Broken Prose

Broken prose from shattered lifes.
Who spoke in haste with tongues and knifes.

Castles

Why do we build castles,
that wash away with the tide?
It's because life is a journey.
You pay for a ticket,
Climb aboard.
Then, hold on tight for the ride


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

Echoes Of Pain - E-Book

Available NOW on Amazon Kindle (E-Book)
BUY HERE

The book is a collection of short stories that were written in the only way that I could attempt to purvey the day to day life of a childhood that was spent within the grasps of a nightmare existence that is domestic violence. It was never intended to shock, it is merely a factual actual account of the emotions and strategies that I put into place just to cope with the insanity of my situation. 

The story of my life

It was after a 'quite by chance' meeting of my former primary school head-teacher, at the age of thirty-five, that I realised with some degree of anger and sadness that there was something something very wrong either with teaching as a profession, or with society as a whole.

“Your family were one of the most loving that I ever come across in forty years of teaching”

This single statement that would have had the vast majority of us smiling for a fortnight, had hit me with more ferocity than any blow I had received in the ring or from my father. It was at that moment I realised the wall of silence that had surrounded my terrible and turbulent formative years in this world, would need to be shared with the very same people who had failed us so miserably. It seemed almost inconceivable that a family of four children, all at the same school, could be lost in the system for the whole of their childhood.

I hope you support this project

Stephen Harvey

Still Waters - AVAILABLE NOW

Rising Brook Writers presents 'Still Waters' 2011 poetry collection.

The collection features 4 of my poems written in 2011 alongside Stoke On Trent's best local poets. It is available to purchase from the registered charity

RCN :11117227 for £5.00

The book and group is supported by their patron and renowned poet Ian McMillan

ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Purchase here

Murder in Crabtree Field

Burslem town Hall - Stoke On Trent

One shilling and sixpence
The wage that Charlie stole
Returned from Stanley Pot-bank
On route to Bycars Pool
It was underneath a willow tree
They spied the blood stain coat
In Crabtree field beside the cut
Young Johnny lay alone
The packers twine around his neck
He choked his final breath
Too young to face the gallows
Shaw guilty for this death
No remorse for youth in law
Down under for his crime
A life of toil hard labour sent
for the stealing of young life


This poem is based on the true story of a murder in Stoke on Trent in 1833. John Holdcroft was just nine years old when he was murdered by Charlie Shaw (15) a packer who worked at Hawley Pottery in Burslem, Stoke on Trent. A bloodstained coat, A footprint under a willow tree and the packers twine all led to the capture of Shaw who had stolen the boys weeks wage of just one shilling and sixpence (1s 6d) on his way home to Baddeley Green via Bycars Pool. Shaw was seen running from the scene with blood stained hands and packers twine in his hands. He was sent to Australia because he was too young to hang.

thank you for the fine book by Tony J Hollins for the inspiration. It can be purchased below

Staffordshire Murders - Myths and Legends

Tragic

Love is a new novel explored
A welcome mat with a bolted door.

Lost love

Listen, I adore naughty nights evermore
When a termless soul did return to explore
But life without boundary can never concur
When untruth and justice became lessons from her

Down and out

Vincent Riley (left)

He sang of his mother
In the Emerald Isle
He walked the streets
With a spirited smile
He was an hero in battle
Who had just lost his way
We remember him fondly
Vincent Riley his name

Vincent Riley was one of the potteries true characters. He was seen wandering the streets of North Staffordshire, usually the worse for wear from drinking methylated spirits. He would also sing songs that were usually about his mother who had lived in Ireland, and whom he hadn't seen since he was a very small child.

He was a military man and was said to have been something of an hero during the war, sadly he had become an alcoholic after leaving the armed forces and quickly fell into homelessness.Some say the demise of his mental health was because the army had denied him compasionate leave to go to the funeral, and that he never truly got over her death. We will never know for sure, but in those days mental health and drink dependancy were seen as social taboos and were not treated with the same degree of care as we enjoy today.

He slept rough at the brickworks in Cobridge most nights of the week and was often found either by or in the kilns keeping warm. He was found dead on top of a kiln in 1951

Vincent Riley has been the inspiration for many local artists who have tried to capture his personality in paintings.

BAREWALL ARTWORK

Thanks to The Sentinel for info and picture

Link

Prophetic Noise

Mermaid Pool by Harriet Burns

One rain filled day at midnight
On a Moorlands ridge and path
We spied with eyes of wonder
A mermaid from ancient past
Those dark and barren waters
Where creatures drinketh not
The Black-Mere O Morridge
A siren best forgot

Stephen Harvey 2011


The Mermaid of Black Mere Pool
Links and info source here 

 Black Mere Pool, in the North Staffordshire Moors near the town of Leek, is the site of what may be the only inland mermaid legend in England. The small, remote hilltop lake, around fifty metres wide, is a particularly haunting site. Set on the craggy and barren southern edge of the Peak District, beside the Leek to Buxton road, it is said that the dark peat-stained waters of the pool are bottomless; cattle refuse to drink there and birds never fly above it. Over the centuries it has been the scene of a number of mysterious drownings and even a murder when, in 1679, a woman pedlar was dumped in the pool by a local serial killer. Tradition holds that the mermaid rises from the pool at midnight to lure unwary travellers to their deaths in the dark watery depths – but only single men, apparently. There are various legends concerning the origin of the mermaid. In one, a sailor from nearby Thorncliff fell in love with her and brought her back from sea, and in another she was originally a witch who transformed herself into a water nymph after been thrown into the pool during the Middle Ages.

Mermaid Pool

Dark - By stephen Harvey

My old enemy dark hides in the shadows
He is ready to pounce on my mind
A blade with blunted edges
But, as deadly as sin itself


This poem has been published in 'Still Waters 2011 poetry collection'
ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Molly Leigh - The Burslem Witch

The grave of Molly Leigh - St Johns, Burslem

In Boslem town I once heard said
A tale of occult and walking dead
A witch that traipsed the street by night
Who turned milk sour and chidren fright
Who cast her spell to illness spread
To punish  parson with blasphemy led
Returned from death to haunt and scare
Sat proud revile in rocking chair
To rest her soul and curse resolve
They staked her heart and laid her cold
Now some may say she's finally free
But in whispers speak of  Molly Leigh


The Legend
Most people in North Staffordshire are aware of the legend of Molly Leigh, the Burslem witch. Many remember childhood games daring each other to recite the lines “Molly Leigh, Molly Leigh, Can’t catch me” while running round her grave in St. John’s churchyard, fearful that Molly might appear to those brave enough to recite the verse three times. I can certainly vouch that the large, crooked tomb has a certain presence to it.

Molly was born Margaret Leigh in 1685, near to the town of Burslem in North Staffordshire. The industrial revolution had yet to transform the area so Burslem was little more than a small country town, hemmed in to the North by the bleak Staffordshire Moorlands. It’s claimed that Molly was something of an oddity from birth – choosing to suckle from animals and chewing on stale bread even before her teeth had developed. She was not helped by her famed bad looks, and the early death of her parents forced her into a lonely existence on the outskirts of town, keeping the cows through which she earned a meagre living. She was a regular sight around Burslem as she delivered milk, her pet blackbird perched on her shoulder. Even before the rumours of witchcraft began Molly was subject to accusations of selling bad milk.

It’s unclear precisely how and why the rumours did begin, but local people began to claim that the blackbird was a sign of witchcraft. The local Reverend Spencer did little to abate the situation by publicly claiming Molly rarely attended church – in those days a serious social faux pas. The story goes that, angered by the Reverend’s claims, Molly sent her blackbird to spy on him at his favourite drinking haunt, The Turk’s Head. It’s alleged that when the bird appeared atop the pub sign the beer turned sour and the customers suddenly developed rheumatism. What’s more, the Reverend fetched his gun and took a shot at the bird but missed. He was bedridden for days after with mysterious stomach pains. Molly’s unpopularity grew and grew, until the people of Burslem began to blame her for anything unexplained or unfortunate that happened to them. She became increasingly unwelcome in town, and apparently lived out the rest of her days in solitude aside from her pet blackbird. It was said that the bush outside her cottage, a favourite perch of the blackbird, never blossomed. She died in 1748.

Molly’s death was just the beginning of an enduring local myth. Legend has it that shortly after her burial, a group led by Reverend Spencer went to Molly’s cottage in search of the malevolent blackbird. Looking through the grimy windows, they found no bird. Instead, they were shocked to see Molly herself sitting peacefully by the fire in her rocking chair mumbling to herself,

“Weight and measure sold I never, Milk and water sold I never”

Rumours of witchcraft were re-ignited and spread throughout the town. Had the townspeople of Burslem really lived all these years with a powerful witch amongst them? What would be the revenge for her ill treatment? Matters were not helped when the blackbird became a regular sight around town, pecking and harassing people and crowing into the small hours.

According to the most popular version of the tale, the folk of Burslem soon had all they could take of the troublesome bird and Reverend Spencer decided to take action. He summoned together a group of local priests to deal with Molly once and for all. One midnight in April, they travelled to the graveyard at St. John’s with a mysterious sack. They set to the earth with shovels - it must have been an oddly amusing sight to see a group of be-cassocked priests toiling away like farmhands. However, holy men or no, they succeeded at the grim task of exhuming Molly’s body and drove a stake through her heart. The blackbird was grabbed from the sack and bundled, still alive, into the coffin. The lid was swiftly resealed, and then pet and owner were re-interred. It appears that the actions of the Reverend and his gang of cassock-cronies worked. There are various unsubstantiated reports of Molly roaming Burslem, and black shades seen in the graveyard, but most versions of the story have it that her influence over the folk of Burslem ends with her reburial. It’s natural that over time, and especially given the amount of pubs in the town, a number of different versions of such a popular tale will crop up.

However, the intriguing thing is that the legend, in any form, has endured for so long. There are no other local folk tales that seem to capture the imagination quite like Molly’s. Its legacy is visible today through Halloween dares, a play about her life, and through the claims to lineage of the famous occultist Sybil Leek. Whether witch or victim, Molly Leigh’s story has become one of the most told in the area, and her grave a popular attraction for folklorists and dares alike. If anyone summons the courage to run round the grave three times, calling out to Molly then let me know.

Author : Matthew Hicks
http://www.mysterymag.com/whatsnew/ 

The Terrible Tale Of Tommy Meaykin - By Stephen Harvey

The grave of Thomas Meaykin

In a village called Rushton
right alongside the lake
There's a tombstone of sorry
with a tale of heart break
'Mermento Mori, in latin it says
which when roughly translated
says 'be mindful of death'
'bia thantos' most wicked
at the bottom most line
hints at 'death by violence'
for this most awful of crime
He was an ostler by trade
The most lowly of class
Who fell head over heels
for a local gents lass
and when Tommy met illness
they buried in haste
In the church of St Michaels
the most holy of place
When suspicions grew quickly
on this untimely loss
and his grave was uncovered
by his most loyal of hoss
and when they opened his coffin
he had turned upside down
to claw at the coffin
from this tomb underground
he'd been buried alive
in a grave not his own
to end his poor life
in the darkness alone
a young man had fallen
to the most wicked of men
so falleth do I
when this tale I do tell


The history

This is the tale of a young man named Thomas Meaykin, who worked as an ostler (looks after horses) in Stone.

Thomas fell in love with the Pharmacists daughter, but he was from a lower class than her.

He became ill one day and was pronounced dead shortly after. He was buried very quickly after the being seen by the Pharmacists own doctor.

Thomas's favourite pony kept returning to his grave and pawing the ground and this alerted the locals that there was something not quite right. His friends exhumed the body and found him lying face down, and there were scratch marks and blood as if he had tried to escape. Had he been poisoned and buried alive?

After his family brought his remains back to Rushton they were reburied at St Lawrence's,which is also known as The Chappel in the wilderness. Notice that the grave doesn't say when he died, only when he was buried and is the opposite direction to the other headstones. It is believed that this would help to put his soul to rest.

The gravestone reads :

Memento Mori
Thomas son of Thomas and Mary Meaykin
Interred on July 16th 1781
Aged 21 years

As a man falleth before wicked men
So fall I

Bia Thanatas (death by violence)

Some believe the ending  Bia Thanatas was an hint at a work by the English writer and clergyman John Donne. Written in 1608 and published after his death, it contains a heterodox defense of self-homicide (suicide), listing prominent Biblical examples including Samson, Saul, and Judas Iscariot.

Maybe there was a possiblity that Thomas attempted suicide by poisening himself only to awaken from a coma like state after been buried?

The line 'Falleth before wicked men seems to suggests otherwise, and points at him being murdered, but we will never really know for sure. No person was ever tried for his murder.

The Chappel in the wilderness

This story was featured in the superb book 'Ow ter toke raight' by Fred Leigh
ISBN 0 952418823

BUY HERE

http://www.bbc.co.uk/stoke/content/articles/2008/06/12/stone_history_feature.shtml

It is not the antention of the writer to upset anyone living or dead, but to inform readers of tales of local and historical interest. The poem is a fictional account of a well known legend that has been well documented on numerous sites and in many books.

The Tommy Knockers - Stephen Harvey

Knock, knock, tap, tap! What’s that sound?

The soul of a collier trapped under ground.

He'll stays down there till the end of time.

Buried under mountains of darkness and slime

Knock, knock, tap, tap! Who goes there?

A Tommy Knocker whispers in the midnight air.

The sound of his tapping will serve no doubt

To warn us of a danger when it's time to get out

This poem is loosely based on an old skiping song of unknown origin - If you can discover the original poet/author I would love to find it out this information.

Information

The 'Tommy Knockers' were believed to be the souls of colliers that had been killed in the mines, and would warn other miners of impending danger. The mining industry was filled with lots of superstitions including 'Blue devils' 'mining dwarfs' and the 'Whistling witches' who all warned of dangers in the pit.

They believed that they had been given a 'token' or a 'chance' by the ghosts of miners lost or trapped underground and to ignore them would bring on impending danger. Some miners also believed in their dreams, and dream about a 'burning shoe' was one such warning to stay at home the next day.

Common superstitions

If a pitman met a pig or a woman on his way to work, for example, it was a sure indicator of disaster, and he was to return home and miss his shift. 

Another belief was that if the pitman set off for work and found he had forgotten an important Item, he should not return to fetch it; he should either carry on to work or go home and stay there. 

Certain acts were unlucky: in parts of the North-East it was not safe to use the word ‘pig’ (but the dialect equivalent ‘guissie’ was allowed); to rob a robin’s nest could lead to an accident at work, etc.

Such superstitions held less and less power in the 20th century, but recently I heard from an old collier that the term "blue devil" was used for “the ignition of localised pockets of gas" 

It doesn't take much imagination to turn a blue flame into a devil or imp, and when your are a mile underground with only a candle as company, they must have been a very frightening sight.



This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5



Contact the author

Skull Hill

Follow me to hill of skulls
By criminals of two
Divided garbs to shares of four
The robes bestowed to you
The end of times upon me
A prophesy foretold
I bow my head in silence
with a weight of thorns behold
I return now to my father
Your sin my burden new
The light that broke the darkness
Will last forever in you


Skull Hill - The history

Discovered by British General Gordon on a visit to Jerusalem in 1883, Skull Hill is the hill that led Gordon to a tomb believed to be that of Jesus. Scripture relates how Jesus was crucified at Golgotha ("the place of the skull"). This hill depicts a skull-shape only a hundred meters from the site of the tomb located outside the Old City walls. It's considered by many to be a legitimate location for the Tomb of Jesus, as burial places were considered illegal within the city walls.

Contact Me 

The Dove - By Stephen Harvey

Down by the river edge
On the path to viator bridge
Visions of childhood passtimes
Eclipsed the Dovedale Church
Dip'd toes in babbling brooks
Across the stepping stones
Lovers leap from Ravens Tor
Emerg'd from clouds of Thorpe


Information
The stepping stones are perhaps the most famous feature of Dovedale and attract thousands of visitors every year. They were originally built in the Victorian era to enable tourists to cross the River Dove and continue to serve this purpose today.Ravens Tor, lovers leap, Viator bridge, Thorpe cloud and The dovedale Church are all natural features along the river bank..

Frog Hall

I climbed the devils staircase
On journey to kiln of lyme
Cherry eyed in Froghall
Behind the blackest lion
We followed River Churnett
Past ancient Consall View
Where beasts of fire and iron
Return for the sightings new.

Froghall is a village situated approximately ten miles to the east of Stoke-on-Trent and two miles north of Cheadle in Staffordshire, England. Froghall sits in the Churnet Valley, A beautiful and relatively unspoilt part of Staffordshire. There are some excellent and challenging walks in the area, many of which encompass the area's historic development by the coal, ironstone, copper and limestone industries.

The Devils staircase, The Black Lion, Consall View, Cherry eye bridg and river Churnett are all places and features of the Froghall Wharf and local area. The beasts of fire and iron referes to the local steam engines and world famous Churnett valley railway.

The old man of Mow

He sits alone in his old arm chair,
the guardian of all he surveys.
His quarried featureless expressions,
are a constant in an un-certain time.
A world where he has no voice,
only time to kill and weather to storm.
He lives only for the now.
His ancient morals like granite stand,
the mighty man of Mow.


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5



The Old Man O’Mow is situated on the site of an ancient cairn that was said to be a burial mound, and linked to the Bride Stones of Cloud End, approximately 3 miles away to the North. However it is more likely to have been just a boundary marker separating two counties and two manors on the Cheshire side of the hill, Rode Hall Estate and Moreton Hall Estate. It was described in about 1530 as a `Roke of old stones that of old times have been reared'.
The cairn disappeared as centuries of stone quarrying took its toll; this however does not give us much insight as to just why a large rock edifice of some 65ft in height was left. I have heard several theories as to why it was left, the first to aid lifting the large grit slabs, the second that the stone was not of the right quality. It is more likely however that it was just left as ground marker, out respect for the old cairn. If any reader can offer me proof for any of the above it would be appreciated.
The top of the Old Man O’Mow stands 65 ft high, with its top some 1100 ft above sea level. Its shape from certain angles does look like the form of some giant man, thus giving us its name

http://www.mowcop.info/htm/industry/oldman.htm

Souling Song

You can sell your soul,
For an apple or two.
If you have no apples,
Then a pear will do.
It's up with the kettle,
Then down with the pan.
If you give a big one
We'll be gone

Stephen Harvey


This poem originates from an old folk story from Staffordshire that some of you may have come across in a skipping song.

Mainly in the north (and also in Cheshire and North Shropshire), the festival of All Souls is celebrated on November 2nd. It is celebrated by parties of lads and children going around to all the principal houses begging for apples. This is believed to have been changed over many years from the original, which was ale and cakes. The practice has died out over the centuries.

http://www.the-staffordshire-encyclopaedia.co.uk/view.php?id=147#Staffordshire%20Folk%20and%20their%20Lore

Pit shaft Demon

Down in the dimlight mineshift troll
Hiding in the shadows all on his own
He came out to steal your childrens souls
They called him raw head bloodied bones


This poem is based on Staffordshire folk-lore of the raw head bloody bones demon. it is believed to have originated from parents inventing a creature to keep their children from playing near to the many dangerous minshafts that were left over from the intensive mining of North Staffordhshire.

http://www.the-staffordshire-encyclopaedia.co.uk/view.php?id=147#Raw%20Head%20and%20Bloody%20Bones

Tambourine Jack

On Hanley's cobbled streets of old
There rode a man that legend told
Who hailed a cry of 'O' is well
Upon an horse with horn and bell
He travelled corpse from noose to Grave
Three lads they hanged for truth betrayed
Collier, Walklate and Billy Toft
Now laid to rest beside 'Th Slobs'


Based on the tale of John Taylor who was Hanleys Town Crier in the late 1800's. He was better known as Tambourine Jack and he was apparently quite a 'character' by all accounts. As well as the town crier he was also employed to transfer the dead from the gallows in Stafford. He was well known for his strange dress sense and musical ability. He wore very bright clothes and played the tambourine, french horn and bell, while wandering the streets of Hanley town.

The names on line 7 were the three men hanged for allegedly raping Hanna Bowers after meeting her at the Lamb Inn in Hanley. Five men walked her home that night, two were released and and three were hanged. The stroy goes that the local policeman who arrested them agreed with Mary, who had a somwhat jaded reputation locally, that she would drop the charges if they paid the £2 fee that she usually charged her male customers. The men refused and opted to go to trial believing that her reputation would make it impossible to prove that she had been raped. it has been said that there was much amusement when Hannah turned up to court dressed like a Sunday school teacher. The judge was not amused however and found all five men guilty of rape. the men agreed to pay the £2 charge, but were told it was too late now.

After a petition of 5000 names was handed into court there was a reprive announced for two of the men named Holford and Cooper which sealed the fate for Collier, Walklate and Toft. They were hanged on April 15th 1820

They were buried in Shelton Church at a place called 'Th Slobs'


Most of this information was taken from Fred Leigh - Pits n pots
ISBN 0 952418823

Also Staffordshire Murders - Myths and legends by Tony J Hollins
ISBN 1 899608 00 3

Manifold Valley

Thors cave stands proud
Watching over the valley deep
Trains of steam and coal once meandered
Along this forest gorge
Now families frolic
Venturing toes into babbling brooks
With trousers rolled to knees
Berefoot caution in the freezing shallows
Observed by ancient envious eyes
I recall the stepping stones
Those timeless treasures
Childhood and the River Dove

This poem has been published in 'Still Waters' 2011 poetry collection
ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Information

Thor's Cave (also known as Thor's House Cavern and Thyrsis's Cave) is a natural cavern located at SK09865496 in the Manifold Valley of the White Peak in Staffordshire, England. It is classified as a Karst cave. Located in a steep limestone crag, the cave entrance, a symmetrical arch 7.5 metres wide and 10 metres high, is prominently visible from the valley bottom, around 80 metres (260 feet) below. Reached by an easy stepped path from the Manifold Way, the cave is a popular tourist spot, affording excellent views over the Manifold Valley.

The origin of the name is uncertain, possibly from the word "tor". Links with the Norse god Thor have been suggested but evidence is lacking.

Excavations in 1864–1865 and 1927–1935 found human and animal remains, stone tools, pottery, amber beads, and bronze items within Thor's Cave and the adjacent Thor's Fissure Cavern. The caves are estimated to have contained the burial sites of at least seven people

The Manifold valley has fantastic memories from my childhood and in particular the stepping stones across the river Dove.

Murhalls Tomb - Tams skin

It happened during the rebellion
Of seventeen forty five
When Bonnie Charlie's armies
Went to London for a fight
They took a break in Bagnall
Near the high point town of Leek
Raping and pillaging Endon
Just to see them through the week
When a local Duke lay waiting
With his soldiers up at Stone
He rode away to Derby
To hide there all alone
A squire then killed a drummer boy
Who was left there just to roam
The poor lad left to wander
They had forgotten to take him home
They sliced and skinned his body
Then they tanned it like a hide
To make a drum to play in church
Which was a most repellent site
Well it caused disease and famine
Or so the town folk said
And many there did cheer aloud
When the squire himself was dead
Now if you don't believe me
I'll swear to you its true
Go see the tomb of Murhall
In the church of our Saint Luke
They say the ghost of Bonnie
Still rides when moon shines bright
Still searching for his drummer boy
Who died of vengeful spite
Go seek the place called Tomkin
A place with a gruesome past
Where locals stop to play the drums
But Scotsman ride through fast

A poem about the legend of Toms skin of Bagnall

Tom’s Skin



Several versions of the story of Tom’s Skin, from which the hamlet takes its name, can be found, but they agree on the central matter of a drummer boy, named Tom, who came south when Bonny Prince Charlie invaded England in 1745 and almost reached as far as Derby. On their way, the Scottish soldiers stayed at Bagnall Hall, home of Squire Murhall. Following various humiliations at their hands, the Squire was able to capture one of them: the drummer Tammas, Tam or Tom. He had the boy flayed with the intention that his skin be used to cover a drum. The rest of the body was laid to rest at the place now known as Tom’s Skin or Tomkin, also spelled Tompkin. You can read the rest of the story, and variations, in the book,

“Tomkin in the Staffordshire Moorlands: A history of hamlet and chapel” by Irene Turner.

The elephant bird

I heard of a tale I thought absurd
Of the Madigascan elephant bird
Twelve feet high and half a tonne
It yearned to fly but could only run

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elephant_bird

Child

Lost but not forgotten
An angel we hardly knew
Safe in the arms of Jesus
He waits for me and you


By Stephen Harvey

Body Blow

Image by http://www.art.co.uk


I dont want to hold your hand.
Seven simple sounds,
That once floored a man.
He was a warrior.
A bare knuckle pugilist,
With hands as hard as stone.
Now floored by a beauty,
he thought was his alone.
This was her perfect punch.
A whispered body blow.

By Stephen Harvey

Elegance - By Stephen Harvey

The alarm clock sounds
I open my eyes to see her awake
Her eyes sparkling like Jade
Good Morning beautiful I whisper
I dress and head downstairs
She follows in my footsteps
She is the lady of all she surveys
I reach out and touch her face
It meets with her approval
As I prepare her first meal
She waits with elegance
I know she loves me
Even though she never lets on
She truly holds my heart
My feline companion

This poem has been published in 'Still Waters' 2011 poetry collection
ISBN 978-0-9557086-8-8

Princess

Daughter of the red giant Jupiter
Princess of Sun and grantor of life
Your embrace radiates warmth my way
I find myself dreaming within your light
Yet, hopelessly lost for perfection in prose
A name I dare only to whisper in sleep


This poem has now been published in AD LIB 2012 - A poetry collection from Rising Brook Writers.
ISBN 978-0-9557086-9-5

Passion

It can run hot or cold
but, It still remains
If the truth be told

Still

Still love you more than life or fame
Still proud that love remains
Still devoted to our love as one
Still my heart until breath has gone

Racist Visions

It's been two centuries since the slavery decline
Bigot visions still alive and making headlines
So take this in your mind from evolution of time
Or should I say criminal when keeping race divisional
Their hatred manifestos stay adhering to the masses
With power hungry demons sticking like molasses
To the minds of the weak who are moaning their worth
Destroying happy lives with their devilish words
Suffer in silence still time to reverse
leaders killings minds with their hate in reserves
Retrieving past data from their god complex
Will history return to this time of regrets?
Leesons from the past dictations from Reich
It's coagulation theories lies on the rise
Take it in your mind wise time to realise
That racial harmonies one day will harmonise
Intellectualise pause when a fool begins to speak
Decrease around  in circles as you clamour to the bleak
The good stand up tall and let the people see
We welcome open arms to this land of the free
Big brother stated foul and jaded visions of our lives
Proud to be a Britain when they died for all our rights
Racist speak of fools judging men by their skin
Listen to this truth and let the wisdom begin.