Archive for Health

Death on a Summer Evening

Posted in death, Poetry, work in progress with tags , , , on July 2, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The evening breeze carries Autumn’s shadow,

Her substantial form, I shall never breath,

For a darker night, for me, must follow,

Than this which Summer’s last mist enwreaths.



Wriot – or Getting Ready to Write

Posted in Poetry, work in progress, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Ariel up and ready to receive,

Ladies and gentlemen,

Take your seats please.

For the Madness is upon him again,

Semantic acrobatics performed with paper and pen,

Frantic words tumlble and spin,

Spitting raging pain on the page and then,

They cascade like molten theremite behind his eyes,

His brain flails blind arms and vainly tries,

To catch the white hot syllables,

To make sense of the cinders,

Which burn as they turn to ash in its fingers.


Meaning may come later,

Not from the cooling heap in his mind,

But from still-bleeding scars on clutching hands,

Sifting through embers to find,

The source of the ignition,

Melted beyond rcognition,

To seperate the relevant,

From the fumes of the accelerant,

The overpowering stench of sentiment,

Which forms sludgy sediment,

And dulls the spurs of his intent,

Leaving nothing to come to fruition.



Posted in Poetry, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 20, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

Creeping fiscal misery,
Whispers in the kitchen until,
The bitter hiss of mistrust,
Insinuates itself inside,
The loving words of a comfortable,
Suburban home,
Seeping into sleeping hearts,
Like liquid nitrogen quietly unseen,
Making the next casual, unthinking, comment,
(though only intended to be temporary and superficial),
The hammer which smashes complacent stability,
Stripping the insulation,
Of bourgeous pretence, opening,
The fragile heart to the sharp,
Cold, interminable pain,
Of regret.
For those who believed,
The bedtime tale that happiness,
Could be bought,
The draught of the overdraft has blown,
Their house of cards down.
The Big Bank Wolf will dine,
On swine tonight.


Posted in Poetry, winter with tags , , , , , , , on December 11, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

I will nurture this inner child who,

Will father me when I grow,

Young and lead me,

Until eyes learn to see,


I will not bully him with,

Conceit of grown-up ways,

Nor thwart him with illusions of,

A single point of view,


But give him range to spread,

Out amongst the world,

To smell and taste and touch,

And see with untainted senses,


Until the glory of the world comes,

To him as an emotion,

A physical cerainty, not words,

But melifluous symphony.


Then let him drape peace about my shoulders,

Like a fur coat in the cold of old age,

Let him lead me gently through the new world,

Let him calm my fear with comforting embrace,

Let him lay me softly in the soil,


There to grow,

Into spring flowers for his window sill,

Potatoes for his pot.

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