Err, Ere, Er

Err in life to consummate its knowing,

Hello to all mistakes that guide the way,

Adieu to all perfection, we’re still growing,

I know, I’ve made and learned a few today.

To criticism, ere your learning’s over,

Debunk the myth that says that we should know,

Er, I think not, else I’d be a corpse here,

I’ll f*** up everyday so I can grow.

On it as we speak.  😉


The Right To Weep



I have no right to wonder or to wait here,

That was another life and this is now,

To warrior, I was your woman,

Our weaponry the words we did avow.

I have no right to question or to grieve still,

Through ages past and all the years to come,

By river over yonder in the valley,

I, willow, weep for days we were undone.

I had no right to put down roots, hang on to

Promises we made so long ago,

Time rushes past and it has all but stolen 

The gift of you, the man I used to know.

I have no right to make this dedication,

You’re gone and I should make my peace with grief,

But here I stand as shelter for all others,

For lovers who all weep yet still believe.

Little Pods Of Lots

so you gave a little

took a little

little was enough


it maximised

love and all that stuff

little was the knowing

little were the ways

little chance to see much through

in all those little days

seedlings planted

little pods

of lots – capacity –

loving growth

from little words

from me

to you

to me




Thoughts on ‘The Book Thief’

He came and stole the words she loved and hated,

In his pocket, while he gathered up the souls,

Confounded, over- under- estimation,

Humans with their fatal faulted goals.

Concentrating Nazis, all those people,

Compliant, in vicissitudes, they blamed,

As Death patrolled a world of colour flaming,

Where only very few were ever named.

The nameless marched and shuffled, sockets sunken,

Scarce of bread, more scarce of liberty,

Scapegoats for moustached aspirations,

Pillar-scourged by Christ’s humanity.

Muslims now, where Jews, or maybe black folk,

Gays perhaps or aborigines,

Red-skinned, each condemned in one stroke,

Pointed fingers back at you and me.

Death patrolled and wondered while he captured

Souls before they fell, he held them tight,

Whatever had they done and why the rapture

Of others he would meet one day or night.

Munchen times, the Dachaus and the ghettoes,

Golan Heights, Great Plains, upon our streets,

Look no further for the scythe or saviour,

Everyone we meet and how we greet.

Sickle thoughts while reading and to living,

One rush of air we’re gone, he passes on,

Steals our words, our actions, as deposits

Comes and goes, collects and moves along.

Banked eternally, all of our choices,

No choice for death, he does as he is told,

A Book Thief gifts her love, compassion,

Death carries secrets all should be foretold.

The Book Thief