Cockles, eels, and fings like that

Christ! How  wish I was there now


'Arf  a mo' tho'

Some bastard's thought to start this up again

For Christ sakes, where's the lads ?

Those flares'll do for al of us!

I clutch deep  within my pocket

The last glow of reality

Mum's letter

Tells me young Frankie's come of his bike

And gone an' broke his arm


The flares so bright

I no longer care

Like bonfire night

On Hampstead Heath

Warm and wet

I clutch my chest

And slowly

So slowly, as not to notice


Thankful that the lads

All went first

Up on Battery Row



The above poem is dedicated to my grandfather. His name was

Charles Richard Sharpe, and he was awarded the VC for his  part

in the action at  Rouge Banc, on the 9th.May.1915. If you would

like to know more about his award, click on the thumbnails below.

The book extracts are from 'VCs of the First World War - The

Western Front 1915' by Peter F. Batchelor& Christopher Matson.

If you would like to know more about the VC, the site is at





All rights reserved

Return to menu


A Prayer


Oh Heavenly door

One that opens to the eastern sun

Take these frozen fingers

Lead them to the light that shines


Oh Fallen stars

You that hide behind the sun

Take these heavy limbs

And carry them a while


Oh Desperate room

One that is hidden from all light

Take this outcast eye

And shine it


Oh fortunate cross

You that stand staring at the sky

Take this soul broken and bleeding

And wear it



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Distant Drum


The beating of a distant drum

A call of instinct unremembered

Through misty time shadow

That walks as though he be my guide


Or Saint that points to where Heaven might be

Midst flaking paint forgotten message

Who will now be the keeper

Of this gay bordello

Dismissive of all pleas for hope


What grain of truth could shed small light

Upon this blackened exit of Utopia

That seeks to sojourn

Over mountain tree and stream

Ever vigilant in it's honour


And still the beating of a distant drum

Will strike it's measure pon the chill east wind

That augers neither good nor bad

It's Herculean task performed

The seed implanted deep and dark



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Valiant Cause


I dreamed I stood and fought

For valiant cause

The truth to seek

Amongst the wind swept hordes

And wish upon the well of life

To take up sword

And drum and fife


All caution trodden

To the dust

To don the armour

That can never rust

The snow capped mountains

Of my youth

Left far behind

This speeding hoof


Or wiser still to stop

At yonder swinging sign

To seek good company

Warm fire and wine

And in my heart

The truth to tell

I have lived and died

In the wishing well


I dreamed I saw

The ancient light

Among the shadow

Of the night

But all too soon

The light is gone

So drain my glass

And wander on


And as I leave

The door ajar

Fleeting dream

As shooting star

At desert crossroad

Which to take?

Or to the stony pathway

Of reality awake



All rights reserved

Return to menu



Beneath roof and chimney smoke

What talk of work and play

What drama to unfold

Within these walls

What human error, frailty

Wishing that it were cast aside

And new things, nice things

Were wont to happen


What story left unfinished

What page

Ink empty for the telling

What ringing pledge

Or tin bath fireplace

Could foretell our simple future


What law unto itself

Left waiting in the wings

White shirted dreams of boyhood

Could e'er carry all hope

Toward a promised end


 Neath roof and chimney smoke

Dispersed as it were daydream

Unto the dusk of reality

What ringing hands

And parlour full of what has passed

The hallway threadbare carpet

Has all emotion felt

The supernatural armour

Of this brick and mortar

Earthly home

Beneath a starlit cape

To herald forward onto life's  stage

The all eternal players



All rights reserved

Return to menu

The Owl


I look out the window

And what do I see?

A whopping great owl

On a telegraph tree

I run for binoculars

And focus him close

What the heck is he doing

Atop of that post?


It sure is not dark

The suns shining bright

In blue sky suburbia

Does he feel alright?

He's grey and white stripped

With huge pointy ears

I bet there's not much

That old fellow fears


Should I phone the R.S.P.B.

If I put my arm out

Maybe he'll fly to me

But there is no point in doing anything drastic

Because I've just realised

That owls made of plastic



All rights reserved

Return to menu



The cool pink blossom

Blowing every way down the dusty lane

A chance to be free

I went to see the Nile, and swam

It's depth

Way over my unwet head

The lemon flowers are out now

Beneath the stony mountain

They  captivate the shadows of the afternoon

The roses in the moonlight clouds

Show the form of the wind

Making my heart beat

The gulls hang in the morning air

The sea breeze light and clear

Makes me feel today  has arrived

The young birds call to the wind

Darkness falls

The rock pool sparkling in the moonlight

The silence of the cool forest

A leaf falls

And blows along the path

My room in shadows

My books, my pens

All quietly waiting

Where the sky touches desert

In crisp repeating silence

There is still life

I watch the birds upon the roof

In gathering dusk

The telephone wires like a spiders web



All rights reserved

Return to menu

The Bay Tree 


I sit beneath the Bay tree

Shadows like a floating pool

And think of my deep loneliness

The creak of the Laurel

White butterfly

This way then that

I can almost hear the scarlet fuchsia bells

Tinkling in the wind


I see lavender

I think of old ladies

Their black straw hats

Adorned with cherries crimson

And wonder who I am

The distant jet plane

Telling where it is bound

Exotic city

The name of which

I do not quite catch

I see sun light on eternal Nile

Wishing I was  there


The sky so blue

It makes me want to cry

Passing clouds whispering

And wispy

Like an old priests hair

I think of my deep loneliness


The happy children's laughter

From the nursery

Beyond the fence

All innocence

Unwittingly  someday to learn the pain

And I think of my deep loneliness



All rights reserved

Return to menu

When I was Young


When I was young

I sought to look

At books and birds and trees


In my teens

The taste for alcohol

Came knocking on my door


In my twenties

Dreams of fame, like butterflies

Eluded my yearning grasp


Thirty onwards

The yoke of uncertainty

Chained itself to my soul


Forty  somehow

I thought I might be happy

But the jagged rock of reality prevailed


Now in my fifties

I am not so sure I care

So, I sit and wait



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Tudor Morning


Tudor morning

Red brick, Hollyhock, spiders web

Thirst slaking dew upon the privet maze

Goldfinch, chest puffed proudly

In breakfast overture

The tattered sails of the night drift away

Like actors having stumbled pon the wrong stage

The scene no longer theirs to play


Tudor morning

Oak and parsley wake afresh

As though just painted by unseen lovers

Background to a secret tryst

White roses wreathed about their hair

To pirouette amid the silver mist


Tudor morning

Puffball, wild mushroom, crab apple diet

Elixir of this unborn day

Upon the gilded wing of butterfly

That wakes the flower with Angel kiss

To spur them on to greater feats

Upon this Tudor morning



All rights reserved

Return to menu



Under leafy, fallow downstream ripple

Old father water wolf the Pike

Teeth blunted by eternal feasts

Lives pondering

Mayfly hinge on unseen wires

Amid Reed Warblers seasoned concert

Cows foot, marsh print,  hollow bulrush sighs

A comfortable welcome

Muddy bank, and on across the living field

To warm church spire clock

That tells it's time for tea


One thousand years the Oak has stood

Been nourished by the bone meal populace

Amongst the cemetorial  reverence

Ordered rows of no-one now

Forgotten indifference

But clear Oak knows all by name

Beyond and beckons military line

Of tall cool poplar


Even when no breeze is there

To ancient wheezing tractor

Ploughing furrows for the Herring gull

Her driver, pipe gripped tight on gritty teeth

Set grim determined resolute

Ever onward

Ploughman's lunch left far behind


And lo! The bovine hint of curiosity

That cared but naught for you,  nor I

The only need is stood kneedeep

In hollow mud

To gaze upon it's very countenance

Never knowing


And millstream

Gurgles of it's merry jollity

And pleasant secret that it carries

To it's own conclusion

The race toward

The greater spirit of the sea


And just

Just in the hazy distance

Excitement of the school bell's ring

Into the rustic sunlight pour

The raggedy knee grazed

Lazy sock brigade

With head held high

The peel of laughter

Brighter than the school bell's ring

To skip across the living field

Neath warm church spire clock

That tells

It's time for tea



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Moorish Tent


Come set up your Moorish tent

Parade your wares

And let us speak of shoes and finery

For we take no heed of devilish tongue

As we are here for the feast

The merry company of friends

Infidels that we all be


Strike up the drum and lute

The jester for to wend his way

Through this roguish story

By camp fire

Cliff top immortality

The beings of mere inconsequence


Come set up your Moorish tent

And spread thy magic carpet

To sit and dream

Of greater fascinations

Gilded by the glowing ember

Of a warm and welcome heart


So with strong hand

Arrow straight and true

To reach the shore

A signal for the race to start

To ride the wind

Into the setting sun

And thence repair to caravanserai

And Moorish tent

Friends now

Friends then

Friends forever



Come set up your Moorish tent

Beneath the tattered remnant

Of life's banner

The songs of love and tears

Will echo round

The dreaming desert night

Telling all

And meaning naught

To all whom know the truth

Friends now

Friends then

Friends forever



All rights reserved

Return to menu

The Rope Gatherer


The rope gatherer stares out

Along the spindrift melancholy strand

Searching for the strand

That may be

The golden thread

That rings the changes

On his forgotten life


Pebble deep in loneliness

Amid the flotsam of his past

His cares are but for rope of import

But all that washes up toward him

Are his memories

Now deep encrusted

By the seaweed laden driftwood of time

A mere severed strand

That was once a part

Of some other thinkers universe


The rope gatherer stares out to sea

Searching for his future

For he knows

The tear stained rain

And unforgiving mist

That mirror his haunted reality

Have come especially

To taunt and mock

His daily sojourn

Along the spindrift melancholy strand



All rights reserved

Return to menu

7:42 am


I awake with a yawn

And look for the post

Looks like it's late

I make Marmite on toast

What will drop on the mat today?

A free trip to Kenya

Yes, a free holiday !

Could be a letter from Littlewoods Pools

Or a gardening catalogue

Advertising cheap sturdy tools

Maybe a discount on new hearing aids

For just two hundred pounds

I  can trace your family back decades

An incredible offer on carpets

Straight from the loom

Or a Feng-Shui expert

Who wants to unblock my room

Is it a leaflet for rare new porcelain

Or a bloke with long brushes

Who will unblock my drain

Oh! come along postie

Please don't pass me by

The chance of cheap car insurance

Puts a glint in my eye


Is it an invite to a party or rave ?

Or a long lost brother

Back home from the grave

Maybe a legacy from a distant cousin

You can have these books cheaper

If you buy by the dozen

Possibly a timeshare somewhere in Spain

The last time I went there

I lost my watch down a drain

Could be free samples of soap or shampoo

I don't wash and I'm bald

No that's not really true

Or a three month postal course

To improve memory

I forgot that I did one

In nineteen ninety three

There he is now I can tell his foot fall

I bet I've won thousands

On 'Spot The Ball'

I rush to the door with a trembling thrill

Oh! Bugger it's only

The electricity bill !




All rights reserved

Return to menu

Sakkara Road


Sugar cane breeze

Beneath the blue haze pensive mountains

The morning crows

Within the date palm

The yellow dog

Hard at work

Barking at the flies


But out along the Sakkara road

I feel unseen eyes

Timeless  devilment

Concealed within my dreams

Crowded with the people of a different time

That flow from ancient desert spring

To make my soul uneasy



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Night Train To Cairo


Dreaming aboard the night train to Cairo

Cigarette shared with old men

Five stone dice

Midst shiny blue seat average comfort

The click-clack melancholy

Ashtray full existence

Of a nearly life

The nair-do-well

Of nothing that I really understand

Sways back and fourth

Beneath Quixotic foothills

Where I mislaid the Holy Grail


Diesel breath upon the dawn

Kisses house where children dream

Or pass lake that has the moon caught within

To whispering desert

Starlit beyond it's own control

The spice packed camel train

Has secret rendezvous in Kasbah caravanserai

My longing to know for where they are bound

Gnaws at my lonely sense of romance

Only to be gone

As secret policemen sit with hooded minds

Discussing all who come and go

I dream aboard

The night train to Cairo



All rights reserved

Return to menu

The Secret


The misspent longing for the not quite nearly

That fires a signal flare from some dark recess

The back aching stream of knowledge

Dampened by all other reason

A chart that tells of penitent belief

That like a flower just out of reach

In some barren fold

Unfolds a dream too late


And yet to sit with rose and thorn

Encompassed in it's own mortality

Will never better epitaph make

For scholars of an unfound world

Ever burning bright within

The adolescence of this divine populace

Praying to remember

How it all transpires


The gloomy phantom of reality

Sloughs and slopes his way about

The cobbled night time streets of languid import

Only to be welcomed all too soon

By the ruffian that is the present

Embraced as if they were brothers

Kindred souls 'tis only they can bear

The knowledge of the truth


Sing out sing out and pay times dancer

For he is weary and eager for the off

And at the distant sound that bends the eye

The hunters moon

Fair showing on a cloudless night

To mourn the writing on unknown parchment

Forever's secret written

In forgotten tongues




All rights reserved

Return to menu

Via Dolorosa


From Pilates judgment

To the hill

In which we walk life's  sad road

As we do sleep along the way

Among the ashes of angels

Life's brutal soldiers grin and leer

To blunt our faith at every turn

And crucify the sacristy

That is the heart

Now broken pillaged looted

Of it's sacred vessels

Never to bear fruit again


Oh! My God

Why have you forsaken me now

Just when I believe that you are there

For I am a stranger

In this Holy house

Where the curtain of the night

Ever so tightly drawn

About this mortal coil

That is nothing but a veil of tears

Flowing toward the eternal river

My own private Golgotha

The reason I am here

As I can never walk a road

With any other name



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Gone Fishing


With tie askew

Duffel bag full with

Already forgotten homework

The bike shed beckons

I run to mount my trusty steed

That has waited patiently this day

Beneath corrugated rusty roof

I launch myself through iron gates

Across the road

With lollipop lady's screams of danger

Ringing in my ears

Bah! What little she knows of my indestructibility


At breakneck speed down London road

Along the twitten by Martin's house

His highbrow mum who put him

In cotton wool

Looking down upon us lesser beings


Up the cul-de-sac hill

Across the green and into Orchard road

Not far from home now, not far

My head bent low for greater speed

Hoping no-one will break my journey

Up the path

Deposit trusty steed beneath

A shiny, front room, stripy curtain window


And through the open door

That magic smell of cakes

Cakes that have just been born

Assails my senses

My Mother, angel faced

Rosy cheeked, and flour stained

Kisses my forehead

Enquiring of my haste

"Fishin" I mumble

Through mouthfuls of 57 spaghetti

And I hear distantly through my thoughts

Of Roach and Rudd and things

Something 'bout ' intergestion'

Whatever that is

But, it is only ever mentioned when I eat

So, prob'ly not too dangerous


To the shed

My eight weeks pocket money

Paper round, and butcher's boy, fishing rod

Gas mask bag stuffed tight

With Granddad's reels and floats

And keep net


Off up the garden path again

On trusty steed

"Your homework, what about your......."

Fingers crossed I shout

"Avent got knee"

"Ricky, don't be late, you know that dad......"

I wave and nod as her voice trails off

Into the sunny distance


Along the twitten now

Past upset tummy, crab apple tree

Straight into Mr. Macintosh

Carrying his mackintosh over his shoulder

As he always did

I tangle in his dog's lead

Nearly depositing me in thorns, and nettles

He curses me, as does his dog

He'll tell my father, so he says

As he told me when I broke the windows

At Erin Manor

Long forgotten dream home

I have no time, time for this, I have not

I escape to his "Dew ear?"

Close call indeed


Down the stony lane to my pond

My pond by Elizabethan palace

It floats 'pon the sunlight

And takes my breath away

I sit with baited line

And baited breath

The dappled, half past four afternoon

On dragonfly wing

By moorhen nest

The basking Carp and skimming Swallows

Bulrush haven

Bobbing float, and view across the gilded meadow

That is why

I was born



All rights reserved

Return to menu


The Fisherman


Black Rock strand  where raging storm had lashed and cursed

Not many hours before the howling Banshee wind

Enough to take my thoughts away for good

Cold cold rain that gripped my eyes and throat

With spiny fingers deep

Reassuring crunch of shingle

Oil drum Bamboo treed bedecked with rope aplenty

Graveyard for a million plastic bottle

Disposed disposable lighter that could have been there always

Cuttlefish rusty tin foreign name detergent box

Like ornaments in a trinket shop

Waiting for a buyer


Amid the driving haze I catch a breath

Laying so still white white socked

Too bright it seems not normal

Yellow oilskin polo neck

I wonder where his  sea boots  are

His hair so neat as if just combed to meet his maker

It is as though he will rise and tell me not to worry

All is well


And I can see his young girl's eyes

Auburn tresses in the morning light

Waiting for their daddy to come

Not yet knowing that he could not

And his lady hollow shiny faced

Sobbing as she knows one day this would happen

Her intuition plucking at her very soul

As seagulls scream their harsh lament

Above the whitewash cottage chimney smoke


And all that knew him would soon come

To gather with respect

And tell each other

'What a waste!'


I want to take his hand

He looks so lonely

But as I see far deeper than all flesh

I know that now he is serene

And at last peace as Heaven's mantle

Does close eternally round

The fisherman



All rights reserved

Return to menu



To watch life standing

On these stone cold steps of time

Looking far into

The gathering pool

No thought for birth

Or death

The melancholy rhythm

Lingers on


Reality suspended

By a golden thread

Take heed

Oh! you fragile

Would be riff-raff

Who would seek to enter here

Upon some concocted errand

You minions of

A lesser creed


For it is the hour

Of absolute confusion

The ever present butterfly

Of knowledge

Keen playing

On a magic flute

Beyond a fingertips reach

Upon some windy bough

About to snap

Beneath the weight

Of curiosity



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Erin Manor


Where Erin Manor stood

Amongst the gravel stony path

By the woolly mammoth pond

Where  warm fir tree waved

'Mid  summer breeze

Of ban the bomb sign

Lurking in the blackberry shrubbery

And pear tree grass snake pond

With landing craft

Took root unto the bank

To greenhouse wilderness

Outgrown eccentric vine

Rusty pipe and drip drip tap

Where callow youth

Wild eye and tousle hair

Misshapen scrumping jersey

Sways in secret tree camp

Of never to be sure

If some remain within

This manor cold and lonely

A deep and melancholic

Yearning in it's soul

The brambly nettle army

Ever marching on

To greater glories



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Ship Of Fools


In all its elemental

Dark and weary form

Complete and ordered

On this ship of fools

We see but nought

Save only merest baubles

Playthings used to entertain

The greedy lunatic child

That stands upon the prow

Looking at nothing

Hand firmly planted

On the engine of desolation

Believing once and for all

That he is the master

Of this ungodly vessel

Drooling grinning

Beneath the tattered

Blood soaked sails

That flap within

This soulless mayhem



All rights reserved

Return to menu


 Blechkoller [Tin Can Frenzy]


Out far in Mid-Atlantic mayhem

Jumping wire encased in ice

Safety of the concrete pen left many leagues astern

The screaming wind so loud to wake the dead

As if there's not enough of those

Reposed on Davy Jones locker

The crew below on U-107 or U-505

Uncertain whether death is the next step

All wishing to be back home in Bremen

Freiberg or Koblenz

In time for Christmas

Sometime never

A letter home a book to read

The same line over and over again

Kurt tells the old old story

Of the girls back in port

That he has known


Dive dive dive

That sound that I have dreaded

Rig for silent running

Terrifying silence

Louder than any depth charge

Every second one hour long

Knowing whoever is up there

Can hear you breathing

White knuckled in the close confines

Of this iron coffin


And did I see a spot of water

Around the tight tight rivets

Of the battery compartment

My own sweat turns to ice

Upon my crawling skin

Not that Not that

Please God not that

Sea water mixed with battery acid

Makes for the Devil's spawn

I stand knee deep in swirling water

Wondering what in Hell I am doing here

How this has come to such a pass

No longer knowing

What I am fighting for

Or caring


The hunter now the hunted

At one fifty metres and diving

The only men that really know

How deep is safe

Before the hand of God will crush

Will always keep that to themselves


Onward ever onward

Downward ever downward

Breath choked tight upon

My sunken chest

Oh! sunny days

Where are you now?

This boyhood dream

Heroic feat

The thought that I

Could save the Fatherland

Still ringing in my ears

Onward ever onward

Downward ever downward



All rights reserved

Return to menu



O Pilgrim

I see you walk world weary

On stony belated highway

All injury forgotten

The sharp and seasoned claw

Of reality

Outstrips the paper dream

That never could be


In truth cold lit

The far seeing eye

Of this stranger in a strange land

Will hold no candle

Upon this wild domain

O how I have listened

For a message that I may heed

And take to be mine own



All rights reserved

Return to menu

The East Side Of Town


On the east side of town

An old man lies by the market place

He moans and shouts into the wind

And grasps uncorked bottled demon

The seagulls answer back with harsh cold voice

And hang against the wind

Going nowhere

On the east side of town


On the east side of town

Where the lonely weary buildings

Hang their heads

About to cry

And citizens who left this place

So long ago for warmer climes

Their grey and granite faces

Care for nothing

Too late to dream

Or shelter from the soulless rain

On the east side of town



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Another Sunday


I sit by the window

And watch the ever expanding day

The rushing wind

Exciting in it's urgency

The cold grey sharpness of the morning

Echoing the pain of humanity


The angry gulls tossed here and there

The rain relentless in it's search

To cleanse the earth of all men's sin

Dancing trees that point

To hidden message

That lies buried

Four score leagues and more



The low dull skies

Caress the rooftop chimney

Cloud burst hissing at the window

Like the noise

From a snake charmers basket

The water stained sun

Struggles to appear

But fights the losing battle

And so begins

Another Sunday




All rights reserved

Return to menu

War Bride

          Isabel  Sharpe


The cold afternoon

Cheerless sunlight rays unnoticed

Through chintzy curtain

Jimmy's picture sitting

Lifelike on the old polished sideboard

Calls a welcome to all whom enter

Parrot perched upon his shoulder

The only one to understand

Both now casualties

Oh! God who let loose the dogs of war

Poor Jim never to understand

A spirit much too gentle

For this degradation

Refused to stay to see the final outcome


And yet this house seems empty

Save for the comfort of the gentle ticking

Mantle clock amid ghosts of lighter times

Isabel her heart so pure

Waiting patiently for small news

Of her Leslie

Her Leslie on who's motorbike they  rode

To freedom on Box Hill and near

Her Leslie who the telegram conveyed

Was lost this day

On ancient hill

In Greece


The last few unconnected pieces of a life

Wallet blue leather

L.J.C. gold engraved across one corner

Felt so strange to hold

As if  so to do

Would make him reappear

Bronze Heroic statues

Two of them

Wrapped in folds of cloth

A present for his Isabel

Now meaning so little

And everything


She sits and stares

From window that has no view

The cold curly smoke London afternoon

Evening creeping over wall and sill

She can hear him laughing

Far far off that laugh

Knowing they will be together

One day

Some day


In the brittle hours that pass

All wonder and amazement cease


Like forevermore

Amid some far off time

Unvisited untold

Indifferent now

The mantle clock ticks ever on




All rights reserved

Return to menu

La Haie Sainte


The road to La Haie Sainte

Where gun carriage cart track stench of death

Will curdle blood

Fly ridden unrecognisable bloody corpse

That should have been a friend of mine

Polished buttons

No longer important

To a mothers son

Who should have formed squares  against the lancers


The drummer boy 

His  eyes no longer shine

 Wishing for an Angel

To carry him away

Before the pain set in

One minute more to watch

The blue blue miracle sky

As the black and carrion crow

Alights to feast upon

Another comrades eyes


No spoils of war will matter

All know that Satan breathes upon

A once magic placid place

Now soiled with the terrifying blood of Glory

That is man's greed

And uncertainty


And still

The desperation soaked drummer boy

Can not reach the farmhouse door

Clutching at the heaving throng

His once proud tunic

Soon to be a tombstone

His drum now tossed aside

As just another instrument

Of war


He now knows that all is too late

With tears of realisation

Burning down his unkissed cheeks

Still he tries to gain

The fleeting sanctuary

That is

La Haie Sainte



All rights reserved

Return to menu



After the dark and murky

Pudgy  golden ringed tainted fingers

That are the pickpocket of a mortal soul

And the Vaticanish drooling for your well being

Have been burnt at the stake of reason

After the Buddha has turned to dust

And the Jewish mayhem ritual

Of the fear that might be Hell

Ceases to be of import


After the Jingoistic Taleban

Islamic time bomb

Has been defused forever

And every blessed Christian

Has been thrown to the lion of inconsequence

After every Presbyterian Protestant

Amish Shinto Shaman

Have followed their lemming path

And each and every blood stained priest

Has been consigned to the underworld

Of their own creation


After every church and shrine

Built solidly on the foundations of sacrilege

By the emissaries of fear

Has been stripped of the leech of self righteousness

That is when

I will get on my knees

And thank God



All rights reserved

Return to menu

Blue Moon Over Cairo


This is the village of Abu sir in Egypt. Being there,

is like being in a different time, and dimension.


When the river of dreams

Touches my soul

And all is of desert night

I feast upon the omnipotence

Of all whom serve thee


And I sit

With unknown fulfilment

Unable to tell

In taking in the midnight air

For I can see

A blue moon over Cairo

So I must pay  my just respects

In Abu sir


As I wait

For bright eyed Bedouin

In lingering cigarette alleyway  abode

Wrapped tightly by the night

I catch

A blue moon  over Cairo

To guide the wandering spirits

to their unknown destination


© MMX1  R.Sharpe


All rights reserved

Back To Top