When the pen takes control.

As the high white clouds drift through the air

standing on the hill below them I see a fair

with it’s helter skelter and tall big wheel

the inner child in me makes me feel

romantic, nostalgic because In truth

I could never resist fairs in my youth

bumping cars, caterpillar, music and lights

a source of great fun for both young and old alike

Occasionally I must confess

I dream of acts of wantonness

where suddenly without warning I get the urge

to couple with a lady, our bodily fluids to merge

Wet, still dripping from the outgoing tide

the white limpet shells nestle neath the slime

under the feet of those who lift their heads

to watch the new sun rise, having said

their last heartfelt sad goodbyes once more to

wives, friends, husbands, sons and lovers who

although with regret may leave their family

to spend time with a closer company


So we boarded the Northern train

in howling winds and stinging rain,

the guard, his  duties now performed

gives one last cry of all aboard.

checks all the carriage doors are closed,

with green flag raised his whistle blows

as if some giant devil’s sneeze

our fiery steed, his power released,

above our heads luggage overflows

where dim bare-bulbed lanterns softly glow

we settle in the deep velour seating

comforted by the piped steam heating


upon leaving the station far behind

we catch the rhythm of the lines

windows sealed keeping out the chill

the rhythmic, rocking, motion will

enfold us with it’s gentle charm

as we snuggle into the well-padded arms


after eight long hours the race is run

to our right we glimpse the rising sun

our destination now not far ahead


where reluctantly our journey ends


and sadly we’ll depart the Northern train


counting the days till we ride it again

With every careful step I take

the crackling grass bends low and spreads

and each footstep in my wake

not white but dirty brown instead

The world is not sure what it can expect

for in the greatest country in the occident

there will shortly be another President

One invading boat on shore

very soon becomes a swarm

It is the year 734. The first snows of the darkening season have left their traces on the ground. Corin and Cora, the conjoined twin daughters of Somanbul, the Silent, as joint Commander of the Northern army are troubled by recent reports of wind waves and tremors in their vicinity.

A story told in red and gold

of seasons change, increasing cold

through Autumn, life prepares its bed

for deep slumber through the dread

dark days of the waning sun

till Winter with her icy grip

and frosty flicking tongue that nips

at glistening nose, dark paws and claws

of those who venture out of doors

in search of food or just for fun

Neath the old oak tree they lie

leaves once green now brown and dry

branches tangled, twisting reaching

upwards to the Autumn skies