Friday, 30 October 2009


I miss the days of
flashes of white teeth.
Of red lips like cherries -
inferring nothing.
Meaningless brushes of skin.

I miss getting goosebumps over the idea
of first snow...
Not being judged for letting the wind
blow my mind away.

I miss dancing
and not caring about the eyes
set upon my twirling form.
Twirling with the leaves of autumn;
the rays of summer;
the skips of spring, the steam of winter.

I miss how things were,
before I realised the truth that stole the magic.
Smuggled it away like the ticking
of the clock. Fused and ready.

I miss being enough;
don't you?

Wednesday, 23 September 2009

What is this? (where ice warms to smiles)

Your eyes, they stare deep
And your lips, they kiss hard,
And I whisper;
"I don't want it to be this."
You move, move an inch,
A voice, soft as stone,
And a tear of air.
"And what, what is this?"

To you, it is
Love. Or desire. Or just the need
to have interlaced fingers.
It is the blue of the
Heart of the fire
before the seasons turn to ice.
It is the knowledge that upon this garish earth
Where snow melts to war,
Ice warms to smiles,
You will burn as many hearts as will love you.

To me, it is surrendering to a
beautiful storm;
Letting the thunder grip me, open palmed.
But thinking,
Always thinking:
What, what is this?

Thursday, 17 September 2009


I lie on this ground of fallen love, and I think
We’ve come so far.
So far for little sparks to light;
so hard for us to burn, and yet
we have.
If I told you, I know you’re next to me,
I’m just lost within myself,
your footsteps would barely touch the ground.
You would be gone, and I would be left.
But the world, it wouldn’t stop turning.

So I won’t say a word.
I’ll lie here, staring up to a big expanse
we pretend we understand.
And I’ll stay here until the frost settles,
And you’ll still be next to me.
Lying. On the icy ground. Waiting for an excuse to leave.

I wish when your eyes look up,
You could see the sky I’m seeing.

See that in between those stars
there is nothing. Darkness and mysteries and nothing.
And so those tricks of light, they must mean

And so don’t you see? This, here, it’s not just you and me.
It’s you
And me
And this darkness and mystery and nothing between us.
These stars, they aren’t just mine;
Take some and Set yourself on fire.
And think, for once, what is the point?
When really, all we are doing is lying down
On a frozen ground
And waiting for the ice to melt. But we're already burning.

So hard for little sparks to light,
To burn,
To die.
My footsteps barely touch the ground.
But the world, it won’t stop turning.

Saturday, 9 May 2009


Pounding at a bolted door,
Knives running 'neath the stars;
Sticks of slaves and thunderous whips:
Powdered crimson scars.
Here I am; your hourglass:
I've kept you behind bars.
Here I am, your final day;
The day you proclaimed Ours.

Sol solis mos orior oriri ortus

Ocean's azure innocence
Turned writhing in the dark;
Light symbolises safety,
But this fire is so stark.
Here I am, your conscience call;
Through me you leave your mark.
"Here I am; so ethical";
A drowning scarlet spark.

Sol solis mos orior oriri ortus

Swaying in the gentle breeze,
Trees sinking to the ground;
To the youthful piercing pupil
Desperate dancing is renowned.
Here I am, the death of them;
The cry of altered sound.
Here I am, the silent storm;
I strike their sorrow down.

Sol solis mos orior oriri ortus

Battle with the falling sky;
Your scream is held within.
The blood red tears of soldier's deaths:
Your condescending sin.
Here I am; your nightmare's call,
Gold melting off my skin.
Here I am; your only one,
The fire you did begin.

Sol solis mos orior oriri ortus

The struggling rays of sunlight
Leave hazy, burning scars.
The smoke above is rising:
Obscuring fading stars.
Here I am; your hourglass:
I've kept you behind bars.
Here I am, your final day;
The day you proclaimed Ours.

Sol solis mos orior oriri ortus

If you'd like a bit of insight into this poem (only a little as I think most should be left to the imagination), see my other blog - firefly :)

Monday, 23 March 2009


I'm finding this life;
this mind; this world,

He called me to the long grass;
he lay entwined.
He said I looked

The cloudless sky cast shadows;
they chased;
Twisted between us:
Left clutter
where only still eyes
should remain.

I'm finding his devilish smile
a reflection of the storm:

He only let me watch the sunset
so I could burn in the rippling haze.
Sweet flesh,

The grass, it was severed
past the summer.
Entwined, he was lost;
devil's smile in the sun.

Not Burning.

I'm learning.

Thursday, 19 February 2009

You can Fly.

I hear you in a whisper
On the reckless mountaintop,
I hear you in the echo
Of the Eagles as they drop.

I find you in reflections
Where your shadow's only seen
By the indistinct ripples
Of a still and tranquil screen.

I find you out here,
Outside, in the light.
I refuse to see your past
On a cold and lonely night.

Refuse to see you
Reduced simply to stone.
The body is yours,
But your life is unknown.

You live out here,
In the echoes; the wonder;
The trees that you climbed
As you tried to reach thunder.

You live out here,
Where you danced on the shore.
Where you gazed at the sky;
And wished those wings were yours.
And you wished you'd never die,
But now, my darling,
You can fly.

A reflection,
An Eagle,
An echo,
I leave you.


Tuesday, 10 February 2009


This red of passion, of fury, of vengeance
Curls its fingertips around the resting landscape
Ravishing it in life as it meets its death
As people, they try to make their escape.
I watch from a land so closely involved,
Frustratingly miles across the sea.
I wish my thoughts could somehow help;
Right now the world seems a cruel place to me.
We fear and we run from the unknown
And just as we think it is tamed,
We realise that the beauty of nature
Is a danger, a mystery, not yet explained.

I just want to say, whether the crisis in Australia is a natural disaster, or man-made 'mass murder', I hope the situation improves. And I know I can't help, and this won't help, but my thoughts are with all of those who didn't make it; all of those who have fought bravely against the immense power of the flames, and with all of the people who have been affected. I wish you the best.

Monday, 9 February 2009

Excuse me.

So, Mister President,

I saw your words today,
Falling from the mirror of your mistakes.
A mirage of joyous images
Sinking to their knees in your triumph.
You, the embodiment of all that is wrong,
Were standing on top of the world
While we fell to your jealous commands.

So, excuse me
When I tell you I am silently smiling
For your reign of half trodden footsteps is over.

So, excuse me
When I tell you the sun is finally out
And the frost that turned bitter in our souls is lifting.

So I saw your tear today,
As you realised your comfort was no more
Than a splinter found in snow.
As you realised our security in you was only that one day
You would leave.
And so we no longer had to bow beneath your foolish heart.

So, excuse me
When I tell you this era has come just in time.
And to see you leave is to see the dark clouds thinning.

So, excuse me
When I tell you this new era, with this growing hero
Marks the end of a drought, and a flood, and a war, and a conflict.
Marks the end of you.

So, I saw you look down upon his enigmatic smile,
Shaking your head at an enthusiasm you've forged throughout the fog.
But this world, it needs the flash of a summer smile
In the heaviest winter it has ever known.

So, excuse me, Mister Bush,
While I celebrate the end of your naive control,
And don't so much as wave goodbye.

Excuse me,
But my eyes are focused elsewhere; towards the horizon,
Where I see the smile
Of a summer world.

But summer does not come without its trials
And melting snow is the hardest to stay steady on.

So, goodbye, Bush.
And good luck, Obama.

Saturday, 31 January 2009

My Butterfly.

You sat me down by the turquoise sea
And you set the waves on fire.
A paradox of pain to me;
Just rain on your attire.

So I imagined I was a butterfly
With wings that taught I couldn’t die...

As I prayed for life beyond your grasp,
You tightened your anguished grip.
Your grip around your line of slaves;
Around the torture of your whip.

Gravity contained my wings;
Invisibility of childish things...

These chains are shackled so permanently
The key no longer exists.
Just dust in your back pocket;
A deteriorating myth.

A silence muted my maturing mind;
My butterfly no more entwined.

You told me of a fledgling bird
That landed in your youth,
But never did it fly again;
Its freedom bound by you.

And so I saw your metaphor;
My basic freedom now no more.

You saw I couldn’t bear this thought;
A world without my dreams of flying.
But you didn’t see my light go out,
As my faith in all mankind was dying.

You didn’t just kill my human right,
You killed my mind; my thoughts; my fight.
You killed the wings that fuelled my light.
You killed me that first turquoise night.

copyright protected

Thursday, 22 January 2009

I'm sorry I didn't see sooner...

The rationale you left me with
Is scattered beyond collection;
The fire once burning in your eyes
Now just a flickering reflection...

I told you that I love you,
But I can’t deal with dedication.
I know you couldn’t bare the fact
You weren’t my destination.

You told me that you love me
But you said it thoughtfully.
Plans were flaming in your eyes...
So I ran from the heat and I ran to be free.

And now it’s been a while
And I can see why you despise me.
I drew the flame out of your eyes
But I’ll still run; just blindly.

I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.
Love taught me it’s best to run.
Why I wander so recklessly I wish I knew,
I’m not lost without a home. I’m just lost without you.

Wednesday, 21 January 2009

Abandoned Beauty.

As he lingers upon the stormy shore,
Laughter lightens the oceans echo;
A memory of a person now settled in stone
A memory of his saviour; his hero.

Nostalgically gazing up to the cliffs,
He hears her scream; her surrender.
He doesn’t care what they say; he lividly runs
To the edge that cursedly ended her.

But it’s too hard to fall to his fate and cry
When the world taught him that love was a lie.

His weathered eyes stare at the turmoil below;
The sea writhing with grabbing hands.
He freezes on the edge of the crumbling cliff
Unable to meet her demands.

The bravery and certainty she must have answered to,
Were a forgery, he realises, that he cannot believe.
The bruised sky releases a dagger of light:
Dangerous yet beautiful. How could he leave?

But it’s too hard to follow her footsteps and cry
When her cold, blind courage teaches him to be shy.

As the sky roars its anger at his indecision,
He roars his frustration that she left him alone.
She asked him to follow her into oblivion;
And he falters as he knows this he cannot condone.

He wishes the world could understand his pain.
He wishes if he cried, someone would come.
He wishes that death could be as easy for him.
He wishes she hadn’t left him so twisted; undone.

But it’s too hard to lose control and cry
When he knows his tears can’t reach the sky.

His thoughts turn to those who would cry for him;
Who would stand on a cliff edge and die for him.
But the thought makes him scream as he pictures their faces
Mortified, screaming; he needs to erase this.

He stumbles away from the edge that took her;
Away from the source of his forbidden torture.
The beauty of the wilderness will heal his wounds;
Will heal the hurt that soars when he thinks of her.

So it’s not hard for him to fall to his knees and cry
When his heartbeat, his smile, means he’s still alive.

Now he feels no urgency as he wanders the wilderness;
An abandoned beauty under darkening skies.
The mountains perceived as tyrant and lonely
Ruggedly beautiful under his searching eyes.

His steps so deliberately in no direction
Dance and leap like lapping waves.
An exhilaration which reminds him of life;
A chapter; a sunrise; a dip in his gaze.

He can’t deny tears when there’s nothing to cry;
The sun has replenished the light in his eyes.

copyright protected

Monday, 19 January 2009

Music and Poetry

As I sat in class today, I overheard somebody describe poetry as music with a missing piece. They said it wasn't as meaningful because it had no rhythm; no beat.

Is it only me who disagrees with this?

I am not a talented musician; the few pieces I have composed would not make sense if heard because I can't seem to obey the laws of music.... my self-expression seems to obey no laws. But beautiful music is a gift no-one can deny; it is somebody, somewhere, directly expressing how they feel.

But the rhythm; the beat; whether the music is in minor or major; its all determines the tone, mood and interpretaion of the song to the listener. The composer, through these components, is trying to influence the listeners into feeling how they feel. Into interpreting the song how they need it to be interpreted.

This is why poetry is so beautiful to me. It is more free. The reader of the poem can make their own rhythm, beat, tempo; can decide the music for the poem in their own heads, and therefore make it their own. Poetry can be whatever the reader needs it to be, rather than whatever the writer wants it to be.

To me, music is self-expression. It is a face showing only a few emotions; the emotions the composer intended.
But poetry is just expression. It is your face, ready to share your unique emotions. Not influenced by anybody else.

Raw, and free.

Saturday, 17 January 2009

This Perception of Importance

Let the rain fall on your skin,
A momentous moment,
When you let this world in,
And unleash restricted fury.
When you’re dancing in a storm
In a plight of forgiveness,
When two are forlorn;
In a bond of sacrifices.

And disaster will reach them.

You know you are no better
Than this mist, this air, this frost,
But you foresee that forever
Your battle will be lost.
Your battle that’s portrayed
As against the needed core,
When realistically it’s made
To show we don’t need anymore.

And disaster will reach them.

Think where they would be
Without all they have been given,
But they will never see
They’re entwined with other equals.
There is no other home,
No other beauty
No oasis,
Yet they destroy all that they have
For this perception of importance.

And disaster will reach them.

Of the prime and the dominant,
Supposedly intelligent,
Yet wiping themselves out.
A paradox of opposites?

So you stand alone yet strong,
Rain replenishing your skin,
Moonlight gleaming from a patient globe;
Understanding from within.

Disaster will reach them.

You know that your place here,
In a land so untouched,
Will be eternally more certain
Than with those who disrespect
The land that keeps them living;
Lets them love.
Lets them smile.
The land that’s slowly dying
Because they are in denial.

Disaster will reach them.

But you who never wandered,
And always knew where you stood,
Is standing in the starlight
Away from what they took.
The storm above is calming;
Your thoughts turn from
What they’ve done,
For your species is disarming:
No more a race towards the sun.

Disaster will destroy them
If this new world comes undone.
Copyright protected by Nioki Ray.

Real as my veins.

Skiddaw, Lake District

I’m not dreaming out loud;
I’m telling you now
That where I’m going to be
Is on top of the world.

And to see what I’ll see
Is to see dreams I’ve pinned:
As real as my veins
Yet as free as the wind.

When I wrote this poem, it was in the early hours of the morning; the sun hadn't risen and I was engulfed by darkness as I lay in a bivvy bag on the summit of the beautiful mountain Skiddaw, in the Lake District. My Dad and I had hiked the mountain in the dead of night, so Dad could help some friends on the Bob Graham Round; it was an amazing exprience!
The storm, the 50mph winds and the thrashing rain made me feel so exhilerated; so alive. So when we reached the summit at 2AM, squirmed into our bivvy bags and simply lay listening to the steady pounding of the rain and the howling of the wind, I felt inspired. Beyond inspired. I felt on top of the world....
And so I wrote this poem, and as I remembered it the next day as we decended, now under clear blue skies and a striking sun, it seemed so perfect in showing how I felt as I had lain contented in my bivvybag, on the summit of life...

Thursday, 15 January 2009

Fire, pain and brief exchanges.

Cry an Ocean in the sand; nobody will ever know,
A monumental scream, never heard, never found;
The rustic depths of history carefully unveiled,
Yet erased without a thought; erased without a sound.

Life teaches love; love teaches pain,
Pain teaches hurt and denial.
Life teaches death to leave us wandering
A sentimental maze forever and final.

Imprint these hands as a symbol of eternity,
Yet refuse to accept this world changes.
A virus we spread, an indefinite scar;
Fire, pain and brief exchanges.

Life teaches significance, which leads to glory,
Glory teaches righteousness falling to arrogance.
Life teaches death; a metaphorical ending;
An insignificance never quite met by acceptance.

We imagine mysteries buried deep between towers,
Looking up to the stars as we deepen our ignorance.
Idealism never opposed imagination,
Yet it opposes everything that this world seems to flourish in.

Striving for mercy in a world of denial
Is as paradoxical as our life and our love.
Selectively learning convenient lessons,
As we aimlessly stare at the azure above.