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A Brothers Challenge



There’s a monkey on my back,

And it’s having a good scratch,

I don’t know why it’s there,

But I know it really cares.


There’s a parrot on my head,

And I think it might be dead,

But the last thing that it said,

Is that I have no street cred.


There’s a dog on my feet,

It thinks my feet are meat,

It fancies a nice treat,

But my feet I mean to keep.

25th October


Roses for the stone,

The breeze of melancholic daughters,

Songs to cries to whimsy,

In the memory of birthdays past.

For Another Day

No rain, nor sleet, nor snow

Will fall on this sacred scarlet sky.

Stars hang like celestial dew drops

On the tree tops of dusks horizon.

A single black bird rides the evenings silhouettes,

Gathering tears on its fluffed breast,

For a more fitting day.

The Translation of Nature

The crows flight assured,

Dark trees silently embraced,

their wooded home.

craws full of stones,

A painful sky digested,

All calls stopped.

The people watch by example,

floating into brittle branches,

Rising to empty skeletons.

the crows gullets emptied,

The ending of a quiet forest,

their numbers falling.

Scattering stones on flat ground,

Lit of noisy flint,

setting shadows sparking.

kindling the flames,

A bomb fire of silences,

The translation of nature.

Stained Glass People

Through stained glass Autumn leafed arcs

Linear sights of lit people stand still amongst

The roadside hustle,

Casting indigo and crimson on the gray pavements.

Like miracles their vibrancy touches void,

Traffic on forlorn journeys,

Shining shadows in the cold rain,

Filling the vacant season with hope.

Wine Season

An opaque moon

Prescribes a healthy morning,

Forgetting to bless her garden

With wet bread.

A drunken season makes wine

From the bitten weather,

As birds illogically abandon

The pale Rowan berries.

Flight lands heavy on cement slabs,

Without a jolly hand to catch a feather,

while the masked sun

Bereft of care

Lies in the calico sky.


By the Moon


The Sea emotes through the entirety

Of the Moons illuminations,

An Orbit constant despite the Undertow.


Outstretched as a Month,

The Celestial Rocks phases,

Transcendental as nature.


Flux is the Lunar decree,

Night to Day to Night,

A lifetime long.

Chatter – Box



Does God go to sleep?

Is he like the Tiger in the Wood?

Always ready to answer,


In nudges,

Pushing you forward.


Is he lonely?

And just wants company,

Like any other older person.

Dancing Daughter



The girl sings Lord of the Dance,

Into Adulthood,

A kind soul for the insects,


Docking with her Love,

On an Inherited Boat.


Where next Daughter?

Her Nan’s Prayer.

Wishing her One Straight Road.


On the Sea,

She finds Sanctuary.


























Tasks End


The Oldest Daughter runs her fingers through her Auburn hair,

Running down her back,

A feel good feeling.

Chanting “Enjoy your tasks end.”

With pink roses for the precious moments.


There’s never a dull moment,

Like a Green Dragon,

The Drama Queen laughing

Even in the dark.


“Take up your bed and walk.”

The innocents say

With their sore heads.















The Black Coat



In the Dead of Night,

Leaving her Kittens a Vixen Dies,

To a World where Red means Danger.


Nature acts it’s Façade out

As a Fool whose Hands are Vacant,

Mind is Cruel and Heart is Disposable.


Bereft, Our Spiritual Mother protects

The young in her Black Coat

Ceasing a Night that Predates.













The Dove Cote


Nothing is a bargain when you don’t need it,

Even in the Dead Centre of town,

Where no one takes a loan of a Wasps Byke.


Nature Amazes her.


She called him a Heartbreaker,

Who chews gum for the benefit of his Brain.


There’s always a Flutter in the Dove Cote when he’s around













Thin Air


Caring doesn’t squeeze the Orange,

I listen to a stranger’s song,

How can a note be sustained so long,

A Harmonica comes and goes.


My Nan is Happy Tonight,

I am as she remembers me,

Some may say she made lemonade,

In essence she made me.














Today is a Good News Day,

The magpie buffers in the pale blue sky,

A tree wind breaks her flight,

Even buses and trains are on my side.


I run through my daily gap, correctly timed,

The Glory of a Friends Help,

Laughing all the way through,

It is your Birthday Today,






























Your Parenua blooms in the Starlight,

Conversing with night whispering,

They seem to say I Love You.


Yet in this Modern World,

It is Sad to say that not everyone can be Trusted.


If only you and I were Similar,

If only you knew me by Name.




















Uncle Owls



I’m Uncle Al to my second cousin,

“What sound do Owls make?”

She answers Twit Twoo!


In a nature programme she heard,

Male owls go Twit,

And female owls go Twoo,


We are now practicing this on her mum’s mobile,


I go Twit,

She goes Twoo,


That’s the sound Uncle Al’s make.




A Lucky Day



I am blessed to have this day,

Not anyone else’s

But mine to share.


Money is not a measure of value,

The news is a reference,

That proves its own worth.


I know I am fortunate,

Without Headline or Ticket.










Orange Moon



His Potential,

Ruptured like the Moon,

Challenging the Water,

Like a vivid Orange,

Trying his Person,

Affectatious as Fresh Fruit.


A Call to Hands



Credence falls,

A Monument,

Memories touching the Sun.


The Steeple,

Raised to the Ground,

Wind Swept.


We will build a Town,

Populated by the Hopeful,

Strong in Endeavour.


Making Light Work.


Bus Journeys



Sitting beside you on the bus,

The Days in Red,

The Days in Mauve,

Hat cocked and Smile Cheeky,

The Generations melted with your Laugh.


Never arriving at Gallions Reach,

The weekly trips to your Man’s Shop,

The Generosity of cigarettes,

Chinese prawns for a Treat.

“I taught your children!”


Wise Beyond the Years,

“Muslims make Great Friends and Great Enemies.”

Nothing Surprised you,

The Talent of Living,

Still Wondering at Trees and Swans.



9th of October



The Greif in a Tear,

Can’t be Undone,

The Rays of the Sun,

The Moon reflects in the Dark.


It Melts the Hearts of the Virtuous,

In any Form,

Diamonds Glitter in the Sky,

Stars Shining on Us.











Stars  Answer



There was a window,

I tried to make it,

It was nobody’s fault,

But a True Reflection.


The Sky is still Populated,

Birds still Sing with Diamonds in their Eyes,

Bright Lights still fill the Heavens,

Above the Planets still Glide.


Answering the Question,

Not Meant to Be.




A name belies you,

You are the foe who keeps talking,

Blindsided by the Truth,

Taken in by holes in the house.


Shutting you up is my skill,

The siren is repeating into Silence,

A shadow of uncompromising strength,

That has no place in Sunlight.


As I Dream,

Your form Diminishes

Into Nothing.











Morsels of Spring


Shadows icing plate Blue the snow,

Orange crocuses sing zestfully,

Amongst velvet Purple envelopes,

Opening the Black birds chattering,

With butter Yellow beaks.



The Butterfly Plant



The weather is flying by,

Wild Geese converse on their arrow,

Southbound back like the clocks.


Leaving summer swarms of Butterflies,

On their Buddleias,

Avoiding Blue Tits from a troubled youth.


Behind the Hornets threat,

Masacating the muscles of Bees,

While Wild Geese look after their own.


Cold Moon


Look how cold the moon,

Print falling from her face,

Her brothers farm the sea,

Consoling her chilly mantle of clouds.


The dark night consumes,

A family holding up the light,

Two young men are left,

For the day.


As she wanes and waxes,

Stories yet to behold.



He knows he’s not Wanted,

That’s how deep his Love is,

Electronic messages do not hamper the meeting,

Left between Two.

Odds On


Black Crows

Hover above her.


The Old Lady

Shoots them Down,

They spoil her View

Of the Sky.







The Sun will surely Shine in her Sky,

The Stars hers to Support,

The Moon befriends her every night,


She has a Lovely Old Smile



I Wash Myself,

In the Fictitious Pool of Heroes,

Clean and Fresh.


Sleep comes to Clarity,

Entities Rest,

Scrolls  Burn.


The Smile



Mistakes trip me up,


I am the White Smiling Ball

On a See – Saw,

Weighed down.


Looking away.




A tree sways not in denial of earthly roots,

A pollens cycle is not transference,

Disassociation is not fertile ground.


What we see is our self,

The mirror is a distortion,

In recognizing the reflection,


We understand the tiger in the forest.


The Illusionary Circle



The moon an imperfect rock,

Independently cut and dried,

Placed in the nights sky,

To float above the sea,

Worrying incessantly,

In her trip,

Over the Horizon.





Like a bubbling rainbow,

In an iron canister,

The process burns,

Time is catalyst.


Mediums as outlets,

Intervals distill,

The multi – faceted solution,

Into the colorful forms of art.


Karma amongst Birds


The Humming Bird from Bloom to Bloom,

Reciprocal in it’s receiving.


The Kingfisher darting for a Silver prize,

Out of one hand into another.


The Peregrine diving through the Sky,

Measured in his Prey.


The Pigeon indigenous,

Delights in Surprising finds.


The Gull by sea,

Catching in air.

Adios Amigo


A handful of references,

Guides to live a life,

A name, purpose, fate.


A frame,

Points in reality,

A limit to endurance.


A green window,

Adios Amigo.

Dream – Scape


A white paper world,

Journeys Absolute,


Asleep for a moment,

The world is mine,


In a dream.




You can stop running,

London has taken you in,

Every time it gets close

A Bolt,

The Horse before the Gun.


The city belongs to you,

A Perfect gilded cage,

Triumphant Silhouettes,

Standing Towers,

Dominoes for the Nemesis.


Poseidon’s Wish



To lose a memory,

The warm waters of Poseidon beckon,

Placing the Aquatic laurels on his crown,

Heavy on his mossed head,

While the Moon pulls the shore closer.





Breathing flowers flower,

Wild in a calm parade,

Paths unwind.


The visitors float like a gift,

Bouquet like clouds,

That reflect of heaven.


The Green Lake,

As clear

As Oxygen.





Here he comes,

Dressed in pink,


With the scent of a wild rose,

Too much for a rooms volume.






I  stood

With the rising lights,

My heart jumped into my mouth.


Exploding in the sky,

Emotionally sparking,

With everyone elses.


A show of brilliant bodies,

Suspended above,

For a brief dazzling moment.



I am a bomb,

Today a threat,

I wish to destroy,

To incinerate rather than understand.


The contained force,

Fires inside of me,

I ignite to annihilate,

Barely body in line breaking

In the shadow of the sun.

Happy Sleep



It’s time to start a string again,

I can feel it between my thumb and forefinger,

Fraying at the end,

Tugs to pull,

Drawing the invisible nearer behind me,

Always a surprise,

It is but my duvet.

The Cost of Peace



On the day humanity opened like a lotus,

The bombs stopped.


A secret was told,

Only nature claims death

And we are no longer part of nature.





A black pool, amorphic,

Floating like a small cloud,

Beside me.


Where dreams come from,

I consciously ingest,

To write.


Surrounding me musically,

Learning vibrations,

Like the sound of rippling water.

The Lunatics


The ecstasy of laughter,

Ridiculously mad memories,

We can only understand,

Without diving in,

Like the expectations of tears,


Nice and Sweet



Cool, Cool, Cool,


Peacocks and Pandas.

The Writer of Sad Thoughts


The writer of sad things had plenty of material, or so he thought. A lapsed memory would plague him and, in recalling what had gone, many an unfinished sentence weighed on his page. Broken lines, the unfinished and hopeless state of his thoughts.


Nudged out of view, for a moment his eyes were filled with silence, its sweetness lost on a perplexing need to recall. The need to tell, a gift of woe was given to his nearest and dearest, the lines of their hands cupped and creased in support.


Not enough, the patience of each was abundant. Never truly alone and depressed in company, he didn’t know why he had a consoling face to tell of his dishearteness with himself.


Under the ledge he couldn’t understand how at one time he had been happy, the stones he was swallowing now had the gritty taste of truth.


He had known many mind men whose pill prowess was profound and a regime was endorsed. Still amputated lines led nowhere and threatened to dangle annoyingly as waste of no value. Closure is for the fortunate and the lucky. And those without fortune and luck? They collect what they can and drag themselves from situation to situation in a sluggish vehicle called the body.


I wish I could say what the writer of sad things is doing now. He’s probably finding the door a little harder to open, his steps are more likely to be louder than the next man’s, and I’m sure his voice is still killing him.


The Fool


The fool, who didn’t know, couldn’t face the world. His axis was spun by others with advice and opinions that left him disorientated and confused.


Swinging, he knew nothing and, balanced between uncertainty and fear, he questioned the depth and duration of the next drop.


Standing in the middle of the sea he tied string around a stone and lowered it slowly to the bottom. Pinching at the wet length, he measured and tugged it up to the surface.


On a chilly and deserted day his retrieval was unsuccessful, his string came back empty. The fool was left with a question.


He tried to blame the fishes that he’d never seen; the crabs that must clutter the sea bed; or even a mischievous mermaid.


Where was his stone? He didn’t know, and was certain no one else did either. The fool was no longer alone, he was one of many. He realised that the advice and opinions of others were substantial to themselves and were like the invisible hands that populated the depths of the sea – too many to shake, and at best the maker of pretty waves to throw stones into.

The Boy who Ran Away with Himself


The boy who ran away with himself was tired of making lists. He knew as he grew older he’d pass them off as great works of art. Being quiet, shy and inconspicuous, he knew that the overheard conversations and colour combinations would eventually masquerade into stories with no story, narratives for the appetite of those listing themselves as well.


So he decided for life to catch him instead of him catching life. To let slip the information around him and let his thoughts wander. To see and hear what happened, to let go of the seductiveness of noticing everything. That things are what they are in the continuousness of a lifetime, and not everything is asking to be recorded.


For how much could he say or write, from making lists where the equality of each notion, phrase and gesture was undoubted, he wished to learn the importance of discernment. That if two was two, it didn’t need to become four, and the sum would have no purpose in the bath or in front of the T.V.

The Creative Being


The creative being fell like a landscape and moulded itself around the room, fitting over the table and chairs, tucking itself neatly under legs and pens.


Its spell made every movement one of magic, and moments sparked off each other turning objects into opportunities and touch into a glorious instrument.


Asking nothing in return, except to be present, the boy accepted its gift and began to make art. He revelled in unforeseen relationships, the beauty of the everyday, and a new – found appreciation of his world.


However as time went on he began to become secretive and place value on his creations. Aware of the being’s eyes, this consciousness began to stifle the boy and he began to see his processes thwarted by mistakes. Seeing him struggle, the being reassured that these were vital parts of his creations and it was no – one’s fault. The boy didn’t believe him, feeling there was no room for both of them in the activities he wished to pursue. He dismissed the creative being who graciously rose as he had fallen, leaving the debris he had blessed with his presence.


Truly alone the boy sometimes remembers the creative being with fondness, tempted to invite it back into his life.

Blackout Bob


Blackout Bob suffered from worry; sections had been sliced out of his brain. His imagination revisited the vacant structures he had walked in, apprehensive of the situations that may occur within them. Memories came from nothing and suddenly ended in blackness.


His self – diagnosis was that of blackouts, never discussing it with a doctor and not trusting friends or family, as a secret kept is calm as a lake, and his belief made him sane although he did worry.


Finding the walls of comfort, he stayed within his room, picking at the paper in apathetic attempts at making peepholes into an abundance of stories, where he wished to find a history to place himself in.


He didn’t know how he could believe the tales he belonged to, that others had told him of. He knew he needed a base and couldn’t raise his hopes without falling to an unsteady floor.


For he didn’t know himself, and his past was riddled with expanding spaces waiting to be filled in. No proof, everything seemed possible and without substance. Worry, worry, worry, worry. Bob decided to close his eyes every now and again, finding quietness a blessed relief.

A Boy Apart


Never in connection with the moment, separate in situations with people, the boys singing voice was a mere reflection of the dissatisfaction he felt when speaking.


To him there were too many bodies wandering constricting around him in ever decreasing circles, always approaching him, getting nearer and nearer. Just scraping his sides enough to let him know from them he was apart.


Art was his refuge; he understood the space an occupation such as this offered. Where a delayed reaction to the real allowed for a form of productivity and a constructive device for the survival of the mind.


He still wishes to occupy the present completely and practices his singing voice for when the live lights are shining on him. But in truth he chases the world with photographs and staged activities. One step from reality, with some others understanding why.  


The Boy with Destroy in his Mouth


The boy with destroy in his mouth clenched his lips and bit down on his tongue in fear of letting destroy out with a word or a sound.


In the past his anger had led to the flying of tables and chairs, scorched material and the incineration of friendships. Now he was guarded, for in experience he did not trust his own words and the anxieties they could bring.


He would think about many different things, yet when he tried to form speech, destruction would overcome him. The frustration of speaking, constructing thoughts verbally in itself, led to a succumbing of rage. The sound of his voice triggered a hurricane of devastation.


The things he had said in the past were of an ethereal quality, changing rapidly, but none the less deadly. This had made him sceptical of anything he had to say.


He began to write what he could not say and becoming slowly confident of its safety, whispered it in vast empty spaces. Finding cliff tops and barren landscapes as amphitheatres to his thoughts, which rolling winds muted and softened.


He hopes to say the words that so far only the depths of a chasm or the endless night have heard, to a person or two. But at least he has somewhere to practice. A place where the anger of his voice can be exorcised without fear or self – deprecation, where, at last he can hear himself think without reproach.  


© 2017 Alex Ingram

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