Let me have this moment,
To crumble, Slowly fall away,
And disappear on the wind.
For I am frayed,
Past holding together,
And must unravel.

I want to fold up but,
Not gracefully like as a fan,
I shall crumple like paper,
Collapsed into,
An ever smaller ball,
Until I am gone.

I crept up on myself,
and slowly pulled away the rug,
Now I tumble down dark hill.
I’d wash away
But I can’t drown the fears,
When tears will not come.

Probably doesn’t need explaining much this one, things just get on top of us sometimes, this is about that.

He was a lad most handsome,
Though you’d struggle to know.
A veritable Samson,
He let his hair grow and grow.

No hair dresser was permitted,
To touch his golden mop.
He was committed,
To never visit a barber’s shop.

His mum and dad tried their best
To get him a trim,
But he ignored their request,
He wouldn’t even put hair clips in.

So as he grew in aspect,
And up and up he shot,
The over all effect,
Was that of a dandelion clock.

Yes, on grew the shaggy mane,
Until one fateful day,
There was a hurricane,
And the wind carried him away.

Another silly one, my eldest has been cultivating a pretty shaggy mop. Looks pretty good on him truth be told.

Things, they fall apart.
Without care,
Without constant attention,
Entropy sneaks in.
Eroding, corroding,
Time conquers all.
Either because
The ask is too much,
Too late,
Never comes,
Or the sand,
Simply,
Runs
Out.

Apologies, this is late, thought I’d set this to publish and did not. This is a little about interpersonal relationships, but also a bit of muse on political matters. Everything you gain, needs to be maintained, as recent events show…

Old England’s ghosts,
Sailed on a salted sea of tears,
That drip from every monument,
Each brick mortared by blood and bone.
Of people stolen from their home.

Old England’s ghosts,
Rode on crimson waves,
A bitter ebb and flow,
Sugar then cotton bled them dry,
Lives drained away upon the tide.

Old England’s ghosts,
Are waiting, restless, still,
Memories wrought of flesh and iron,
For the sea that bore their pain,
Can never wash away the stain.

I’ve been reading Eric Williams’ Capitalism and Slavery. I’ll simply note that his book wasn’t published in the UK for decades and even all these years later we believe the myths of abolition rather than the facts.

It says here,
That a better world is possible.
Amid the pages,
We dream.
Great authors tell us,
What we know in our bones.
If we stacked these tomes end to end.
We might reach the very moon we strive for.
Think on the height,
And weight,
Of ambition,
How can we not be more…

There was a boy who simply would not,
Use a hankie to catch his snot.
His parents would constantly issue
A mandate to use a tissue:
“You’re all bunged up, you’ll get a cough,
Have a blow, we’ve had enough!”
But no matter how they implored,
Their pleas would simply go ignored.
Then, one day he couldn’t take the load,
One final sniff made his head explode.
“Well, my boy, you’ve only yourself to blame,”
Dad said, “he won’t do that again!”

Another parenting one, try as I might I can’t get any of my children to blow their noses unprompted…