Sight loss – a.poem about regaining focus in a relationship or friendship

Moving forward, perpetual motion,

The pendulum has slowed of late.

Strangled entanglement.

Incrementally saying less than we should.

Faux intervention sets the pace,

The flow of left to right, now noticed.

Movement savoured, shortsightedly shortens,

We finally tap the glass.

The truth, our perpetual mentor.

Depleting the power of the tick,

Enforcing the reach of the tock.

Location shifts the problem perspective.

Two irons rails, our only lifelines,Discovered security, fever for each other gathers.

One eye canvassing for leaves.

Unmuffle our voices, unruffle our feathers.

Excavate our petrified hearts,

Simplify our needs, multiply our vision.

Periphery play is mode, with goals now spurned.

We sympathetic sycophants focus on each other once more.


Scorched- a poem about the loss of a loved one

Our people they gathered to celebrate.

Do you remember how the sun shone that day, all for us.

Before the jewels of life became the Energy’s mission, before our lives were scorched by our hearts ambitions.We never stopped loving each other’s gentle sway.Our people, with a few missing, watched us grow.We were ice-breakers in the Bearing Sea.As our time together was made up of gentle hands on the small of our backs and corner mouth smiles.Our eyes focused on our dreaming child.We never stopped loving the way we hooked our index fingers during our quiet times.Our protectors, smaller numbers still, saw our pain at times.They knew, as we did, that we never meant to hurt each other.We never did work out how that one time I turned to Starboard and you turned to Port.We let our rudders foul, our communications disconnect and maybe also our thoughts?But can you then remember how we knew so quickly, changed direction and then we touched once again?We never stopped loving the pitch and yaw of each other, in unison.Our security, with so little of them left, were filled with love.They saw us take on so many uncharted waters, at times we looked lost.I remember how fearless we were.When we made our little people, we became lions.Even as they grew, we never once lost direction or courseWhat am I to do now, how do I move forward?I will never quench the thirst that the gap, where you once sat, has created.Our people’s numbers will swell once again.As they will gather by the edge of the sea, like you have asked, the tears will cause a swell.You wouldn’t have been proud of me yesterday as I sprayed your perfume on your favourite nightdress and on your pillow.I then hugged them as tight as I could, given the little strength I have left in my body.Our children came in the room one by one, didn’t say a word, spoon hugged for a few minutes, kissed the back of my head and left.I just stared at the photo next to the bed, you know… the one of you on top of Goatfell after we climbed, you laughing all of the way.I always loved the imperfection of that photograph as your hair blew across your eyes.I fell asleep with my head and hair wet with tears, I hope I haven’t diluted your smell.Our people will help me, they’ve all said the same.But I haven’t the heart to tell them that most of the time I don’t want to go on.I am lost, totally lost!Thank you for all you were to me. We adored each other’s private imperfections, which to us was…perfection.At 8 o’clock we will set your ship alight and gently push you into the night sea.It’s a full moon tonight too.We will be able to share your final journey.Please give me the strength not to jump aboard and join you.©PEDRO-BATPOET 2018

Inspiration – Where’s mine

I rarely if ever hear the words, “That person there…now that is an inspirational leader!”
Who do I have to inspire me, standing before the info-hungry masses….their main feeder,
For ideas and direction and guidance and advice,
In the search for good times by being authentic and well…nice.
So what has happened to these great people in two thousand and eight,
Are we the unfortunate ones, generations too late?
Why did we have the leader of the free world being some quasi-member of the KKK and miss out on the magic of JFK?
So if anyone is out there to lead us out of the dark and speak up,
Will the real slim shady please stand up!
Because right now when I look at the news with 100% extremist views, I can’t help but feel we’re out of luck.

So MLK was literary gold,
who had a dream, which grabbed the keyboard world to show,
That love and peace, really is the only way to release,
The oppressed and downtrodden, and societies forgotten,
The centuries of historic shame,
perpetuates to prolong the pain.
Madiba stood up to bring an end to Verwoerd’s cancer of social pollution,
Which wasn’t too far from the Final Solution.
So my generation, who do we have now, to hold on to, to respect and embrace?
I thought Aung San but with a blind eye and bloodied hands she sadly fell from grace.
So it seems as though through oppression, hatred and unnecessary hurt,
We have always honed some superb script writers,
who pen the most inspirational and amazing work!

You see there are people like me who often turn on youtube to see,
Clips of inspiration film lines captured to perfection.
It goes back years too with Chaplin’s old collection,
Which led to the Great Dictator speech which then became a reflection
Not of what we wanted in 1940 at the height of the second world war,
But in the 50’s and 60’s and through to now and so so much more.
A few good men came much later, a scene from a genius writer’s pen,
The amazing speech in protection of the weak and not to be aloof,
To make that stand, so you too can well…handle the truth.
Al Pacino took us twice to a place, which saw us compliantly embrace,
The importance of honour and integrity, with a side portion of dignity.
In Scent of a Woman a vessel for sea going snitches, was a hit!
Then learning that there is no prosthetic for an amputated spirit.
More inspiration Al delivered again in Any Given Sunday.
As we agree that life is made of inches, from Monday through to Sunday.

Jeff Daniels made his stand many times in Newsroom as he dared,
To go off piste with sorority girl, which left us punching in the air.
Our hearts dropped as we nodded with all that he did mention,
As he left the room to ponder, you could cut the air with all the tension.
Martin Sheen delivered one too, with his West Wing bible speech delivered with calm and never rude,
Which took apart the failures of religion to society in just 3 minutes and 42
You see the saviours of our future days will be…well you!
You who is inspired by music, inspired by words and inspired by speeches,
Not frightened by power, big lies and parasitic profit leaches.

So take up your phones and film, add music, edit, post and Picasso,
To call out evil, highlight your ‘Guernica’ and lead the world to show,
the horrors of what we really need to negate, then film the beauty of humanity and all that we can create.
You see Michael Caine said the famous line in Batman The Dark Knight,
And as we repeat it, we know it represents just some of the world’s plight,
As the news is a stream of evil and our stomachs always churn,
As we sink a little chasm-deeper with lone shooters and dictators who just want to watch the world burn.
And Heath Ledger was a genius Joker who’s evil was psychedelic and delirious,
That inspired a thousand images on skin with…Why So Serious.

For deeper meaning film lovers out there searching for sun when there is no summer,
I’ll finish with the cult film and impact lines from the first Bladerunner.
As Gaff looks across at Deckard, two cops, the local fuzz,
He delivers “Too bad she won’t live but then again who does!”.
And we all know how these lines relates to us, our code on earth, our own mortality,
the importance of love, balance, ethics and our own family unity.
Until we reach Roy’s final moments in the future, one wet day,
A life filled with adventure, kindness, peace…the modern way.
In the hope we grabbed life and ran with it lived true and caused no pain,
Hoping that all these moments we created won’t be lost like tears…in rain.
With droplets cascading down our face, we fall asleep one last time,
And as our grip loosens, dove flies our spirit free….Time to die.


Ramblings of Recovery Series 3 – The fight

The calculated chipping away at my rock no excuse is given by me as you looked the other way as your lack of actions, concreted filled ears, cotton head thinking as the world sees you struggling to tread water, as you refuse to make your way to the side of the pool.

Water placed in that pool by you and your blind ambition. Ambition without volition and in the quiet times where you lie in the dark thankful of another day where you fooled the influencers, the mirror bounces back the jester plagued by perdition.

Did you for once think that your lack of direction would lead to your election, elevation to all that is value. A shallow puddle milky with the pureed sediment of words and advice not followed.  Your time borrowed, a fact forgotten, as you continue to turn the screw into unsuspecting flesh.

I was one of those unsuspecting few succumbed to the passive intimidation viral, that caused months of spiral, as I fell down the rabbit hole, separated from my role, a role that I filled with honour as I backed your confusion, promoted your illusion my misplaced passion defiled by delusion.

For months, I fell with no branches to grab, no place to land I still fail to stand for hours on end as week by week I make my way up the cavern walls, feet finding roots, roots fixed strong by the words of the wise as they guide me to deeper meaning week on week. I feel like Alice, but this is no Wonderland, as therapists words and hands caress my carousel mind, with spirit and mind connect no longer apart as i finally lose sight of the Queen of hearts.

Yet all it takes is the venom to fill my brain before I sleep and those braved words that ground the roots to wall, disintegrate letter by letter as feet find no purchase and I fall a little further back.  The pillars that are meant to hold this fragile fabric together are simply fillers in a party parlez accompanied by the constant condiment of pats on backs as they ignore the cracks.

As I look up at the distant light, with little energy I fight as I am climbing with one hand, whilst writing poetry with the other, as they flow one after another, and you look down, head appears with no rope or hand of hope but yet you shout down asking if I will be at the top soon, to quietly resume.

To help paint over and gloss, the wreckage and people lost, due to your apathy and failure absolute, but the target is never reached as they shoot, blindly, with no eyes looking through the cross hairs, what matters is the decision to appoint, which was theirs and cannot be wrong despite the missing throng.

Does no-one talk about the people downtrodden, until their lights were almost extinguished and once positive energy forgotten?  The glue cracked, spirits hacked, and diluted by the acid of poor leadership, and corruption that the power with baggage which rains down like a shower, are joined at the hip, as their contraband goes undiscovered.

With a cut out in the walls of the well that I climb, it gives me chance to breath, to stop the heave and weight of confusion that I carry on this arduous journey.  The light no longer the goal, the light, the top, the edge of reason, with gravity my friend not foe.  Maybe the climb should be halted as I contemplate the dig, over the rope.

New ground uncovered leads to new foundations, fresh concrete to lay, one day in a fashion that I choose, as I ration my negative thoughts and moments to just 6 per day.  With miner mentality, comfort in the darkness I plan out the tunnel, and funnel the future into shoring and strength, my hope needs length.

As I’ve been short of it as late, and that is why I refuse to engage with your vacuous sentiment and your lack of age, but weight of what you feel you can take.  But you see I saw your knees buckle many years ago, and I see no days in the gym which should have led to a better show.

And this is how I see it now, a show, a circus, a stage with an unimpressed audience, but the Directors they send you on matinee follows matinee, yet they instruct from a far off land, and fail to see the empty seats, yet you write your own reviews which they read with little interest.

The failure to truly invest in the game, the play, the scene to be set or script in flames, burnt by the contradictions that have been penned by quiver and nib with ink wells filled with gasoline, and the spark that ignites the fumes being caused your trusted few as they slam the door behind them, door catch sparking in metal.

The catastrophe of that day, still plays in my brain, as I left behind all that I had built, before I could fit the front door, or alarm the windows from unwanted intruders.  I never saw you creeping through the backdoor, locking it behind you, as with knife firmly lodged I staggered out of the building only to be opened up by the bluntest of blades.

I drop the pace of this articulate array of pebbledash passion to ask….you knew it was me, didn’t you, who walked at the front of the column my troops carrying your colours, flying your flag as we , never lagged, despite the lunacy of your attempted conquests.  Not once did we falter, or lack faith at the alter when it all became dire in your thirst for an empire.

How do we get back from here, as I sit in this oasis of safety, free from the ignorance, from the lost meetings, free from you sitting in front of me head in hands asking what you need to do, when it is me that follows you.  As I reached out with my hand, you took it holding hard, then as I looked away you sliced up my forearm as trust drained from my empty and confused soul into your bowl, and a day later you looked into that vessel with confusion as to why you were sitting with the blood of a warrior.

Whilst away I have raised an army, and found allies who will rise up and crush all that you try and promote, not in your field of vision, or your drained moat but on the many battle grounds of integrity, honesty and truth, their mission.

So my fine reader or listener of this rambling of recovery where do I go from here, when the actions of my once trusted command, had left me open, violated and drawn, as my guts spewed into the street as they stepped over my writhing shell watching, devoid of emotion, as I gathered up all that made me, as others flocked to my side catching my blood in discarded plastic cups.

The wounds I keep clean with the rebuilding of my self-esteem, which you managed to clumsily unpick in a few short years which took 2 decades to build – as the more passion I showed as authenticity glowed and lit up your way, my threads they frayed, until no clothing was left and I had to leave the trenches.

You need to lose me, and reflect over the loss of a warrior who laid down all arms for your success, who crushed rebellions and took up the slack, who you rewarded with a dagger in my back. Wound is healing, with my own self believing, and with the words I have written to you as I explain where you failed. 

A page never to be sent I have now dismantled all letters from the script, melted and forged into steel thread that now holds my flesh together.  A constant reminder of the time where my trust turned my chrome into rust, with actions so course, and safe that I know that I not the one weak, but you backed the wrong horse.

Pedrobatpoet Copyright 2022

Rambling recovery Series nos 2 – The Build – a poem about strength of character and a journey

Moments ultimately lost, light deflects off my words as they tumble.  Porcelain sentences shatter and scatter.
Impact liquefies my hope, fractured before descent.  I see intention, your fingerprints amongst broken splinters.
Angles acute, ragged edges and registered shards.  Piercing only hope not dreams, internally I bleed.
No pills to pass or ills to savour, neutrality ignored.  My self-blame traps guilt with emotions not belonging.
Observers offload their monkees.  I travel light, baggage abandoned at the roadside.
Past failings left in darkness, a switch is flicked.  I walked quietly into the night, for survival.
Space needed, clocks hands are never still.  Discarded empathy is no excuse for vessels.
No links to intelligence and emotions.  The passionate will seize the day, as ducts open.
Tears flow into seas of feelings, not feared by its owner.  Once in safe hands of soul survivors, I unfurl.
With peacock confidence, now manifesting with humility.  Value once lost in the debris of bygone behaviours.
Once again I am restored through clear water truth.  With glass covered, launched impurities fail to permeate.
Forward momentum achieved, finally believed.  No regression to past damage that cannot define me.
I refuse to place my feet behind my shadow.  I cannot tame the wind to preserve my footprints.
Lost forever in the turmoil of sandstorms.  My many silhouettes to please the masses, drift away.
Staying the course with broken rudder, I strive.  Numbed but not defeated, character never conquered.
With everyday a school day, baby steps are taken. Trauma but managed drama, if thoughts occupy no entry zones.

They are banished, but rarely listen.  Waking me with poetry and prose to capture with ink.

I decipher the order of my mind’s playground.  Struggling to make sense of my unconscious intention.

For certain, are my penned creations.  Permanent, fast-flowing, like the injustice in my veins.

I must vacate the craters between the trenches.  The enemy now known, tamed, placated.

It is but me, I am my true foe.  With every drop of acid, I let hit my skin and burn my lungs.

I now control the inbound fire.  Increasing the safe distance to my soul.

Tumours now severed and quarterized.  The new camp will never see the history.

The renaissance, a work in progress.  The weight replaced by wings.


(Copyright 2022) PedroBatpoet

Ramblings of Recovery Series 1 – The Drop – a poem about threat

Normal 0 false false false EN-GB X-NONE X-NONE What the world sees is a beast, apex alpha, driven, Focused conditioned primed. What i see is defective yeast, a cake that’s never risen, Throatless mute mimed. Thoughts, irrational irritants grow, Counsel insights epiphany. That caught me off guard, it showed, Unravelled exposed tyranny. As plates collide in random mode, Friction heat breaking. Man and crane change land to code, Integrity strained aching. Failure opens lava from beneath, Scorched soul encore. Extrusive remnants shrinking belief, Life bruised sore Exit the danger of falling rocks, Precision impacts planned. Forgotten time on discarded clocks, Authentic passion damned. Woken up with fire and blood, Body head affected. Run afar, less could more should, Mirrors positioned refracted. Wilderness walks in the bush I’m lost, Pressure slowly sifted My soul being torn not worth the cost, Power weighed gifted. A path now found that’s paved with words, Warm, kind, reasoned. Vultures all replaced with birds, Resilience, freshly seasoned. (Copyright) PedrobatPoet 2022

Riot – a poem about stress

It’s a riot!

My snakes wedding mind is a riot!

Whose taking my side?

Pitch forks and torches.  

It’s ever churning,

The grey sap is weeping!

Please leak into, and influence, my soul.

No brothers to band together.  

The injustice, I used to own the seas!

Master and Commander.

Never fearful of the swell.  

And the calm,

Occasionally, when I awake, no chaff!

This mindfulness, soon to be redundant.

Inevitably, as the day flows,

anarchy grows!  


Precious – a love poem

Not to be wasted, Your love to be tasted,
Explode the creative,
Atoms in my hands.

These hands that feel, Your pain that is real,
My arms are your keel,
Safe in our Ark.

The moments are protected, By our memories collected,
As our hearts entwined connected,
Our diamond Cucoon.

Gentle sounds and shapes, Our touching bodies, they make,
Let us please never, ever awake,
These precious diminishing days  

I breathe you in hard with mouth and nose, Your scent like a rose,
My body filled with rhyme and prose,
The lost years before we met.  

Do we need to leave this bed, Your touch lost, I would be dead,
You can never leave my head,
Our addiction, our obsession.


A Veterans Lament – Poppy Series 2018 – a poem about how some of us Veterans feel on 11/11

Veterans lament 11/11

Reveille sounded, warmth felt, we the opaque,

Our friend, the acknowledged half-smile citation.

Today our voices heard, presence felt and never vague,

We will meet again as 11 tolls, with tears, respect and pride.

Preserve our selfless acts, forever fresh and real,

Time creates distance, memories clouded, diluted.

Don’t muffle our tattered drums or slow the rusting wheels,

Effervesce our spirits, our lives and our souls.

Flash-mob moment, so proud,

Our recognition, pride furrowed sadness.

From ashes, our shadows are embraced,

We muster with our foe, translucency, as the Last Post echoes off concrete

The radiance cools, the end so near,

Petals now crushed underfoot.

On coat lapels they disappear,

Reluctantly into the night, with unrivalled discipline we will retreat.


I remember you, Jack – Poppy Series 2018 –

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