hello there

Not a lot going on here anymore, unfortunately. It was really sad that the MWC ended up being taken over by some kind of mentally ill person. Anyway I have been reading most of the time. Sometimes contributing and a lot has been going on in my life the last few years. Had a house built that took longer than planned, heart attacks and ops. I thought I would introduce myself again..oh and I reached the big 70.

Richard

the darkest hour insists there is no door
that every road has vanished into night,
but somewhere underneath the weight of more
A stubborn pulse keeps arguing for light.

The room is still, the window holds the rain,
the world outside continues without sound,
Yet even grief can loosen from its chain
When one small hand reaches for solid ground.

No ending needs to answer all the pain,
no silence needs to swallow every word,
Sometimes survival starts as something plain
a name, a voice, a promise to be heard.

And if the night has told you there is none
stay for the morning. Let it come.

Inventory of Things That Ought Not Be Trusted

The lift knows something.
It hesitates at Floor Four.
Not superstition—
administration.

A man in a fluorescent jacket
declares himself temporary.
He's been here seven years.

Receipt in pocket.
Pocket in coat.
Coat on chair.
Chair making decisions.

The pigeons convene
with all the confidence
of middle management.

Someone says "progress."
Someone else laminates it.

The radio coughs up experts
who explain rain
to the wet.

I keep a list
of approved disappointments.
It's updated hourly.

Machines applaud themselves.
Humans queue for instructions.
The queue breeds another queue.

Don't mistake movement
for escape.

The streetlights blink once—
a memo,
not a miracle.

Tomorrow arrives
wearing yesterday's badge,
asking if anybody noticed.

Nobody answers.

The vending machine hums on,
promoted

A writer lay drunk in the gutter
His verses all smeared with butter
He slurred, I'm a bard,
Hugged a big lump of lard
And muttered, I would rhyme but I stutter


A teacher in class once said

Hello Gyppo, yes I believe I did. The old place,  what a wonderful, creative place that was.....nothing like it since. Cheers Richard

Grey offices hum
papers bloom like tired flowers
hope waits in tired lines

next: traffic jam

Silent sky darkens,
footsteps fade into the wind
the story is done

Next the weekend

Ink breathes on paper
A small sun bleeds through the lines
Colour hums to life


Next: Empty page

The blade remembers what the hand forgets
Each motion calm, deliberate, slow
No mercy stirs where silent darkness sets
No light remains where secret rivers flow.

A breath,a pulse, then neither - only red,
A whisper caught between the heart and ground.
The room, now still, becomes a house of dread,
Where guilt and ghosts in heavy air abound.

Yet beauty clings to death's unholy art,
A fragile truth in violences disguise-
That love and ruin share a single heart,
And mercy sometimes lives in dying eyes.

So mark the deed not pure, nor wholly cursed-
For every killer was a dreamer first.

Leaves drift through cool air,
a hush settles on the fields-
amber light lingers.

The office air is stale
numbers blink on the screen
a queue of bent shoulders
wait for their names to be called

I hand over forms, confessions
scribbled lines, work history
months collapse into each other
as though time itself was unemployed

Outside, the street does not notice
cars surge forward,
shops glow with plenty
I count coins for the bus

The word benefit tastes bitter
as if survival was a prize
as if stood still
was a luxury I had chosen

I tell myself it is temporary
but the calendar peels slowly
and the walls of the waiting room
know my face

The clock´s hands falter,
a quiet scream and
silence pools like blood at my feet

The air is thick,
a metallic taste lingers
as sharp and bitter as betrayal.

Eyes wide, stare
see nothing, a story ends mid-sentence

Footsteps retreat,
Soft, deliberate,
the echo of guilt fades into the night

Life unwinds itself,
a thread torn loose.
The room holds its breath.

No one will ever know,
Except the walls, they hear
But will never speak.

The city breathes in neon gasps
steam hisses from its underbelly
streets slick with the oil of dreams
long gone and shadows weave stories
noone reads

A prophet screams scripture on the corner
his beard tangled with cigarette ash
his gnarled hand clutches a paper cup
his gospel drowned by the sirens

Subway cars rattle like ancient bones,
their passengers, hollow-eyed apostles of survival,
clutch plastic relics and ambition long faded,
the rhythm of despair hammers in their temples

Billboards flash commandments:
Buy. Sell. Obey. Forget
the Gospel of fluorescence cuts through
the hum of bodies that fail to outrun the past.

I walk through it all, a ghost
tethered to the pulse,
seeking answers in the hum of the static night
the city, veins pump and pump, until
it spits us out,
Unborn again

Merry Christmas

Nice one Daryl, all the best.