By P.J. Greystoke


From the clays of a cold star, we are risen.

Every atom, molecule and smile seemingly explained to the last definable detail.

Undeniable intelligence.

.        But where is the beauty?

.                   Where is the faith that led us here?

.                                 Where is that sunset?

…And by sunset, I don’t mean the atmospheric prism, through which, layers of light must pass, till we see the ultra violet, formulaic and forensic explanation

.           …that we bequeath with ill-deserved pride to our grandchildren

.                  …before our brain activity and vital bodily functions finally cease.

I mean the sun that rises in the morning, tipping his hat to the moon night-watch, as they rejoice in silent recognition of each other’s efforts.

.                               The sun who invites children to laugh and play

.                   or lovers to walk hand in hand on a sandy shore.

The sun who can lift the spirits, wake the dead and provide a reason for tomorrow.


Futility takes hold.

I write with fading light,

mourning the ultimate inevitability

That from the clays of a cold star,

we shall one-day return.


Hi there,

Following the recent activities in Paris and the racial hate I was appalled to witness afterward, from people on social media and in person I started to type. What emerged was a poem. Go easy on me, I’m a novelist and a short story writer not a poet but the message is clear: We are all human, regardless of race colour or creed, don’t torture the innocent.


By P.J. Greystoke


The smile can be read in a variety of ways.

A cursory glance from a hostile militant.

A freedom fighter, ready to purge his demons.

A saintly soldier, as he selects his disciples.


The mother as she watches her daughters first steps

Outside for the first time,

Braving the new world.


The father as he holds his daughters hand

His eyes to the east.

Counting his bless’d.


The terrorist’s watery grin, laboured

As he sees the innocence.

His mind must focus on lessons of the past.

The child’s first steps will now be her last.

Well…  Poetry has always been something I have read and admired from afar, but not something I often turn my hand to.

Todays Free Form exercise however, inspired I think from a news story I read where a young lady was repeatedly beaten and made to suffer numerous indecent acts upon her person; an assault which lasted years before he (the assailant) was eventually jailed.

… Anyway I just started to write, please excuse any glaring errors, the words are exactly as they appeared in my mind, as for me that is what free form is all about.

As usual any comments or suggestions are always welcome. x

Don’t Turn Out The Light

Don’t turn out the light
I promise not to look

As the night blankets the sun
And the rain weeps into the vast baron oceans of my mind.
I’ll stand here

As the soft gentle beat of my heart
Signals that there’s someone, something innocent left behind
I’ll stand here

As the drum of distant footsteps
Marches with renewed anger till there’s nothing left to find
I’ll stand here

As a ticking clock with no concept of the day or time
I’ll stand here, waiting, waiting.
Just don’t turn out the light.

In at 1.15am today. Sat down at the computer and did some free form. It’s completely un-edited but thought i’d share anyway, hope you enjoy. As always all comments and thoughts welcome. x


Imagine a world of clinical logic.

Where every action has an equal and opposite reaction.

The birth of which is a machine facilitated by yet another process following an exact and predetermined formula.

And so it goes on.

Picture the teardrops of a grown man, the composition constant, the reason biologically explained to the last detail.

Trace the evolution of his emotion.

The empathetic connection that we all crave carefully explained to leave no room but the one it already occupies.

Imagine choice to be but an illusion.

An unanswered question in search of reason.

Imagine the beating of a child’s heart to be nothing more than a cog connecting to the other moving parts.

Satisfying the sum of the whole.

It’s existence sanctioned by It’s compatibility.

Then smile

For the moment we still have to imagine.


A little nostalgia today, I was scanning my library the other day and  happened upon the first poem I had ever written, at the age of 14. It was  pressed neatly between the pages of a book. I hope you enjoy x


The Reason


There once was a man

Who became very ill,


He passed a virus

To a palace messenger


The messenger

Carried out his daily duties


He passed to the virus to an emperor

Who became too sick

To initiate war


Millions of lives were saved.