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.

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.


ImageIts been a little while since I posted on here. Working on my new novel has been all consuming. As usual I woke this morning knowing that my story would progress, become richer and satisfy my expressive desires. Not only that, my children would have a continuation of the tale they have thankfully taken such an interest.

My body and brain however had other ideas, waking with flu and a sleeping head. I started with a bit of free form writing, some of which I thought I’d share. Its a mental snapshot of my state of mind. I hope you enjoy. All comments welcome as usual x



Speak but don’t make a sound,

The message received with indifference

The voice that listens but has no opinion

Don’t try when you can help the stampede

Charging whilst sitting still

I’m in there


The cage that had lifted in my mind


A brief look at life after death has left me in a state of panic searching for life within life.

It’s all a matter of perception

Or so I’ve been told

The veil that clouds my mind darkens

The strength once so powerful and full of purpose

Replaced by an apologetic IOU

Maybe tomorrow

I will wake

Maybe Tomorrow.

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.