Pluck And Fuck

There’s a weed grows wild in my garden,

I kill it but it still survives,

No poison or potion imagined

Can quell it, it lives though frequently dies.

It buries beneath to find nurture,

It spreads out, could take over the land,

But I prune it with shears every morning

Or else it would get out of hand.

It’s a bugger that haunted my growing,

Taunted whenever it could,

I bought all the pellets, I cropped it,

I did what I was told that I should

To stifle its errant persuasion

For no one can live while it feeds,

It sucks all the flavour from living,

It thrives as can only a weed.

I looked again, freshly, one morning,

I hated its sight in my eyes,

Recognised world and its worries

And my nature combined fuelled its lies.

I wept at the weed, strong despite me,

Forgave it its nature and face

But begged for the chance to grow flowers

In most of the wide-open space.

I became gardener to flowers,

To roses and riots of blooms,

I decreed weed was unwelcome,

I accept it but it gives me some room

To be all the me that I can be

For inside of the weed there’s a charm,

Understanding its nature, accepted,

I refused to be controlled or be harmed

By the power of depression that fixes

Into crevices, people and place,

I chose to be happy, I still do,

In spite of the weeds that I face.

Its not all a garden of roses,

It’s not all a wasteland of weeds,

I plant what I can, where I can,

How I can, and hope is the best of my seeds.

Now I see gardens where both grow,

Possession is nine-tenths the law,

I pluck them, I fuck all the stranglers,

Rose-tinted with a hopeful hacksaw.


I recognise that there are many types of depression and that not all can be addressed by a shift in perception. For me, it worked. It was either that or live on anti-depressants. The world depressed me and is still capable of doing so. I choose not to let it as best as I can. With hope and fight. And every tool at my disposal – sharpened.




They can lend confusion to illusion,

Fill their bucket up with acid rain,

Erode the hope with holes, always half-empty,

Then whinge the whine to hear themselves complain.

They can take, from distance, and from closer,

Syphon off my positivity,

Tell me I’m a dreamer, they’re a realist,

Well, shucks, that’s rich, I feel their negativity.

So, yeah, it’s hard, ’cause life is hard, no karma,

No luck, no change, ‘no nuthin’, their war cry.

So, suck it up, the train’s the same for all of us,

Just do it, this is life, just do or die.

I’m seeking out the people who have patter,

Some humour with my daily dose of politics,

Poets who encapsulate ideas, without depressing,

Essayists who rarely miss a trick.

I’m looking to the loving and the hopeful,

The serious, the humans in my midst,

Who can argue for a cause and give their reasons

And can do so without always sounding pissed.

I’m looking to the pictures that inspire me,

The photo journalists who see all life

Through lenses, filtered to advantage,

Depicting the beautiful that’s rife.

I’m topping up my bucket, mainly half-full,

Filling it to flowing with fresh hope,

Negating all the negative surrounding

Before I cut myself a length of rope.

I’m finished with the suction they enjoy so,

The leeching from my spirit for their fight,

I’m complaining here and then I’m through, for nothing

I can say or do is ever really wrong but never right.

Unfollowing, ’cause I am done with whiners,

Not the hurt who try and stoically march on!

But the people who can only peddle sorrow,

And share their pain as salve to ego torn.

My own fault, I guess, why did I follow,

Believing somehow I could ease their pain,

I’ve learned that only selves can change their own selves,

My presence there is futile, no one gains.

I must confess a luxury in dissing,

In doling out the lessons hardily won,

I’ve been there, no wish to recreate it,

Embraced a different mindset. Now I’m done.



Before the globe,

was there a flat map

of a flat world,

little matchstick people,

standing around,

afraid to fall off the edge?

Is it any less strange than

to think of us teetering,

stuck out at odd angles

from the sides

of a sphere,

like the flares from the sun,

each one

a gaseous wonder

breezing into air

and colouring


Reaching toward the

Karman Line,

trusting in the lift

and velocity,

to take us higher

than gravity,



reaching always;


to terminal,

thinning into 


inhaling negative 

and positive


I know I stand upright,

most days,

when I’m not flat on my back

or kneeling,

praying for

a world where

gaseous exchange is unequal

and trust,

as a commodity

in short supply,

is the only thing keeping us

sticking to the surface.

Polar Attraction

Two cry together

In separate rooms

But pride holds sway

Till the end,

Neither believing,

Forgiving, forgetting,

Where once, before love,

They were friends.


Tears on the flooring

Make puddles and pools

Each drop depicting

A scene

Of words from the past

And visions that last.

What happened to love

In between?


Why, when and how

Are the questions they ask

And answers, the two bent on seeking.

But comfort in arms

Rings bells of alarm

When neither of the two

Are yet speaking.


Such misunderstanding

When love is confused

And tears blind

What may be seen.

Too often two lovers

Hide under covers

When all it takes is

To say what they mean.


The games people play,

Without true intention,

Fear of hurt,

Resisting the action.

Dry all the eyes,

Open doors wide,

Meet half way,

To polar attraction.