In Prison Street, behind each wall,
they live their separate ways:
the people who are powerless,
though free to count the days.
Subject to indifference
they must endure alone;
subject to the awful truth:
their worth is what they own.
They cannot buy their happiness,
though they search in every store.
They purchase what they think they want,
but what they want is more.
This is the cell that pens them in,
to which they are resigned;
the freedom that they think they seek
keeps them all confined.
Said the crocuses,
said the catkins on the tree,
but the frost said no.
I’m in a dark place,
yet I can hear my pulse
so I’m free to leave.
to loan sharks. Top predators
have to improvise.
Why heat two homes throughout the day
when in turn they could be shared?
One day yours, the next day mine –
the bills we could be spared!
We’d both get richer, and even warmer
and, now we’ve learned the trick,
we’d share a car on shopping days,
cut those fuel bills quite a lick.
So much waste, so much expense
in wasting what we need.
Mankind is living frugally;
I’m recommending greed:
Who doesn’t want the extra cash
that sharing more would bring?
The economy of scale, my queen,
makes every man a king.
And the notion could be wider spread
with locals spending less,
coordinating more and more;
the alternative is less:
Less spending power, and less control
of our separate, modern lives.
So let you and I get organised:
that’s how the species thrives.
“Some roses, mommy, for Valentines,”
her little darling said.
She kissed him on his rosy cheek
which turned a brighter red.
Later in the garden, though,
her rose bed in a mess,
she wept as any lover would
but didn’t love me less.
That summer was so long ago,
but well-remembered still,
and I recall so vividly
the view of Beacon Hill.
So long ago, and far away
but lingering in my mind:
the boy must educate the man
perpetually, I find,
reminding him what he once saw
so clearly in that view
of Beacon Hill on summer days –
the deeds that he would do!
But now the winter howls outside,
throughout the coldest night;
my schemes are frozen in the ice;
my virgin hopes are white.
Will I ever dare fulfill
that golden vision seen
as I gazed at Beacon Hill
when summer days were green?
away. I’m sure his car
used to be bigger…
Imagine a world
where a perfect sky is grey
but often just black.
I will not forget this evening solitude,
the view of the lake’s distant shore
and the future that’s too far to see.
I will not forget. And so it was.
I’ve returned from that distant shore
to find this solitude once more.
A cold, silent dawn.
How sadly the robin sang
as the light faded.
Garden in the rain.
Fizzy flowers quickly fade.
Lovely, just the same.
As Titanic sank, the maid saw
a lost boy, as rich as scared,
in need of an angel.
Her panic left her
and she found the peace she gave
as the ship passed into legend.
Should the music stop
because which note would be best
None but you can stem the fate that’s yours
or make it bloom. You may think it is wise
to let the reckless pass through open doors
to tempting dangers. But, here wisdom lies.
If you have life, there is no risk in living;
If you have hope, you’ll need no luck at all;
If you’ve a heart, your happiness is in giving;
If you’ve a dream, then wake up to its call
or you could wait, as in a lonely grave,
for dawn that never comes, an endless night
of rotting soul you did not dare to save.
So seize your fate, and join the merry fight.
Treat life as war, or peace will not be found
until they lay you, coward, underground.