Spectre At The Table



wrote the book you live by


every chapter


versed the violent

lived the calm


the unknown angst 

that haunts at dinners


asks for answers


knows you are

for every claim of



 I am


I am the you 

you are the me-ness

the other side of we

that works on pause 

and wonders why

 and guesses


am I doing this 



or alright

going with what comes naturally

with flaws


identical in sin and saving graces

alternate side of wishes

wants denied

the spectre at the table

soon diminished

when questioned

who are you

and who am I


I am the ghost of 


and after


the filament of

light that blesses



the saving thought that questions

shall I

shan’t I

the conscience 

that demands



Depends On Your Butter

Depends what you want, I suppose,

Doesn’t it,

Kids with a conscience

Or count,

Counting the pennies,

Own fortune,

Or cognisant of those

Doing without.

Depends where your

Bread has been buttered,

If jam was an option or not,

If pieces fae windaes was favoured

As three square or four with the drop.

Depends on so many factors,

Depends on memory, I guess,

Depends on whether

You’re fortuned

And want for others no less.

Depends on trying and failing,

On seeing failure as lessons well learned,

Depends on hope, love and sharing,

So dependent on how your butter was churned.