The Man`s Coal Face

Are these life choices we make?

Open prisons

Dictated lessons

Maggie’s farm sessions,

Nuts and bolts

Bricks in walls

Sunday evening

Curtain falls.



 Do you use your creative mind space?

Hammering coal,  from the mans coal face,

Or do you dare for something bigger?

Be brave and pull your own life’s trigger.



 We are all sold a great big lie,

Careers matter

Ask yourself why?

Button shirt

Tie straight,

Groundhog journey

Mustn’t be late.



 With a two-fingered salute

And clenched fist wave,

Make time to catch,

Times passing wave.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Quieter Role

When I was a young Tom cat

And my thoughts were all of cream,

Id slash and claw at all I saw

And take by whatever mean.


When I was a rabid dog of a lad

And red did cross my eyes,

Id foam and bite at all that passed

And all that I despised.


When I was a raging bull of a man

And brew was in my soul,

Id fight and duck for rages luck

And pay no mans toll.


But now I am a quieter man

Who seeks a quieter role,

I have met my love, my darling dove

Who quietened my angry soul.





Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Parted & Sold

With lips of spite she sips at her indifference
Remembering times of little resistance,
Remembering times of heartless spear
Thrust by lustful stranger
Or anyone
Who was near.
Into her barren curtain slit
Strangers often found their bit.
And welcomed in
Parted and sold
She offered warmth
From darkest cold.
Those days a forgetful memory
A crimson blush
Under carpets brush,
While skeletons collect
Their closets dust.
This be her truth
she’d remain it untold,
Behind the latch
Or old book fold.
Now these days she is better than most
Fortune has propped up that loose bed post,
And down her nose she does do stare
At strangers passing
 Poor and threadbare.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Sullen Return

It wasn’t a surprise when you came back today,

Black eyes that turn me milky grey.

Black as burnt coffee

Oiled ocean scar

Cat’s eye slit,

Back into my troubles pit

My worries jar.


The day had started not a care in the world

Hope was returning my burdens uncurled,

Like toes on a soft rug, a slight bend, a gentle tug,

This was my day of peace to be found

All burdens were lost

Free and unbound.


I was up and feeling good

Steadfast my being did stand,

No executioners hood to blind sight of wooded trees

Or burdens anchor

Pulling me to my blackened knees.


Then I felt a subtle spot while standing on my happy plain,

I could have sworn I felt a drop

Of burdens unhappy rain.

A drop is how it starts, a fine haze,

Then quickly the deluge

Becomes a burning choking blaze.


I twitch like a bird on feeders hanging seed

I curse and spit my frustration at calms exiting speed,

I wash my hands to clear the blood

To cleanse myself of this sticky mind mud.

Ill see you tomorrow my happy plain,

It was fun before that spot of rain.

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.




Cool Winter Sand

To be innocent again

fresh as a fist full of cool winter sand,

when fingers were clenched and the feel of milky way grain did slip away,


When peppermint treasure came from a wood covered cave, past heavy door

when sherry scent and grey smoke formed comforting cloak

when I rode a giants shoulders and listened for fern cones falling,


onto paths

upon which, my father did roam.

When happiness was a honey spoon or vegetable patch hole

minds eye lost

day dreamers soul.

When brook and stream were there to be dammed

mud to be held

by innocent hand.

Soldiers commanded behind cork wine wall

a windows ledge

they did so fall.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Discount Town

Introduction: Through a bland town, across a beige chewing gum minefield pavement, through the indoor market filled with the noise of sales and desperate pitch, second-hand sounds and the bloody sweet smell of the butchers stall, I wander into a town called Discount.


Husbands hen-pecked

holding shopping lists miles long

plod and dare not

put a single foot wrong.


Texting people

miss sight of homeless

forget their pound

socially acceptable pocket fumble

stare at ground.


Middle ranged woman

low of moral stock

sips her coffee

under the broken

town clock.


God preacher in middle of square

deaf crowd, do not hear, do not care.

Carries on preaching

voice disappearing

into hire purchased

thin air.


In the betting shop of magician’s riches

shadows and mirrors

curses and twitches

sits an old man, rolled cigarette in one hand

necessity in the other and desperation eyes

a look of his mother.


Politicians promise

advertising for derelict lies

on the side of a future promised





This was the story of Discount Town

cigarette haze

this unemployment phase

let’s all remember the better days

a complex of shopping

we are all lost

all lost

in this credit maze.




Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.


Twisted and mangled like disregarded wrappings strewn across a bare floor, this guilt mangles and twists me into a shape, devoid of the man, I was before.

 Ash grey skin as bleak and lifeless as floating body, once walked with pinker complexion, now floats and swirls face down, lost to all, a sad reflection.

 Hindsight, its torturous memory, taunts with constant projection, of the once possible, now unobtainable choices, of a wiser, direction.

 Eyes haunted with pasts entity, possess all the answers, but none of the keys, lost in times forgotten, to open seas.

 Guilt a burden, mine`s deserved, forgiveness a virtue, or so I’ve heard.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.