Blog Poetry

The Troll under the tree

I’m a Troll who lives under a tree.
Deep in the forest, just where I like to be.

I’m not a Troll who causes grief on the web,
just a harmless wee creature who likes his bed.

I sleep throughout the day until the sun goes down,
at which point all my friends come round.

You see I’m not the only Troll who lives under a tree.
There are many of us and this is where we all like to be.

While wandering in the woods

You never know what you will find when you go off a-wandering in the woods. I’ve walked through this part of the woods many times, but I’ve never noticed this strange little cave before; I say ‘little’ but I’ve no idea how big it actually is in there.

Unfortunately, the torch on my mobile phone couldn’t illuminate any more than a few feet in, and there are bars stopping any would-be adventurers from exploring any further. And since there were numerous dubious items scattered about the bars, I wasn’t about to poke about too much.

It’s probably something to do with ground saturation due to high rainfall, but I like the idea of a Troll or some other wee-beastie living in there.


The spirit within

Mother nature spoke on a whispered wind,
a story so sad of her children who have sinned.

I gave them everything, so she said,
life of wonder and the glorious heavens above each head.

A cornucopia for their bodies and nourishment for all inquisitive minds,
and when hubris became a virus I gave undeniable signs.

Yet willful ignorance and apathy are the paths that most like to tread,
no matter the sickening count of the dead.

Her words became like thunder which brought pain to my ears.
Listen to my warning, she urged, or the end will come within a few years.

This world is a gift that I gave for you all to cherish and hold dear,
It is not to be squandered, or my last gift will be fear.

You are but one creature among many, but all will come to dread.
Like the beautiful weave of a tapestry, life is dependant on every thread.

Look to the land beneath your feet, then raise your gaze to the sky.
Use the spark that I gave you because no one will hear your last cry of ‘Why?’

Your demise will be at your own hands, guided by your own conceit.
Time is the most precious thing you have, without a chance for repeat.

Insanity is all that can be gained by my unheard repetition,
so I shall speak no more and leave you with one final condition.

Learn that humility is not a weakness, but the seed of wisdom for all,
or your existence will become a mere memory, with no one left to recall.

If you have love for your kith and kin,
heed my words and listen to the spirit within.

Photography Poetry

A simple park bench

She said she loved him, and gave a kiss to show.
But another had felt those warm lips, which he did know.

Old mother Jane looked out with a tear in her eye,
remembering her life with Simon of years gone by.

Marry me, my love, and I will be yours for all time.
But the ring had a twin, which would lead to a crime.

I will if you will, whispered the young voices.
Years of pain would result from those choices.

Are you sure, said the man with panic and worry.
Months from now he would be sat with a new life in a buggy.

All these moments and more happened along the way,
upon a simple park bench in the light of the day.