Wounding words.

You lashed and you slashed, with your evil in words

And you cut my soul till it bled

Your barbarous tongue and poisonous screams

Left me balanced on the edge of the dead

The cinders and ashes of the flames that had burned

When passions blazed high, but now spent

And I turn my thoughts from there and to here

To these desolation days of repent.

A tale

I sat in the shadow of a palm tree

The edges of it’s shadow hardly fluttered

No breeze today

Just heat

A locust sat in the sand at my feet

I looked at it

It didn’t look back

It was busy doing locust things I guess

A black goat came lolloping along

It came from somewhere behind me.

It seemed to be shaking it’s head and shuffling it’s feet

Reminded me of an old song by Manfred Man.

The goat was heading for the locust.

This will end in tears, I thought.

The goat stopped, directly in front of the locust

It’s nose a fraction of an inch from the locusts eyes.

Shaggy black goat and long green locust

Staring at each other

Some sort of Mexican stand off

Neither moved.

I thought that maybe the goat was considering eating the locust

And I think the locust was thinking locust thoughts

Maybe wondering where the rest of the plague were when you needed them.

After a while the goat tired of the game

Shaking his head and shuffling his feet, he sauntered off.

Maybe he said goodbye as he left, but if he did, I didn’t hear it.

The locust stayed where it was.

It’s eyes seemed to be fixed on the desert.


A hot date?

The locust second coming?

I guess I would never know.


Away to the left stood a wall

A white wall

In full sun.

The whiteness dazzled.

Against the base of the wall, there grew a bougainvillea

It’s gnarled and twisted trunk grew from the dry, parched soil.

The trunk looked dead

And yet

It gave way to a dense, green, foliage

That sprawled heavily against and on top of the white wall

And within and without of the green cloud of foliage

Masses of blood red flowers hung

Scarlet against green

Green against dazzling white

Startling visual contrasts.

As I looked, a single blossom

Fell gently from a branch within the bush

Swayed as it fell

Like a butterfly dancing.

It came to rest in the sand.

Scarlet on ochre.

The locust didn’t seem to notice

Still lost in locust thoughts.

Maybe it was a locust lama, meditating.

The fallen blossom stirred

Tugged at by the gentle breeze that barely existed

On a still day like today

The blossom rolled slowly


A tiny splash of colour in a world of ochre.

It settled for a moment

In a hoof print left by a shaggy black goat

But not satisfied

It let itself be lifted free

Guided by unseen forces

It began it’s journey

I watched it.

Sometimes it was carried, sometimes it lingered


Then it would dance in circles for a while

Then onward

Almost out of sight

Almost out of mind

The blossom and I had crossed paths

And now our journeys continued

I watched as it became a speck in the desert

It was already dying

Soon it would be trapped


It’s colour would fade

The petals, now silk, would dry and crumble

Turn to dust.

Mother Nature will welcome her child home.

And somewhere on the bougainvillea

A new bud will open it’s eyes


Watching the blossom set out on it’s  journey

Had reminded me

Of a time a while ago.

I had been alone

Walking on a beach

The sounds of the sea, cleansing my mind


I found myself thinking

About Heaven and Hell

About souls

Idly posing the questions to myself

What if?

Do they?



And why?

I recalled reading somewhere

That every human at the exact moment that death occurs

Loses 21 grams from their body weight.

Never 20, nor 22 or 23.

Always 21.

This was always supposed as proof of the existence of the soul

And that it weighed 21 grams


I have no idea

But the thought appeals to some inner belief

Or hope

That I harbour.

I said goodbye to the locust and left.

If the locust said goodbye to me, I didn’t hear.







Seeing Red.

It’s easy to think you are drowning

When you simply forget how to swim

It’s hard to see in the distance

When the street lights constantly dim

When the smells and the touches desert you

It doesn’t always mean you are dead

It’s not always that straight is straight forward

Or that red lights are always on red

There is time to take stock and look backwards

Time to light candles for their glow

There are times to go softly and go gently

And times to go quickly and slow.