Dream triad






1)    Entrance.


Grotesque impressions

flashed before her mind.

Forms which moved
through shadows.

“I feel faint,” she thought
“but can’t give in.”

cold vastness
beyond her frightened face.

From where an updraught blew.

Its source:
that entrance
like a grave.

Steps slanted down.

What passageway was this?

She found a door
yet froze.

As if held back
by clinging vines.

Or some malign narcotic
slowly weakening
her will.




2)   The click.


With sounds of falling
dim light blinked.

Then motion
came closer.

Unknown shapes.

She braced herself.


And heard

the click.





3)   Ivy.


The door had shut.

Trapped there
groping round in darkness
hands brushed ivy.

Massed leaves
meeting fingertips.

She tore a large
old spider’s web.

While fear
her heart.



It seemed

a long





she had been









Hello everyone!

This poem dates from when I was 19.

For me, it marks a period of using poetry and music (learning guitar) against depression.
Which had marred my previous year.


(Art on the blog is mine. I hope you like the painting?)

Comments are always VERY welcome! 🙏


Thank you
for reading.





The virus mentioned last week has flared up again.
Brain fog, exhaustion, and pain are making writing difficult.

But life would feel even lonelier without blogging.

Best wishes to you all. )


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Toward the Moon






This intermission
of eternity.


Soul’s fragile wings
attempting flight.


Wrenched matter shapes us.

Under stars breath.


With black
for a colour
I cover some wounds.

When speech sounds hollow
from these lips.

And dreams dissolve
in gentle nuance
like farewell.


One tries to brush
such moods aside.


As prayer ascends
toward the Moon.


An ageless













The piece above is my first teenage poem, written at age 16.
No others survive from that year.

(Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?)

Comments are always VERY welcome!

Thank you for reading.




(PS: Am currently going down with an unknown virus.

Feeling feverish. Aching so much, even writing is painful.

Thought to keep blogging as a way of not giving in.

Being already unwell and isolated, my anxiety levels increase when new illness attacks.

I have enough food for a few days, but no support available, if things get bad.)



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City night





How I loved the city night

When fit and young.

That sense of something wild
beyond an edge.

This mind, alert.


In early hours.
Past corners turned
on silent streets.


Those sounds
from hidden creatures
taking fright before
my tread.

Heard so quickly
crashing through
the undergrowth.


I saw dark bushes twitch.

Yet glimpsed no sight
to show which
kind lay
lurking there.
Among damp roots and earth.

With keener eyes
than mine.


in our human realm
I sought one female

Some renewed chance
to feel need’s thrill
aroused along
these limbs.

And catch a trace
of scented


To taste life’s feast.


Or just

be preyed












Hi all!

This sprang into my head as I gazed across the city, just before midnight.

Thoughts of the early 1980’s.
Walking home from clubs, at 3 a.m.
Still hoping for adventures.
(Which never came.)

(Though I saved an unconscious fox from traffic, once.
And carried a stranded toad to safety, on a river bank.)

I had no real idea how to attract women.

(Now it’s too late, anyway.)

These days, I fail at attracting people via writing, instead.


March will mark a third anniversary of the site.

I’m unsure about carrying on blogging, after that.
(Stats give little encouragement for continuing.)

Comments are always VERY welcome!


Art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?


Thanks for reading. 🙂



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scan 22




Said not just
at a passing year

But for my last decade.

(I won’t survive to end the next.)

I’m quietly drifting out
toward a closing dark.

Its cold seas wait.

They’ll drag me from
all light.

Through depths that
none escape.


While looking back
upon a life
now seen as largely waste.

Youth’s foolish thought:
“There’s always time…”

Left any gifts
so long neglected.


the chance
to track their thread
round fate’s labyrinth

grew faint.


Then lost








Goodbye constant blogging?


Wanting this blog to grow, yet finding stats stay almost flat for two years:
I may take occasional Sundays off, in 2020, and try a different approach.

I read social media could help increase an audience, but have never used it.
Does anybody know which platforms are best for poetry?






My new year started with an extra health problem: Serious internal bleeding.

A doctor told me I should’ve gone straight to hospital, and may need transfusion.
(I already had long-term, unexplained, anaemia.)

He said that I could die if it happens again.

Was instructed to rest. (Probably shouldn’t be writing this post.)


Feeling really anxious, drained, and alone, at present, folks.

Clinging to the comfort of routine.


Please wish me luck.


Comments are always VERY welcome! 🙏



Thank you all for reading.



I intend to blog next Sunday. So, any lack of post will be a bad sign.

Afraid I have no-one to update you on my situation, if it deteriorates.)


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The Aunt I never had





Thinking of her

the family’s dead).

A little girl
I never knew
who would have been my Aunt.


Grandparents didn’t discuss this.
The pain remained too deep.

A daughter taken
by diptheria.
Aged just five.

When fearful poverty
delayed their seeking help
until a crisis stage.

Then doctor’s fees were paid in vain.

They blamed themselves
for hesitance.

Though not much could be done
to treat such germs
in 1929.


Next I recall
as a teen
Granny’s cupboard hid
(below stacked papers)
one fragile yellowed page.

On which a childish hand
had practiced ways to write
and sign
“Kathleen KATHLEEN


But the fragment later
became lost.
I don’t know how
or why.

Today our world
contains no trace
of her.
a birth certificate.


Yet, sitting here
I brood alone.

Still wishing we had met.

Or that some photograph

And ponder if
those eyes were
(like mine)?



At least these lines
revive her name.

The only thing
my art can save.


From cold









Kathleen Webber  1924-1929.




Hi all!

Some of our ancestors believed the dead prefer we continue speaking of them.
I had that in mind when writing this.

My own name could soon disappear, once I stop blogging.
(Being last of the family line. With no-one left to mention it.)

My grandparents were very poor. They went in fear of debt. Before state welfare.

Coincidentally, I also live on the same street my grandfather arrived at, over a century ago. After he fled the coal mines of his homeland, aged 14.

So I may end my life on the exact spot our (local) family history began.

Though, as remnant.
A lone, forgotten, man.


Please let me know if you think the piece works?

Comments are always VERY welcome!


Thank you for reading.


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Pictured flesh





Desire torments
long solitude.


Like a scrape from
tiny nails.

Inside my prison
formed of skin.


Illness showed sad truth.

Where I’m just stuck
existing prospectless.

When also badly lacking
vigor’s poise.


But sexual hunger lingers
by default.


Athirst for beauty.
Not portrayal.

Left observing
pictured flesh.

These lovelorn eyes
can only scan
across dry surfaces.


Or grieve a
once-touched body
now far gone.



I breathe, disconsolate
at silence.

Seeking mumurs held within.

As day drifts away
through hours.


And word’s varnish

on loss.







Hi everyone!


Above is the last of three poems (see “Lost words”/”Necropolis”) found on a single sheet, which lay forgotten, amid unused printer paper, for 27 years.

They all date from that one dismal March day in 1992. When, feeling ill and depressed,
I forced myself to write, breaking a barren spell.

(My illnesses remain incurable. And not much has improved, creatively or physically.)


I love to get feedback, via blogging:
so please do let me know if you think the piece works?

Also, any art on the blog is mine: I hope you like it?

Comments are always VERY welcome!


Thank you for reading.


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In that place where
bones lay sealed from light

Some footsteps echoed.

Were they mine?


I tried to flee.

My heavy tread
rang loud through
the necropolis.


But then I
anxiously awoke.


these tired eyes
joined another dream.


soon filled with fear.

Haunted by cruel laughter at
this unloved
distressed face.


I sought a window
for fresh air.

While grief barred exit
to full life.

(Despairing spirits
don’t ascend.)


my mind next

(sleeping on):


If I was just

in night.


Or night



in me.












Hi everyone!


Above is the second poem, from a single sheet found hidden in unused printer paper.
Forgotten for 27 years.
(The first one appeared as last week’s post (“Lost words”).)

It arose when I attempted to break a barren spell by forcing out some lines,
while actually feeling too unwell for writing.

Unfortunately, with my energy drained by chronic illness, that scenario has been repeated across three decades, now.

Blogging presents similar difficulties.

I also struggle keeping morale going, as stats refuse to improve.
Thus, every Sunday evening I post, then go to bed.
And most Monday’s show how futile were any dreams, of increased popularity.


Having edited and uploaded the bulk of my past output, I’m considering whether to continue regular blogging in 2020.

(Given the lack of feedback from others: I assume no-one would miss my work?
Please, do let me know if you might, kindly, tend to differ.)
Comments are always VERY welcome!  🙂


Art on the blog is mine.

I hope you like it?


Thank you for reading.



( anxiety / art / blog / blogging / depression / dreams /  life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Lost words





Yearning again.


For some magical
shift in thought.

Or even just
crude verse.

To send
emergent heat
along those veins.

But I stay

Confined with
burned-out dreams.


Yet wishes

caverns of existence.

Sensed (once more) disturbing
on cold wounds.

Where pain pervades
this skull feels
thin as paper wings.


And I gave
one quiver.
Through the

my meat.

From that
old spasm
called a soul.

soundless space.



Though hopes

had died down
long ago.


Leaving only

few lost


Which are



in search




of a











Hi all!


I found a single sheet of poem fragments hidden (inside unused copy paper) for 27 years.

I’d forgotten it.
But seeing them took me back to
one day in a small, mouldy, ground-floor flat, near a river.
When I tried forcing myself to write, after a long barren period.
While feeling ill, aching all over, exhausted, lonely.

Yearning for beauty, inspiration, energy.
And, yes, of course: a female muse.

(Which has become my usual state of being, through at least three decades.)


I hope you like the piece?

Comments are always VERY welcome!  🙏   🙂


(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you for reading.



( anxiety / art / beauty / blog / blogging / depression / life / mental health / poem / poetry / reading / thoughts / writing )

Gratifying cruelty




He wrote the word “crackdown”.

Envisioning a huge heel
which crushed some parasite.

Best not mention any resemblance to a jackboot.
That would never do.
The sneaky media inflated such details.
Especially from government spokesmen.

Similar problems curbed rants about “scum”.
When veering toward despotic shadows.
“Adolf ruined it for us. We can hardly show our balls,” he grumbled,
“Or get the juices flowing.”


Released bowel gas
spread sensations like a warm eel
uncoiling round his pants.
But he ignored anal distraction.
This unruly orifice, too often disrupted thought.


His department planned intensifying policy.
Cutting payments to the sick.
(Cloaked by its usual rhetoric: of “helping”
and “reform”.)

A renamed “Wellness scheme”.
Seeing everyone “reviewed”.
All declared “fit”.

He hoped the badly ill might just give up
or kill themselves.
Ability to mount appeals
“revealed” more health.
Should courts (despite instruction) rule in claimant’s
favour, automatic “reassessment” must occur.

Via long forms so elaborate
and framed with legal threats
many quit before the end.

Recurrently retesting.

Til the weak began relapsing
at the sight
of official letters posted
through their doors.

“Relentless pressure.
Wear those bastards down!”
he jeered.

“Good riddance!

Whiny spongers
won’t be missed.”


One could enjoy a stimulating
sugar-coated cruelty.

he started writing once again.

“We shall create new hope,
and guide the lost
from welfare to wage slavery…”

He crossed out “wage slavery”.
“the dignity of work”.

(Pious lies were safer options.)


Discomfort sensed
he raised his leg.
A hot fart ripped across the duvet.

He sat up, eager.
for an odorous afterglow.

Yet sniffed in vain.

“Damn! The bugger’s gone to ground.
Like a furtive vole.”


It was growng rather late.

He put aside both pad and pen
then flicked the lightswitch.
Turning off his reading lamp.

“A job well done.”


He lay and smiled.



by a gratifying











Hi everyone!

I’ve lived 32 years in fear of large official letters arriving.
They are almost always bad news.

Being unfit for work, due to chronic illness, left me dependent on the state.

Underlying anxiety never really ends, while sick, alone and poor.
That “safety net” is only a decision away from letting you fall.
(If having no family or friends, to keep one off the streets.)

Though (being so unwell) I was, eventually, granted benefit “for life”.

But then “reforms” abolished it.
And now all payments have ceased.


Comments are VERY welcome!

(Art on the blog is mine.)


Thank you for reading.



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Losing my uncle





A phone rang through my dream.

I woke to darkness, hearing sound persist.
Reached the living room too late.

No message. Number unknown.

Who’d call at one a.m.?

I fell asleep, again.

By dawn, a recording has turned up, after all.
My uncle is in hospital.


I arrive on the ward. A nurse asks our relationship.
“Nephew: next of kin.”
“He’s been telling us what a lovely person you are,” she says.
“Must be taking strong meds!” I almost quip; but,
unsure humour is appropriate, only emit a subdued


Ray halts eating dinner. Complains about stress.
“Finish your meal,” I say, “I’ll go and have a word.”

Staff wheel his bed to a single room, I’d noticed.

“Wow! This is more like a hotel. Own lavatory. Lots of space.
How did you manage it?” he exclaims, delightedly.

Being intense in his enthusiasms, future visitors would endure
loud praise of my resourcefulness.

I imagined their eyes glazing over.



Discharge dates revised, his stay extended toward seven weeks.

One evening, as I readied to depart, Ray’s face changed.
Looking oddly young and vulnerable.
A small, unfamiliar-sounding, voice implored:
“You won’t forget me, will you?”
“Of course not,” I answered, tenderly.
His hand, that had clutched mine, relaxed.

A strange impression rose, of having glimpsed some inner child.


A few days later, gripped by an abrupt urge to visit, I suddenly stopped.
And found myself talking softly, as if he could hear me.

“Ray, I don’t want you suffering any more. I know you have to leave, soon.
There’s no need to hold on, just for me.”

Ten minutes passed.
The phone rang.

A matron from the Cardiac unit says Ray has died.

“When did it happen?”
“Ten minutes ago. He quietly slipped away.”


Blue curtains surround the bed.
Behind them a nurse declares,
“I’m going to give you a nice wash, Raymond. Is that OK?”

I felt briefly disconcerted.

“Excuse me!”
She peeks out.
“I’m Ray’s next of kin.”
She allows me private moments.

I kiss his cold forehead, one last time.

“So sorry not to get here sooner for you, mate. Late as usual. Hate to say goodbye.”

I lift his lifeless hand.
Then place it, carefully, back upon the blanket.


I walk down shiny corridors.
With Ray’s belongings stuffed in carrier bags.

Trudge out, to chill November air.
Squinting at car headlights, amid bustle and noise.

Irredeemably alone.
In a city full of people I don’t know.






I had four weeks to clear his flat.

“Here I am again, Ray!” I say, stepping inside.
Light fell on his favourite chair.
I half expect to find him sitting there.
Everything is as it was.
Yet he is gone.

I kiss the spot his head would rest.
It has no scent.


Before obtaining a death certificate, I detour.
Along St Thomas Street, where he was born.
This day’s for him.
I brush each post and wall with fingertips.
The road’s deserted. No one sees.

I am hallowing the ground.


As I exit the register office, rain begins.
Seeking shelter in a covered market, I scan local papers.
“Day of the dead,” their headline reads.

Ray sought coincidences. I cannot show him these.


Back home, my mind replays our conversations, on the ward.

“You’d hold my hand all the way to the shops,” he said,
“and talk to everyone. Full of life. A joy to be around.”

“I thought I’d always been depressed?”
“Not til your teens. Once you gave up art.”

I asked his earliest memory of me.
“I came in from work, and there you were.
A baby. Lying, peacefully, on the sofa.
It was love at first sight.”


Thus, hand in hand, we neared the end
of our long togetherness.
As he moved beyond my grasp.


(Meanwhile, I could now anticipate
a bleak decease
without shared family stories.
No bedside visitors.
Nor human touch.
Or child.

Having failed to win a woman’s heart.

An experience for others.
Never mine.)


Next, recalling when
he’d gazed into the distance,
sighed, and said,
“I wish you’d been my son”.

At which
we both fell silent.

Ray, who often talked profusely
lay, just staring upward.


Here the silence seemed
quite beautiful to me.
I didn’t want to break it.

Then Ray gave my hand a gentle squeeze.


And this is how
I’ve chosen

to remember him.







R.C.H. Webber (1923-2017)







Hi everyone!

I’m blogging the above work to mark the second anniversary of my uncle’s death,
this week.

Apologies for writing an unusually long post.

Comments are always VERY welcome!

(Especially on such a personal piece.)


Thank you all for reading.


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