An Orphan’s Obituary


He died as he was born, with nothing to his name
Except the dwindling will to live a life full of the unknown.

Never did they tell him from whence he came,
But still he smiled at the knowledge of who he wasn’t.

A wandering life was lead, a life full of blame,
And yet through it he continually smiled at his fate.

In death, as in life, there were but two to watch his frail frame
As it was lowered into the grey rain-sodden earth.

They were same two he begat who never felt the pain
Of living a life without a name.


The Moon’s Sigh

The Moon came out and released a sigh from afar.
Bright shone his light through the bare winter trees.
“Why do you sit in darkness and cry,” He asked,
“Under my serene and pellucid sky?”
“I cry for life,” I said, “I cry for death,
I cry for words left by me unsaid.”
“Speak your heart,” replied he, “speak your mind,
Free yourself from those chains that bind.”
“But,” said I, “we have been taught
To bear the pain for all or for naught,
To weather the seasons that life has wrought.”
These words uttered, by his silence were met
And through his light did courage he beget.

© One Writer and His Blog 2013

My love and your path…

Share the path...

Share the path…

I walk in the light of my children,
I breathe the air of their life;
I yearn for the days of yore
When they entered this world of strife.

Bring them happiness I pray,
Bring them joy and love,
Protect them from the pain of age and
Provide them with that for which I strove.

I wish I could but hold your hand
and guide you through life’s path,
But, like time, I must move on without choice
And leave you with your own sweet voice.

Go my child and be your own self,
Go and see what life holds for you.
But tread not in my steps for they
Will only show that yours will be a better way.

© One Writer and His Blog, 2013

Creation is a drug and I am high on it


We revisit another morning in the life of One Writer and his Blog.

As is commonplace in their household, they are bickering about writing another post to keep Blog alive and fulfil his role in Writer’s existence. However, roles such as they are, seem to have reversed. Whereas Writer should be doing the writing, Blog has now taken on the demi-god role of the Muse and Writer is but the parched poet who, despite life around him, cannot find a drop of inspiration anywhere. Facing a dry spell of Saharan proportions, he is forced to look to Blog, his alter-ego, for inspiration. Blog, an erudite and whimsical creation is a tough nut to crack.

Or so it seems.

Blog: It’s a hot day isn’t it? Shouldn’t we go out and have a beer or something – my mouth is parched and my eyeballs feel like prunes.

Writer: Sounds like a good plan… though I can’t decide where…

Blog: Here we go again, decisions, decisions, decisions. What is it with you and decisions?

Writer: There is nothing with me and decisions… nothing wrong at all. What is it with you and criticizing me?

Blog: Listen. We are one and the same right?

Writer: Hmmmmm. Are we?

Blog: Oh God – here we go again with the existential theories. Look, we have this conversation every day and every day, my answer is the exactly same. We are one and the same!

Writer: You are not doing a great job of convincing me… talking down to me is not going to make me submit to your reasoning. Nor is it going to achieve anything mildly positive. You know what your problem is?

Blog:    What?

Writer: Your problem is that you are a lazy so and so. Look at that writer’s recent post – ah! I can’t remember his name. He has forty thousand followers and words come out of his Blog like there’s no tomorrow. And you? You are a just lazy so and so.

Blog: I know. But why are you blaming me for your failings? You are the writer, remember?

Writer: Is that all you have to say for yourself? Oh listen… I completely forgot to tell you something.

Blog: What?

Writer: You know I wrote those two poems yesterday…

Blog: No I didn’t, but carry on…

Writer: Well I came back from a coffee with a friend and wrote a couple of poems.

Blog: Was she cute?

Writer: Look… just concentrate on what I am saying and stop going off onto another subject.

Blog: So she was cute then.

Writer: Yes. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. I wrote those two poems because I wanted to write something. I think she inspired me. But when I read them back, they were too trite, too contrived. It was as if I was writing poetry to a prescribed format. Rhyme and meter were there, the thoughts were juxtaposed…

Blog: That’s a big word.

Writer: I am ignoring that – juxtaposed in a martial, cavalry charge-like way, but it was like I had been rehearsing writing. The ingredients were there, organic, fresh and beautiful but making the dish was too hard to do. Do you know what I mean?

Blog: I like the metaphor. By ingredients, I assume you are referring to words?

Writer: Well yes and no.

Blog: Look my confused friend, what’s really the matter? You are all over the place. First the indecision, then the beginnings of a rant about followers and now some tripe about writing poems that are martial-like in their word order combined with making a recipe book or something. I know you are being artful, but wouldn’t it just be a whole lot easier if we were to stick to the basics?

Writer: Basics in what sense?

Blog: Okay, this is writing 101, my style. Call it free form, call it whatever you want. It is not as contrived as one finds these days – this is writing for your soul. Are you in?

Writer: When was I never?

Blog: See, that’s what I mean. There is nothing simple with you and your thought processes. Even a clear yes and no answer has to be a drawn out question that sounds wrong but is actually right when spoken with your particular brand of nasal intonation.

Anyway, let me begin:

Writing is picturing a thought and

Letting it move on the Wind of Words. 

Writing is smiling at the sun knowing it will set

And admiring the moon, knowing it will wane.

Writing is the look on a lover’s face

Basking in the glow of her emotions.

Writing is finding the shade on a searing day,

Dark and cool on muslin covered skin.

It is love and it is jealousy

And it is all the colours between the two.

It is formed of thought and 

Like thought holds no form.

Writer: I am flabbergasted at your fluidity… did you just come up with that?

Blog: Yes. And it feels good, creation is a drug and I am high on it.

Said the Soul to the Heart



Within the murky depths of his Being
The Heart began stirring, awakening to foreign sounds.
“Why do you wake?” the Soul asked of the Heart,
“Sleep peacefully and do not fret, for waking is excruciating for you.”
“I wake to see what moves you, without,” said the Heart
“I want to see, why you are so blesséd and I am laid bare,
Why you sing and I do naught but lie?”


“The reasons are simple,” the Soul swiftly replied,
“I let love find me in the places where you expect it not,
The cold morning air and the warm birdsong.”
“You search for pain and confuse it with Love
You flit to it, hither and thither, like a moth and its desire.
Be still and let it flit to you.”