A Little Bit Down

As you all know I’m a little bit down

You can see on my face I wear a frown

But don’t you worry for my today

It’s not permanent I’ll be okay


I sometimes wonder where this gloom comes from

Past misadventures, a vengeful maelstrom

A pack of white lies chasing after me

Bearing teeth hysterically


Universal retribution for the bad things I’ve done

A metaphorical jail sentence, an illusionary dungeon

An itch I can’t scratch, a thorn in my side

Similes and metaphors; can’t seem to avoid


So I’ll step back, sigh; count to ten

Just you watch as I take back my Zen

With psychic barriers and charms for luck

I’ll be up and at em causing mischief and havoc


Copyright © JRFC February 2019

Image from Pixabay

Voices in My Head

White noise in my ears

Attempting to drown out

The voices in my head

Taunting and teasing


“You suck!”


Out of its cage

Depressions grip takes hold

Its talons digging in

To soft matter


“Nobody like’s you”


Lifting the mania high

And dropping it in to

The barbed nest of dejection

To be swallowed


“You can’t do anything right”


Is there no release

No cure from this hideous

Invisible entity

That strangles the soul


“Don’t bother trying, you’re rubbish”



Copyright © JRFC November 2018
Image from Pixabay



It was all patriotic

For King and country

Ringing in their ears

They were prepared

Until the day came and the rains fell, mud caked, cold bit and the gas choked

 Whistles blew for them to climb, breach the trench walls and blood began to flow

As they felt the thousands of metal shards speeding by, slicing, piercing; killing

In their prime; on those fields they ran out of time far too early, far to young

In our celebrations remember them 

In our freedom mourn them

As their families would 

Mothers, Fathers

Wives, Children

Those soldiers sacrifice

Their bravery, their deaths

That gave us our freedom

A heavy price to pay


Copyright © JRFC October 2018
Image By Pixabay, modified by JRFC

My Special Guest tonight is…

R S Thomas and Evans

Ronald Stuart Thomas was born in the March of 1913 in the Welsh capital Cardiff and published as R S Thomas. This little welsh number is from the book Poetry for Supper first published in 1958.

When I read this poem my first thought was for poor Evans, on his death bed, alone. Where were his family, friends; neighbours?

Then the macabre in my came out and made me think about the person in the cottage, talking to us about Evans; what was their story? Doctor, Stranger or…


Evans? Yes, many a time

I came down his bare flight

Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen

With its wood fire, where crickets sang

Accompaniment to the black kettle’s

Whine, and so into the cold

Dark to smother in the thick tide

Of night that drifted about the walls

Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.


It was not the dark filling my eyes

And mouth apalled me; not even the drip

Of rain like blood from the one tree

Weather-tortured. It was the dark

Silting the veins of that sick man

I left stranded upon the vast

And lonely shore of his bleak bed.

Image from Pixabay, modified by JRFC