“Entwined”, “Admiration” and “Trip away…”



Maybe I was cold last night
seen the ghost walking my grave
talking whispers…
sharing the space I’ve saved for you

lets go to the edge together
stare down the abyss
crying on my shoulder
living out a life without regrets

black olive love tarnished by no future
take a long lingered look
you don’t know what it’s like
living out of somebody else’s life

dreading each tick of the clock
every wither or waver bringing the next tock
all I want, is to hold the you of us
to stop, stay, be forever

we have dreams, hopes, a need to pray
for please, can’t you hear my pleads
a turning back, the slip away
far from the last, doing it now, doing It fast

the mist drifts heavy over the hill
blocking out sunshine, stealing my maybe’s
but the views clear, stood on the precipice
for as far as I can go, seeing or…….

together we came, alone I’ll return
as you slip my sweet sleepy away
loosening the grip, clearing the mind
save me a space
in the beloved place
for our always entwined.


As sure as passing a mirror
observing a shadowy ghost
as sure as passing a mirror…
viewing all disliked the most

I see first her youth
confidence with which she strode
a fleeting of my day
pleasantry to behold

we crossed again next day
I recognised the stride
taking time for watching
trying see her eyes

I pass the lake beside her
being on my way
her back turned out from me
did not diminish my want or
need to stay

she smelt of innocence, virtue
contentment’s without desire
dappled with a Monet’s brush
voluptuous strokes of admire

watching hers a liberty
to contemplate me any other
than a mere droplet in
her vast admirers draw

age, weight and presentation
valid reasons for rejection
non the less, still painful
but this vision merits a younger attention

a subscription I relinquished
too long ago to be recalled
I embrace that reality
knowing no chance, my way will fall

remembering my youth days
sketching the pictures of appreciation
but the natural law to nature
means only a distant admiration.

Trip away…

James Joyce slapped my
face in Dublin’s fair city
“wake up man” he shouted …
I don’t listen, to a Joyce of regret

liking the words, forming wounds
intending to remount the horse
write only as you know
describing the world for all

construct a literary of depravity
now your betrothed, with an, I do,
rattling out words to the beats of Bukowski
a totally tee, contradiction
prohibition inducing clarities release

Impressed? You should be,
deck shorts, casual shirt, attitude to match
giving gallons of the flame grilled
barely baking the hot potato

risking the sanity and taking of knocks
Temple barred by the hilt
seeking out the craic,
with an inspirational green machine

inspiring the flushing out of crap
we salute you as we sing
trip away sputum unseen…
trips away…
trips away…

About the Author

Stephen Miles

53 Diagnosed dyslexic at 47 playing catch up, love Bukowski write my own words my own way, like It you have taste, hate It - thanks for dropping by.