An army of ants
moving as one in rank and file.

A glaring of cats,
affection always second to style.

A school of dolphins,
second smartest animals on Earth.

A cackle of hyenas,
laughing and screeching from birth.

A pride of lions,
heads held high, surveying their land.

A parliament of rooks,
judging us all from their towers grand.

An array of hedgehogs,
spread sadly as they are across the roads.

A pandemonium of parrots,
nattering on in nonsense prose.

A scourge of mosquitos
A murder of crows

And what of us?
A ‘what?’ of men?

A deceit, an attrition?
A pollution, a torment?

A plague, like insects?
An unkindness, like ravens?

A torture, a cancer,
a misfortune, a craven?

What should we call ourselves, when we’re en masse?
Or should we just leave, and give the world back?


Today’s Prompts

August 19, 2014


A hero doesn’t need
magical powers
or even great strength.
A hero is one who tries,
knowing they have neither.


Simple pleasures,
so easily forgotten or denied.
In truth so important,
for what is life without them
but hard work and misery?


I bleed not because of you,
but for you—
that you might know
the pain you’ve caused
and vow to be more careful.


If you wish to be my hero,
do not charge
to die for my honour,
but stay by my side,
and keep me warm.


As a hero,
it is not your duty
to hide your pain,
but to bare your scars
for the good of all who suffer.


Occasionally, he sifts his fingers
Through the ashes of a life long ago,
But all he remembers now is the fire.

Prompts by: @HeartSoupPoems, @ThatPoetrySite and @TheSavageHearts


October 22, 2013

He liked bubbles.
I remember that well.
They made him happy,
something about them being round.
Something about how a circle
represents perfection.
He used to say
that the world could be perfect,
if only we’d stop looking for flaws.
He used to say
that our perception defined our abilities;
that impossible was a boundary we created
for ourselves.
He felt that love was the answer
to all of the important questions
but that the world only cared
about the petty ones.
He felt that God was the reason
for most of the hate
and most of the hope
in most of the world.
In his early days,
the world didn’t know the truth about him
but eventually, that truth died
when he drew on the lies
and pasted on a smile
that didn’t reach his eyes.
I saw him painting in the dark one night
with only shades of grey.
I asked him what it was
and he said, heaven
and when he let himself bleed dry,
I prayed that’s not where he would go.
He liked bubbles.
I remember that well.

The Full Moon

May 13, 2013

With his back to the door,
seated, shrunken on the floor
in dim yellow light
and deep obsidian fright,
he listens to the heavy thuds
thumping hesitantly, unsteadily closer—
at odds with the beat of his heart
racing faster and harder.
The final footstep falls
just inches away from where he sits
and the door pushes against his back,
and as it opens he shuffles forwards.

And now he is running,
without looking back,
knowing too well what he’ll see.
In the distance he sees the full moon
that has brought the beast here,
and he runs towards the pale disc,
claws thrashing at his back.

Our brave adventurer runs on,
amongst the carcasses of those that went before,
those that could not outrun the beast,
could not evade its long arms,
but our hero is determined.
Ahead he sees salvation:
a black hole in the ground,
surrounded by gnarled, heavy roots.
If he can make it inside,
he’s sure the beast will not be able to follow.

The lion-hearted champion holds his breath—
he knows that timing is everything;
he steels himself, siezes his chance
and dives headlong towards the burrow,
not knowing what might lie therein
but sure nothing can be worse
than the beast on his tail.
He’s almost safe, almost escaped,
but he shrieks as he feels the thick roots
curling around his ankles.
Alive with evil—carniverous—they pull,
and he cannot resist their strength.

He is dragged from the tunnel,
arms outstretched towards hope,
losing his grasp more by the second.
Backwards he is hauled,
nothing more to be done,
and then the beast twists his body
to look at him.
He clamps his eyes shut,
to look is to give the beast what it wants,
and though he knows he has lost,
he refuses to give himself up.

He hears that dreadful sound,
the thing he fears the most,
as the beast unsheathes its blade.
And though he doesn’t understand it,
though it makes no sense,
he knows what is coming.
He whimpers as the beast impales him,
trying to control himself,
to hide his weakness.
He wants to fight it, even tries,
but he is just a boy,
and the beast is too strong.

Eventually, the poison-tipped blade is drawn from him,
but the damage is done,
its blight left inside his body,
and he wants to cry for his mother,
but he knows better than that.
He knows the beast will listen for his cries,
and seek her too, if it hears.
All he can do is stay silent,
and prepare for the next full moon.

He is just a boy,
but one day he will be strong—
One day he will win.

a quick note

August 24, 2012

I very rarely post anything on this site other than my literary work but lately I have gained some new followers and have been receiving more ‘likes’ for my posts than I am used to.

This is just to say thank you to all of you. I will try to get around to your sites too and comment, etc.

As it says in my ‘Licence’ page, feel free to copy and share my work through your own blogs, sites or publications as long as I am fully credited and please do tell your friends to check my poetry out if you think they will like it.

Again, thanks.


June 4, 2012

I’m falling again
Falling for you
For a time when
You were all that I knew
My favourite part of life
The cure of all my pain
I’m falling for you
Falling again


May 18, 2012