Posted in Education, Poetry, School, Spring, writing with tags , , , on December 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Seagulls’ wheeling distant cry, though unseen, says
The sea may be just beyond assembly hall wall’s end
But proximity is meaningless when access is proscribed
By circumstances with which seagulls have no need to contend.



Posted in Poetry, remembrance, War with tags , , on November 6, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Excited faces delight,

In triumphant Lancaster flypast.

I remain sombre,

Feeling the only one who sees,

Children applauding bombers.


Posted in health, kids, love, Mental Health, Poetry with tags , , , on October 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Jagged fears stab

The nerves like tiny,

Slivers of glass, shards

Of the shattered crystal peace,

Which came as a wedding gift,

That December.

Its glacial presence,

Its pure, singing, note,

Now fractured and falling,

Wildly refracting spectral colours,

Fleetingly beautiful before it

Hits the ocean below.

Going under, it spins, simultaneously

Melting and drowning,

Disappearing and assimilating,

Its diluting purity poisoning,

The saline sanity of the sea.

Until, gasping for air,

We awake together,

Reverie broken.

Your soft breath soothes me

But the inaudible whisper of another heartbeat

Says something has changed.

A Haunting

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on October 28, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Oh strange suited figure,

Strangely framed in midnight’s window,

Steady smile unflinched

by wind that taunts trees

and bids them unwillingly dance.

I stand, entranced by

Your ghostly visit until,

Rain runs like veins down

The dark glass, sadly

distorting benign eyes

with unreal tears which blind

Your presence and break

Your spell, summoning

You back to the hell

Of your own creation.

Oh turn from the window,

Save yourself and forget

The dark and secret fears

which light will not erase.

Say a prayer

Bolt the door and hope

that the Terror is not

Already inside.


Posted in philosophy, Poetry, writing on April 6, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

The rabbit stops to look skywards in awe,
Believing himself camouflaged,
Blended into the background by
The damp pastel of twilight.

He is unaware his silhouette is betrayed
By the rays of the same setting sun
Which silvers the undersides of gulls wings,
Turning them to jet planes
In the shimmering dusk.

Why You Sing The Blues

Posted in death, love, Mental Health, music, philosophy, Poetry, therapy, War, work in progress, writing with tags on March 14, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Conscious of too much,

You are not primitive enough;

Sufficiently enlightened to see your folly,

Though unable to escape it.

As ego drowns instinctive sense

Of scale and wonder,

You cannot comprehend life

Except through the death you pursue wildly.

Whilst trying to deny self-destruction,

The only path which makes any sense,

You gorge your maniac lust on annihilation,

Invoking broken-mirror deities to justify

Chemical, consumerist mass-destruction insanity.

Why do you live if death

Is the only great adventure left?

Because somewhere behind this twisted madness,

Lies the irrational hope of love.


Posted in death, health, Mental Health, music, Poetry, writing with tags , , on March 12, 2014 by Graeme Cooper

Food brings
Mood swings. He
Could sing
Brooding lullabies but
Her bright eyes
Catch the light like
The glitterball gleaming in
The ceiling of his
Sleep; compressing the chest
Of the restless bass player pacing
The empty stage of
His empty dreams, promising
That thoughtless dominion
Of the obvious
While unseen drummer summons
The legions of the beat,
Unseen lesions secrete murderous
Chemicals sweet and he
Sleeps with the disco lights on,
Afraid of dancing with the dark.

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