Astride The In-between

Here I lay waiting, astride the in between

Still I lay waiting, to cross to a sleeping slumber dream.

My sleeping bride, my love, already lays upon her side, 

She has passed to the no longer, no longer waiting side.

She lays silent next, whispering her silent breath, 

Dreaming her silent dream, with whispered dreaming breath.


The July window is open, enters the warming air,

Rustles the trees their seasons, sails the sailing summers air,

And in their rustles I hear the days of canter they do but leave,

I skyward look, met by ceiling, as the sun bows this summer’s eve.

Moon all a pink in glow, lights the cradled arms, 

Gives tow to the stars, gives voice to lovers psalms.


Silent the silence whispers, a silent whispered sound, 

Muffles my ears with cupping whispers,

Quietened whispers cupping my ears with softly sound.

Floating down I fall further, obscure the gliding land,

A dream I slowly enter, 

Real all but touch of hand.


Further still the silence stills my bounding beating world,

Times hands seem to pause still, pause but moving stand.

I do not mourn the faded light, I dream the coming dawn,

My love dreaming next to me and now I dream with her.

I have passed the great beyond to the land of sleeping dream,

No longer am I waiting, no longer in-between.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Choired Land

I stood aloft the mountain, clouds in reach my mortal hand,

Aloft I stood the mountain,

Below laid a choired land.


Below the rolling valley, her blanket sailed in grass,

A place where all time stands,

Held perfect in gentle clasp. 


A perfect moment that will stay, forever it shall last,

Once stood my prayers present, 

Now sits my heavenly past.


Standing I stood where many a mortal did stand,

Below sits choired valleys, 

That hymn this miners land.


No need to open my eyes, no need to awaken from dream,

This land laid out in front of me is real, 

As many sleeping eyes have dreamed.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

(Images my own)


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Dead As January

I fear life more than death,

Uncertain is life, certain is death.

All uncertainty until said final breath.

Clocked we are from moment of cot,

Till worm food we do but rot.

And stars we all return.


I wake and feel nothing on often a sunny morn,

Withdrawn, hollow, a face of sorrow and forlorn.

I am empty, collection tin empty.

Dead as January, outlook bleak,

If I was weather, cover you would seek,

To ride out my lingering storm.


No smile to crack, against the cracking curtain dawn.

With my razor tongue I deliver my razor scorn,

And slice my smile away.

“Close the book” they say, turn the page,

I was a different man, a different age.

I wrote of it once, my bastard page.


Wasted all, onto deaf ears their wisdom did fall,

And crash their wise words, laid broken upon the floor.

Salted tears cried through regretful years,

Overflowing lakes accompany my burning ears,

Curse my failed frittered years, 

Frittered and cursed away.




Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Screaming Into The Void

We scream into the ever growing void of our own advancing life.

Our own advancing life, the trouble and strife.

Met by echoes of nothingness we stand pin drop eared,

Waiting for answers to come from the darkness.

Answers to present a mothers apron string.

Pin prick eared we wait to be guided through the uncertain times.

We are all children looking for the apron string,

With wet thumbs we shuffle along,

Reaching hands grabbing at empty air,

Too much we care, too much strife,

In this ever advancing,

Troubled life.



Haunted by decisions we feel are of such grave importance.

Importance is determined by circumstance. 

The man who crosses the ocean on a weighed down boat,

Only just afloat, afloat only just he treads the gasping air.

The man who wakes up worried with weather. 

Whether to umbrella against the black sky.

Hardly the same, hardly do or die.

And yet we wander with an out of step heart and stuttered tongue,

Daily rung is our tongue.

Rung out decisions that have been lined and weathered every morning.

Every morning since our first mornings memory dawned and broke the curtains with waking split,

To prize our sleeping eyes.



Uncertainty, the concept of uncertain excitement is an alien concept that we rarely venture down. 

A route as fraught with danger as an un-cleared mine field. 

Detector ready, we listen.

Fear poised we wait for the ping back life crack of life`s whipping sting to guide us down the safer route.

The normal route. Certainty is all but guaranteed.

Normal, as beige is to bland, as grain is to sand and all the neatly lawns.

Reformatory white washed reforming walls of a newly refurbished, reformed and re-tuned mind. 

Dull lines, clean lines upon picture less walls.

Shops on Saturday, family on Sunday, work on Monday and the groundhog recurrence of it all. 

With a whales gulp we yawn the empty sea.



Success is judged on mortgage size,

A collection of loans and borrowed wealth,

Line our borrowed mantel shelf. 

Education is based upon industry focused qualifications of a system that forever demands more from you and your learned mind. 

First is now last, master is now student, Doctor is now as expected as it is taken for granted. 

Alas, we have all become nuts and bolts,

And heavy is the draw.

Never enough, must better ourselves, become great.

The greatest great most beautiful pure perfectly perfect whiter than white diamond encrusted iconic genius since the water was turned to wine and all men followed the deserted man.



Deserted, faith is as deserted as the marooned man.

Marooned we all wander the island.

In this ungodly time of the none believers the minority consider themselves the enlightened in a darkened time. 

Believer or none believer we are all ants, a shoe forever hovers over us.

Must pick a side, never astride.

Believer or none believer. No in between. 

Like opinions, you must choose.

I am none believer and yet I remain crucified by circumstance. 

My gods are the ones who pay me and keep my table supplied with food. 

Take away the food,

And watch me pray. 



Opinions, if you are astride the fence you are pulled down. 

This is a black and white time,

In a grey age, upon a sad page,

How the tears do run and bleed the years away. 

Mockery the chosen response to pushing back against the raging tides of opposition views. 

Democracy is as much a reality as fairies are to teeth and yet we still leave our silver coins. 

Hate always the undercurrent of the harsher view and lack of facts the pulling current. 

If we do not swim against this current we will all be left adrift. 

And find ourselves 

The treading man.




Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

I Rise

Back to the crushing black deep,

Curtain shadow and starless black

Oil well swelled swirling black

Frost bitten dead toe black, cruelest of cruel cursing soul black

Crushing bastard black, rage thrashing sea.


Pass me the blade I will end this quick,

No more sinking from this sinking ship,

Leave the noose; pay the hangman’s tip,

Tie the boulders to this lead brick,

I am jumping from this revolving ship,

Throw me no more lines.


Further into deaths cloak black I sink,

Further deep into the dead man’s drink,

Passed the unforgiving Jack Frost brink,

Heavy iron binds the chains that link,

That pulls me to floor.


Let my lungs fill and sleep my mind away,

Away from quotes and all there meaningless bile,

Come into my mind for a day, then quote me a smile.

You keep scratching your hollow scrawl,

And I will remain dead eared upon the floor.


Pass me your hand; I will put it under the kettle,

Let’s test your resolve your inner metal,

And see if you can carry on,

Too much too soon?

Here is a broom, to sweep up your meaningless words.


Let me sink down further still,

To the black sacked cat sleeping drown

Seashell sounding whooshing drown

Dead patch eyed sipping sailor drown,

And on milky-way grains leave me to lie.


Where were you all years ago?

Before the acceptance, the circus show.

You have found your voice, along with your spine,

Well done for joining in at the correct and proper time,

And speaking from such a caring heart.


As I lay I look up through the black,

Tar beach sludge black

Oil glued winged bird black

Cancer lung black

Smoker’s death black, smoking black sea.


And in the dark of my pitiful demise,

I look to the heavens at broken skies,

I see a pair of marble pendulums looking down at me.

Golden rich deep brown eyes

Stab my heart with a lightning bolt jolt.


Eyes that hold with cobra stare,

Break down the dark, supply the air,

And lift my heart from its coal-black pit,

Gives me the strength, supplies my grit,

And from the grain I rise.


Her hair of raging black flames,

Wild burning bright illuminates blackest night,

All hell takes flight, vineyard soil of blackest sight,

Blackest, black hair.

I rise further still.


A smile that would make the ungodly pray,

Singing hallelujah, armies of trumpets play,

Pearl gates open to welcome coming day,

I want to reclaim my soul I say,

And so furthermore, I rise.


Passed the patch eyed sipping sailor,

Passed all the wing glued birds,

Passed Jack and his frosty brink,

Passed the ships of past times sink,

And all the forgotten souls. I rise.


And back to her arms I will always return

Back to her embrace, her heavenly burn,

I will always find the strength through my sinking demise,

To swim up towards broken bluer skies and meet her loving arms,

And so always, I shall rise.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Wailing Man of Blinded Stick

The wailing man of blinded stick, clatters the alley, scratches the brick,

Mumbling his mumbled prayers.

With black of sight and worries plight,

Alone with beaded prayers.


Though he walks through shadows of evil, in this alley he fears but none.

In his valley the evil do rally and darkness has already won. 

No need for sealed or squint the eyes, he looks already to darkened skies, 

And black is their oiled tone.


And with wetted lips he recites the fumbling of his youth,

Before the black fading, the longing of greyest tooth.

When all the trees were split and wails did shake the Pidgeon roof,

And cooed the neighbour’s calls. 


When all the summers were raging lit, between the duvets where budding trees spilt,

And spilled their altered wine.

With fumbled fingers he peeled the bark, to taste the buds in flashing dark,

And rose his breaking morn.


Now in the dark of always night, since clouds closed to greyest the sight,

He sticks the forward slab.

Only plagued by one last sight, in oiled dark of constant night,

The sight of his fleeing love.


She did get wise to distance cries and flight she did but take,

Now on floor with wetted knees, her coo falls from distance trees.

How he longs to make it right, alone he wanders in always night.

Her love, a distant dream.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Ocean Glass

Cast across ocean glass, how the winged fishes wept.
Dew be a diamond crystal, of silky hair regret,
How the winged fishes dangle,
They be caught upon the net.
I have a simple deck of wood, no grass or house of grand,
No need for beach or oceans, no need for golden sand.
I am not a holy man, no bible held in hand,
But if heaven were a place, 
It be on this plot of land.
With ember bud glowing, at my rebuilt side,
I have the means to reclaim, what was lost in once raging tide.
No current will pull my flame, back to the Davey Jones,
I have rebuilt my sail, and with steel rebuilt my bones.
So through this window I ponder, with my new brighter outlook,
My time is now mine, I returned that broken book.
My demons lay dying, withered upon the floor,
I won that ghastly battle, 
Now watch me win the war.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Coming Morn

Upon the ink my needle is spun, upon a white virgin crest,
Spun from heart and tattered cuff,
And cast from naked chest.


From the rubble, the hellish struggle, I feel a turning tide,
All the while, comforts the smile,
My burning ember bride.


The tunnel is long and you would pot holes to stray,
And though the light be as needle prick,
It only seems so far away.


Use your meditation, by take of whatever form,
Use it to stand-fast,
Hold strong against the storm.


So with pen and page, and sight no longer forlorn,
I say goodnight to the dark,
Hello the coming morn.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Inner Truth

What is your locked inner truth?
Hidden within your locked house,
Its most secret roof.
Behind the locked doors, the shuttered windows,
While outside a howling wind blows,
And owls warn the bowing moon.


What hovers over you in the grainy slumber?
When the entwined take flight and leave their lovers arms.
In the black of night, when creeping cats creep,
The tired eyes sleep,
And all the children dream.


We all have our crosses to bare, skeletons that stare,
And keep our closets grave.
Perfection is as dust is to dust,
As it collects upon the skull
The head be bowed by a mournful lull,
And ashes, our dying shame.


We fear the judging crowd, their bleating too loud,
Wool be the secrets as wool be their shroud, and tossed to a flawless breeze.
Their tar and tainting brush no grey area touch, walk upon mirages of mountains to plains.
But their cotton be rotten, their fields be trodden,
And black as a threatening cloud.


Time will always tick her wilting clock and buds we all but are,
Shortest time to flower, before the cloaked scythe does tower, and cut,
We flower no more.
Do not let your truth stay hidden,

Nor remain in the saintly prison, before the final call.


So in your final hour, before the hooded tower and the gleaming scythe pauses the last hand.
When the calling wind howls fall to grass and hush,
When silenced be the owl and with sunrise eyes it warns it’s warning no more.
Be sure your demons are buried,
And truth, has opened your door.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.