The day is unknown
So many have flown
The blur is lost in time

Yet I remember some
Where I came from
Still hoping to find

The very last scene
Of what it all means
If I just follow the signs

Stoic Poetry


Days gone by
a little of this, or that
a favourite pen 
old sketches
fading with age

Time is no friend
always here and gone
always stealing
a piece of now
and gone forever

Never caught
never held
never stopped
almost never
stopping once, in the end

Stoic Poetry

Elemental (Earth)

From whence I came
And to which I will return
Limitless potential
Given this living light
Which continues to burn

This alone is the gift
What is chosen is for me
Greed, avarice, anger, love
Free to choose for a time
Gifts for many refusing to see

Stoic Poetry

Force Of Will

Art courtesy uf:

I am the force of free will
forged of desire
fate having no dominion 
my path is my own

No one to blame
the immovable object
becoming unstoppable force
my actions stand alone

Fault no man
look inward for truth
your lot the fault of no other
accept who you are, never atone

Freedom to choose
never given but always taken
the path less travelled 
destinies course not yet known

Stoic Poetry


Quiet Darkness

Quiet darkness envelop me
winged intruder, lights dissolution
soar beyond day’s raucous din

Leave me in somber solitude
seeking solace in myself, soul intact
beyond lacerating tongues

Reviling others call, “nevermore, nevermore”
unwashed congregation, nor unholy pact
pull me to a life forsworn

Stoic Poetry


Diaries left with cryptic entries
Scattered about the world
To be read by strangers
For some only nonsense

Truth is often tightly furled
Möbius would be most proud
Upon the strip we tread
One sided at first glance

Some look below, others above
Along the thread, upon the dread
There was ever only just this
The side all must walk upon

And the ending is the beginning
It always was; no exceptions
In a life here, and then gone
Blind, as we shuffle along

Stoic Poetry

Lonely Walk

Cold grey dawn, mist overcoat
comforting as damp muslin gauze 
shrouding the eyes of the detached and departed.

Decrepit footpath, cracked and neglected
as the mothers graves across the field
backs cracked by careless footfalls no doubt.

My own gone these many years now
the Belfast cemetery not far from here
her stone unfound after searching.

Somber Irish mist, where legends and relatives mingle
sometimes seen, but always there,

Stoic Poetry.