Copyright © 2018 Roland Karl Bryce


Every word, ‘Wort, mot, parola, palabra’ will have a different ‘whole-meaning’ for you, to me, to them.

For some people, a word that you use may be foreign, ungainly and misinterpreted. Some words stem from images, feelings that are primed and ready. Others may appear distorted and hewn from the ‘word-trees’* that you associate with events sewn into your own very mind’s eye experience. 

When I was a young boy, I ate an apple. Later in my sleep, I vomited and nearly choked on the fruit. Thereafter my word association had changed forever. For many years the mere mention of the ‘apple’ word made me feel sick and I avoided eating them. These days I am not bothered but there is a primordial connection between the near death experience and the fruit. Such is the dynamic nature of language. 

The word-tree grows and is your personal timeline of life. Nobody really understands things exactly the way that you do, since YOU are unique. Little wonder then, that we struggle to talk to people in our own language let alone a foreign tongue.

Every word, ‘Wort, mot, parola, palabra’ will have a different meaning for you, for me, for others.

For some people, a word that you use may be foreign, ungainly and misinterpreted. Some words stem from images, feelings; we use them, primed and ready, to communicate these thoughts and feelings as best we can. Words may evoke a  distorted imagery hewn from the ‘word-trees’* that you associate with events woven into your unique mind’s eye life experience. 

When I was a young boy, I hungrily ate an apple. Later, in my sleep, I vomited and nearly choked on the fruit. Thereafter my word 'association' with the word apple changed forever. For years the mere mention of the ‘apple’ word made me feel sick and I avoided eating them. These days I am not bothered but there remains for me a lingering primordial connection between my near death experience and the fruit. Such is the dynamic nature of language. 

The 'word-tree' grows within you and is part of your personal time line of life. Nobody else really understands things exactly the way that you do, since you are indeed unique. Little wonder then, that we struggle to talk to people in our own language let alone in a foreign tongue.

Poetry: The Wordsmith:

the 'word' problem

Composer vs. Poet

I sometimes shock my College students when I pronounce with mock authority that “of course, songs are not music”. We argue, and they, become quite irritated; some seem bemused, some amused. Once the definition is perused and suffused thus: every word that is sung creates a different story to each and every one of us. 

‘Song’ as defined by dictionaries is words set to music. 

Music is loosely defined as “vocal or instrumental sounds (or both) combined in such a way as to produce beauty of form, harmony, and expression of emotion.” 


Karl Jenkins, a very successful Welsh composer, owes much of his fame and fortune to his popular cantata called Adiemus. The lyrics sound intense and charming, African, Latin, Asian & perhaps South American? Actually, they have no specific meaning whatsoever. They are ‘vocalised sounds’ and they do indeed produce “beauty of form, harmony and expression of emotion”. The sounds don’t have to mean anything as they are ‘pure music’: here, the voices are instruments and there is no implied logogram or syntactical relevance. The listener can read into the words what he wants, but once again, there will be an urge within to make some sense of the vowels and consonants.


There is a pop song written and composed by Lady Gaga: Poker face. In english, ‘poker face’ is described “an impassive expression that hides one’s true feelings.” I heard this song being sung in Manila where the audience was in stitches: ‘poker’ in Tagalog and other dialects sounds like a colloquial word for a part of the female anatomy we had best leave to the reader’s imagination. :-)

My Poetry?

Is a collection of thoughts and considerations that I started to write latterly. Prior to this I did write Lyrics with relative ease, setting them to relevant song, melody fit for purpose where music and words are welded and blended.

I have set these poems in a page on my website and regularly re-visit them to fish for words that 'fit better' what I was and am trying to convey in words. It is a kind of slow-cooking poetic Sudoko puzzle and when a better expression or individual word crops up, I edit the text accordingly. I hope you enjoy what is here, if no more than a few lines that you are welcome to steal should they suit.

Little Moon

Little moon zoomed his way

across the bedroom window,

in super slow motion,

as I snoozed in blinks.

His face streaked each pane

and found mine, wane.

Here a plane stabbed his neck

and he bled: cotton wool clouds

from the deep, gouging,

aluminium-inflicted wound.

I heard him sigh.

Don't cry little moon,

there will be clear skies again,


The inner-child

Giggles and fidgets, intrepid explorer, never still except to look deeper, within.

Makes silly faces and plays on the silliest of words.

Exaggeration, is his mind's expanded delight and in said images, exaggeration startles the child, he stalls, absorbed.

All beauty and wonder are the child's dominion and loving without question, for his soul is mild.

Juvenile and given to unreasoning, feeling from the heart, this inner child, so easily hurting, flees from the darkness.

Music captures his very essence, a sweet refrain, a chord, a tone.

This honey made by the ''musician bees' 'will pierce his little heart with total ease and replenish the playful spirit of the inner child.

The Yew-tree Arrows

Poison me:

I can take it.

Thus the immortal bubble is duly pierced.

I can leave it.

Take my chances in the realm of the Hubble.


Poison me:

I can shake it.

I can pretend, but deep inside I am going insane.

Yet, I am so blessed for there is love in flowing waves with each infusion.

They carry me swaddling-wrapped in my Moses’ crib,

as once, for sure my 'baby self' knew.

Tears well up from dry, dry, empty ducts and we cry together, me,

and my breaking body.


Poison me:

I understand, the cold creeps down towards my hand and and back to my shoulder, where the Erlking rides upon my nightmare stage.

The clattering hooves, my heart beats out the drummer's rage, the battle within.

The guts may churn, the bones will burn.

Fireworks sparkling from every nerve.

Sensations, abound and evil portend.


Poison me:

I am strong and proud.

"One more time", I think aloud? No, twice.

For I am the piper, the tuneful, the brave.


Poison me:

But spare the dose.

The universe sighs, I am morose.

This depilation, castration, degradation, mutilation of the man.

The taste of death and lard so rancid.

E'en fresh water, like oil, is slick and putrid.


Poison me

It makes no odds,

For such are the ways of witches, and goblins.

In delirium I feel the poison-tipped arrows.

A common Yew? The archers fire their nano arrows with longbows at my bones and marrow and St John's wooden arrow flies and breaks

my fall.

No Suffering

There is no suffering here, no pain at all.

No Birkenau, no Auschwitz, no Sorbibór.

You sweat it out, you bear the fall.

Each pretty rhyme will chime,

a distant peal will call your time.

Not yet, not yet, stand firm, be strong.

Your mind reflects for your heart is strong.


'We' chat late at night:

I chat to Him, to Her, to It.

We chat each night in silent thoughts.

We do the books, the household accounts.

'Twixt good and evil the ins and the outs.

"A healthy profit under the ledger" He, She, It, assures my anxious soul.

The animal inside my body howls, inside this stricken frame.

I turn to sleep and hear the rain.

For now we stay, for now we will remain.

Schubert's Songbird

The Schubert songbird sings and you may hear his call.

A most plaintive ballad with melancholy turns of phrase.

F minor so sad, F major? It seems almost glad now, take flight.

Then watch the peasant trudge, as heavy clay clings underfoot.

The four-hands, a fantasy, a journey so valiant and courageous.

Fair wages for his labour? What more might a man hope for now.

The Schubert songbird sings forlorn: "Franzl, come hither, it's time you rested, time you slept a while, your song is sung."


(some strong language)


What is this driven 'sex', this urgent need that drives the human race to feed and gorge upon lust, the savage desire? Debauchery, if needs be even, how obese with immorality, and a perversion of the soul.

To contemplate the human quest to find a mate or a 'fuck, for a fuck sake'?

Suppress the hormone, the man to castrate, to stand before, to stand "pro state". To lose desire, to lose the lust, the urge to copulate, the urge to fuck.

Yet still to love and, finally now to comprehend what love truly is.


Did you forget that angels do come to fetch you and carry you aloft, just like it says in the good book?

"How do you know?" ((We hear the skeptics refrain.))

Oh, you will know, you will know.

And while they fly and take you safely, with speed increasing, your soul releases with total ease and natural submission, a little fear, a muttered prayer, for sure.

"Don't be afraid, don't worry", I hear them whisper in my ears so clearly, as we fly, fly, to the great beyond.

"You are loved, you are loved, you are fine, you are safe, you are safe, there is nothing to fear."

The light is bright just like they depict in the movies,

but only brighter and purer than any light that you have seen before. 

The scene unfolding as we enter a gigantic floating edifice, a circular 'Cathedral' full of beings of light and there is love, love, love just like the song said: "It's All you need." And there is music surrounding everything, a celestial chorus golden, silver and sparkling light in everything.

It was quite a dream.



The essence in seconds, in glimpses, ephemeral but real.

We crave, we rave about, yes we crave the beauty revealed in the moments of dreams.

The stars, the trees, the life around you, the sweetest nectar delivered in song and melody, caressed by chords so simple.

Beauty resonating at its fundamental.

The Gift

The Gift

Here, take this, it's a gift just for you.

I would give you gold, frankincense and myrrh, of course.

It just wasn't to be.

We can share music, art

and the sacred dance for free.

But somewhere there is a cost.

We can share love, nature,

the mystery of numbers

and unlock the great portal

with 3 chords

and a melody so plain, from the heart,

if we sing, it will heal our pain for free.

But somewhere, there is a cost.

Little Death

Little Death

We sleep so soundly - calm and seven hours fallow.

Resting, the breath now shallow inhaled.

Seldom a care for where we go except for the nightmare, "no, no, no!"


No worries, you know it was only a dream, and all is not what it seemed. So real, yet so false.

It haunts us again in waking moments, this dream we live and the rôle we play.


In deepest rest our soul resets - the memories of the trivial - and some regrets. With hindsight so clear our insights restored and forward through time our journey so bold.

The Composer

The Composer

The silence before, the curtain rising, and now the first pulsating measures.

The motif unlocks our reluctant heart and with subtle charm it moves across time: the narrator of tones, telling us all, revealing a brave new world of sound.

The notes before, the notes of the now, the notes to come: each measure ploughed in caring furrows.

A strand so sweet, so deft, such drama, with beauty replete, or anguish discreet, leads on towards the final cadence. Tones that are plucked from the sky like Papageno and his birds of paradise. The revelation of the divine is within these sounds and the tone poets pay a hefty price for the privilege of delivering, alas, the composer's lot.

The Snake

The Snake

The snake succumbs to each rhythmic cycle, as if frozen, then writhing slowly, yet slithering forwards.

Now gossamer, shed,

New likeness revealed, akin,

New skin, inheritor of the next, the new, the kundalini leads on.

Life force pushes its spiral timeline, unravelled and searching, twisting forth.

The Waiting-room

The Waiting-Room

The magazines, their images, the Royal gloss, the smiles the 'squinches' and ideals beaming, fake with each weary turn of the cursory page.

The waiting-room is full, so many souls: dejected.

Deepest sorrow etched in furrowed brows their panic barely concealed.

We wait. We wait, for minutes or hours, for weeks, or months even years. This is the 'waiting-room' where all appointments are kept in the end.

So many acts of kindness you will see inside this waiting room.

Child of Mine

Child of mine, child of mine,

let me hold you safely now.

Hold your honour in this vow.

Rock you gently with loving arms.

Child of mine, child divine.

Set you free to soar upon high

I hope and pray:

that your journey be safe in its unfolding.

Savouring the moments, the drama, the beauty, the joys, the sorrow.

The fears, the tears and challenges of your tomorrow.

Your gentle soul grows and moves into the light.

Child of mine, child divine.

This Home

This was never my home,

never a place to remain for long.

Never a feeling that I did somehow, belong.

Where the mountains jut

with their ragged salute


and, where the tall pine

trees cover my skies:

that is my home, ma Vlast

and there we can lie

in stillness and calm

for a long and peaceful time.

The Shite of the Modern 'Norm'

The Shite of the Modern Norm

(some strong language)


The 'crazies' are lost in the jungles of the norm.

Frantically, searching for the keys

that they dropped along the footpaths of vagueness, beside the estuary river at low tide.

"Rive gauche, rive droit, rive gauche? Rive droit?"

they ask aloud in their crazed humiliation.

With maddening stare,

they glower at the moon's rippeled reflections in the water:

"Little moon! You stole my keys!"

the 'crazies' lament to the distorted luminescent waves. "Look up here!" says the man in the moon. "I have your keys!"

Beneath the quagmire, the silt,

the detritus, the shite of the modern norm,

so many keys lie lost in shallow graves

waiting to be dredged and returned to the careless children of Code.

The fiscally obese locksmiths

refuse to cut them a new key,

but the teacher, the poet, and the 

the Muse emerge to unpick the confusion

and open the portals to the sea,

where the tides follow the moon's constant refrain: breathe in, breathe out.

The Body

The Body

Another ache, another nag, a new sensation from within.

The ensuing panic startles again, and the brain is in self-scan mode, magnifying each and every signal with a deepening sense of malaise. From first division by random spermatozoan, through pass after pass, through embryo, to infant.

Struggle on to bipedal heights and now this flaw to break the spell, the magic of each living cell? Whether from toxic tainted taste or scent, the cells divide and agitato the divisions unfurl a deviant plan to slay the man from deep within his carnal frame. My body groans, my body moans, it knows the score, it sends the signals throughout the bloodied land: "Defend and heal by Royal command!" Each heartbeat thumping the drums of a war within.

For until now you have done me proud and housed my soul with love and care, save for the odd tumble or storm. So, fight, therefore : Fight! Fight ! Fight !

The grappling and struggling within, the mortal coil at times gives in and we lose the bond that glues us to this troubled dimension.

The cells continue their crude division while DNA plots their mutant shares.

Losing Touch

Losing Touch

Touch, touch, touch.

I hugged my father all those years ago,

yet I feel it still. I feel his sadness,

his weary brow, his tears held back,

his broadening chest.

A weather-beaten sailor,

more willing bent to shore.


The clinging child, or the lover's embrace,

the warmth of our soul,

entrained beating of hearts,

strong embers of faith, of love, of hope glowing boldly in the darkest night.

And then, there is touch.

Your close embrace,

the holding of hands, the clasping,

gentle caress, the smoothing of face,

the eye to eye, the skin to skin, grateful tears held back, in vain,

the honest gaze.

By now we are ships in the evening mist. Touching, gentle touch, loving touch.




The child of three

held his arms out to me

and I cracked deep inside my soul.

5 lanes of dirty traffic

driving me mad from my ineffectiveness.

The pleading eyes, the stare,

my nightmare, the fumes the squalor.

In the gutter she lay,

his mother, his ward.

This broken icon of caring.

I tried to help in some small way but my driver, explaining the futility, the scam.

back to my hotel bed, my cradle of western affluence and shame.

Shame on me, shame on us all.

(Manila 2009)




The sibling cells in rival struggle, pretend to love, simulate their care. They hoodwink each other with poker face glances revealing no glimpse of their true hand, their greed for survival and who can blame the hungry sibling cells ? '

Tis all for one and one for all, the battles that rage in the silent hours. Sweet harmony eludes the flailing telomeres and derision awaits their bravest plan; such is the curse of the sibling cells, 

so smart in their costumes at the masked ball.

The Southover Oaktree

The Mighty Oak

I have seen the beauty of the bygone ages one hundred and 63 rings might prove:

From empty skies to fire-spitting rages, bombs that fell from the 2nd Armageddon. Where now were you during all of this great struggle ? Each season came and went so readily without your meddling. 

Many a lovers’ hopes I heard and I listened while their children played beneath my crown. 

This humble garden, set so deftly, respite from the growing Lewes town.

Upward stretching a heavenly quest my oaken branches, meandering sunwards, greedily seeking the great temple light.

Each new leaf in brightest verdure born, acorns, beige egg-cups: their wisdom awaiting a hopeful chance to begin. 

This Oak, for one, is safely planted from deepest root to highest twig.

The frozen madrigal singers hopeful song drifts upwards from the regal carpet and I basque in the beauty of their dolcé falala last refrain: 

Sing, town-folk of Lewes and thrive in harmony with all your lungs' delight!

The Prayers

Do you hear the prayers?

Not the empty repetitions:

reverberant against empty cathedral walls.

But the silent thoughts of hope,

the anguished cries of despair.

Directed at the force within,

or without: the snare of our very being.

They deafen the true listeners across the globe.

With each diurnal twist,

awaiting celestial collection and delivery,

of the mutterings combined in their plaintive chorus: reaching the collective unconscious force of Herr Jung.

We stare into the abyss while hoodlums gargoyles and evil dragons roam our peaceful paradigm with threatening glare.

The iPad Zombies

The iOS zombies, head down and bowed, receiving the Zuckerberg bullet from the Zeitgeist Luger in a Global forest, ditch dug and ready.

The Android morons feel smarter, yet, in their complacent identical pose:

Heads down as they walk, as they work as they talk as they drive, as they drink as they eat and ‘baa’ at fake news, shot from the Zeitgeist Kalashnikov spraying the crowds with bullets of Orwell’s biggest fear: The rats of Apathy.

A selfie beams their wanderings, smiling sweetly back in political Death:

inaction, no reaction just acceptance of the norm:

“Je suis Libre” malheureusement , “Non”

Perambulations drifting to an intellectual graveyard where the casket awaits to bury their creativity and freedom of thought; 6ft under ground, in some cool-room server.

I lay a flower for their demise

In a poem.


The iOS zombies bow their head

in new age prayer-pose

to the Google-God oracle.

The wisdom of all humankind obscured by folly and deceit

The Android moron with complacent grin and thumbs all a fumbling towards the high score of the dumb.

Even here they cheat and feast on fake glory,

with Trump-like glee.

Woe is me.

Night Shadows

Every shadow that we cast

melts from present to past.

While street lamps blare out their fanfares of garish Sodium brass sheen 

And we, grow, elongated, aliens: 

walking on the canvas of the random penumbra.

Our mood emerging from the fog and gloom: 

“follow me shadow, by all means, do” 

We make haste to return to the light and life, 

up the steps to our home for now,

where the warmth of a bed keeps you safe from the gloomy muse

of the shadow world.


Famiglia, running scared...

My dream was full of woe, of tortuous anguish;

A busy dream of doing things.

“Wrong, you’re doing it wrong”'

My brothers chastised in their usual refrain.

Again and again, throughout my life,

their alpha male refrain and shameless disdain

soaked my ears, the drummer’s skin,

this cruel uncaring next of kin.

This lineage, royal, to whom my bond is pledged, sworn, loyal Knight, Sir Roland of Bremen.

“Wrong again, you’re doing it wrong”.

The glue that binds a family bond can set a trap at our feet,

a doe in vicious snare, reduced to panic, with maddened stare and shivering rump.

Its racing heart thumps in fight or flight will surely burst its mortal breast.

Same blood glue that love eternal beckons, that mother, father, uncle reckons: their archetypal judgement lessons of ‘survival of the fittest’. “Do this, do that, do this, not that!”

A unison chorus, to pave your way, to save you. Tis “man’s cruel dominion” indeed.

I tell my brothers, loud and clear: (for in our dreams there’s now’t to fear) “I’m scared of you, I’m scared of you!”

The dream stops, “Cut!” the director of my reality shouts, subito, awaken, shaken and the punchline: ringing in my ears: “I’m scared of you”. That was never in the script.

The Mirror

I mourn for you and you, are me.

What will be, will be: ‘...sera, Sirrah.’

So much more to see and to learn and love”:

to love all gracious things

from the secret vaults of wisdom.

Each rise and fall of your living breath,

the sea that laps upon the shores of your being.

Here, Dowland’s falling tear motif,

wicks on my pillow in somnolent grief.


More solace to seek in the music world, such beauty.

Perfect beauty intoned in cadences, the dying fall.


The silver-lined corridors to the infinite

reflecting the sorrow, or inner plight.

The narcissist may take comfort, in your '47 nitrate' illusion,

a self-possessed young man indeed.

We All Pass

We all pass...

Every man woman and child

Born and living, reaching their final hour, fading to nowt.

So much talent, so much wisdom, so much skill.

So much learning, so much; wasted and erased by the sands of time.

“Ars lunga vita brevis”, hence the urge to write it all down. 

The artist's brush, the paint, the stares, expressions locked on the canvas, 

or a crafted lyric sung with hardly a care mocking the melody for second place.

Images that stay alive beyond your short lease my good friends. 

In our greater plans: our mini empires crumble, eroding with us, 

average actors in the generations' scenes.

The Shadow Souls

The shadow souls don't give

- they take.

They growl,

with urban, evil timbres -

leaving panic in their wake.

Their ego,

leaving eternal ripples across life's lake

where the softies may easily drown

in fear of these shadow souls.

No light, no warmth,

no comfort given.

It's take, take, take.

- a burnt-out charcoal greed-

forms shadows,

beneath their empty stares.

Avoid the shadow souls

at all costs, avoid.

We Are All Weirdos

You’re a  weirdo, I can see you,
cuz I’m a weirdo just like you, and you, and .... you.
See the weirdos, with their hairdos, and their weird tattoos:
inked taboos, up their arm and down their neck.
Death-skull, icon, serpent slithering scythed by the archetypal sword and stone
Angels of mercy, wings full-span, eagle talons in swooping pose, clutching.
A gentle rose, a bearded visage.
Piercings, the metalificièr desiring the unique.
Rings through nose, studs through tongue, or cheek, in every facial fold.
Her pincushion body, Sebastian’s arrows of death, striving to be me, striving to be me.

You’re a weirdo, I can hear you:
Growling gravel voice, quasi satanist strophes disguised by low-shelf filtered stanzas from the darkest thoughts of inhumanity, I hear you, weirdo.
I hear your chanting above the death-wall of noise, distortion, bitcrushed, metal-malaise ostinati in fire storms of sound.
Go stoke the fires of your chosen Gehenna, what you invoke, evokes a new reality, just for you and you and.... you.

Here come the skins, no real meat on their shins, in calorific deficit their hewn face braves the cold and wind. Clothed in clinging lycra layers, these Goretex TM weirdos gather and race apace. A healthy glow radiates with oxytocin as the engine kicks in. But at night they feel the cold to their core.
Here now the fatties, trapped in a onesie of obesity, ensnared.
Day upon day, upon month upon year the layers laid down in subtle transmogrification and inch by millimetre your triple chin evolved, sucking triple thick chocolate shakes and munching on cookies and cream delights.
Eat, eat and eat some more, super-sized brings riches to the corporate whores who lured you into this comfy legal brothel of hormone perfumed sugar rich addictive food. Shame on them all.

Larry the Stormtrooper never fired a real gun, locked in his virtual world of war and enemies, high scores and cheats. He’s died ten thousand weirdo deaths on the his-res screen, reincarnation at a single button press. Oh Larry wake up, wake up and go for a walk to see all the weirdos you might have killed for real! And they have no guns to harm you back.
You’re a weirdo, Larry, lost little boy inside a gamer's toy world: look out Larry. “Behind you! Behind you !” Game over. New high score for your weirdo online mystery enema.

The bikers thundering past in Harley exhausts their trumpets roar, but these guys love the machine, keeping it clean, spotless even,  Hell’s Angel is a code, a regime where honour abounds in a weird way you might say, and you and you and you.
Zombie apocalypse, Vampires, ghouls, weirdos who lust after decay and pools of fake blood, to practise their make-up expert skills. Have you seen an open corpse on the mortuary slab without frills my weirdo dears? Formaldehyde perfume turning guts, churning redolent stench of death and decay.

Then, weirdo plastic people, with thank-you-doctor nose, in selfie pose; no bumps or ridges, just huge rumps of silicone-copy flesh and breasts to suffocate their lustful paymasters. Oh plastic people, such a sorrowful state, love yourself, love yourself, not the scalpel's paring.

Vegans eating only plant, no animal, no living thing, nothing to hurt.
They say cabbages scream like slaughtered cattle, falling on deaf ears as the knife cuts head from root. They say, they say, these bastard scientists in weirdo white-coat holy regalia, the new priesthood of theoretical physics with self-assured dogma: who develop the potions that poison the bees with weirdo neonicotinoids, create weapons ready for terrible war. Big Pharma stifling our doctors and nurses: in the line of their "Do no harm, do no harm" duties, fuck-ed up weirdos, CEO's all.

To every gay, every lesbian, every trans-gender in waiting: Society apologising, making amends, Mr. Norman Normal, changing laws and all the weirdos can have a ball, removed or transplanted at great expense while the anguished sick, face queues for months on end.
Enough, my pen cites such shite, no more, if you feel a tad less weirdo than before? A weirdo grin appears on this poet’s chin.
Weirdo hairs on his chinny-chin-chin.

The norm was born of the statisticians yearning to control, to predict, to pronounce. Bell curve of the bell-end experts who serve our governing masters with such drivel, their Grammar school ethos, social control with utilitarian division imposing fate inducing hate from within their core:  spreadsheets stained with the bodily fluids of the homeless, the abused, the impoverished, the unfulfilled: now, weirdos banished to the sides of their graph. “He was a weirdo” will be his epitaph.

Boy to Man

You were falling - somewhere -

Mother caught you just in time,

and held you safe.

With a safeness that you will never feel again,

not even in your sworn lover's arms, in coital bliss.

This, your mother's warm embrace,

arms that protected you and her voice that reassured.

With such reassurance, close to your ears,

that you'll feel nowhere else;

not even in your sworn spouse's arms in wedded bliss.

You, were crying and the tears pooled

on her breasts and your sobbing

rescinded, entrained with the steady rise and fall of the salt sea that you wept upon the shores of her maternal chest.

She, is gone.

This now your paternal warm embrace.

Arms that protect your infant offspring

and a vow unspoken that reassures with such reassurance that you recall once again,

from your infant self deep within.

The Visitor

I saw you, clear as day, well, and 'alive' in the twilight world of dreams. 

You watched me as I stumbled and found my feet, floating, drunken somnolent and confused.

"Gosh, it's you?" I say, as I recognise your soul in perfect 3D. "Yes."

And then, you were gone.

How bizarre the animation of our brain, the cerebral illusionist, supreme.

But somewhere, locked in unconscious realms we continue or so it would seem; in photo-negative, black and white, pre-developed not Chromatic.

How very strange these visitors within.