Nigel Smith is a superb poet and writer, we enjoy each others work very much. I recommend you check out his page if you haven’t already.

I asked Nigel if he would be kind enough to read some of my poems and he very kindly took me up on the offer. Take a listen.



I was asked by Charlie of Charliesays if I would mind recording a poem of his. Of course I said it would be a pleasure, especially as I get to choose which piece. However this being Mr Hasler’s work I had to choose two at least ! I hope you enjoy the two I’ve chosen, both powerful, both in the Hasler style and both the work of an Alchemist of word.

NP Smith



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The Departing Green

Heavy eyed I sit and stare at the departing green,

Silence has fallen across summer, hushed it`s warming woven beam.

Nature with a finger to mouth lowers the birds to a quieter tone,

Exhaustion covers the window world, branches lose their blankets curled.

Winter is approaching with all her snap and bite,

To shorten the humming day, reclaim the shrieking night.

Goodbye to the blooming of colour and bud,

Make way for Jack and his frozen mud,

He sits waiting with his long fingers over the orange hill,

Behind the red house, the leafy summer twilight chill.

Clouds pour their buckets of sea and salty mist, sipping the earth,

Tapping the mouthing fish,

Hammer heavy, angry as a clenched black fist, they roll from pillar to post.

Cats will cry the whining night, cursing they shall tip and toe the stone earth,

Longing for warm tarmac prowls, flashing glances, slit eyed scowls.

And we the fat and few will sit perched fatter and fewer as the clasp of the winter cup

Sips our leather skin to pale and ghost.

Pending our ruby cheeks, valley lips and ash fingers, we await the scurry of hurried days.

Heater burning bath and bubbling blaze, bulb beige light for always days, Smokey breath of winter haze, summer birds retreat to flight, farewell until the return of never night.

Until then I shall sit and cherish, cherish the departing green.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.




Finding The Pace

It is not always the winning that wins the race,

More the finding, understanding ones pace.

Lungs will burn, legs will seize, 

Ankles will twist, knuckles will freeze,

Eyes will stream and flow.


Not everybody’s race is there to be won,

It is there to be run, it is there to be done,

Along the winding upwards track, 

The rain in your face,

The sun at your back.


Even on the hardest course,

You must find your strength, your driving force.

The sun can sit a pin prick upon a dream, 

No warming glow, no guiding beam,

Rising only, to taunt and dazzle the way.


When you find your pace, 

With iron lungs and windswept face,

Pounding, the track will become your own.

No curb side jump, nor side wind thump,

Will knock you out of line.


Welcome the hills, the hardest track,

The dying sun sinking against your back.

Welcome the cutting of sleet and ice cold rain,

The weeping sores, the blinding pain.

Broken, is only to stop, to allow the fall, allow the drop.

Winning, is to simply carry on.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

It Is, What It Is


What is this thing called life?

Be it in love, be it in strife.

Hearts a flutter, minds a mutter, 

During this swirling whirling bounding life.

As often is said, with shrug of shoulders and open palms,

It is, what it is.


Your game may be one of luck and loss,

A flick of a coin, a fall from idle toss.

With Mothers eyes, and Fathers hands,

We sit strapped to roulette’s table. Spinning, we roll the dice.


You may hear the laugh but miss the joke, 

Do not blush the cheeks nor stoke the faces burning flames,

Nor fumble to a trembled croak, 

Or quiver your lips with shame.


When life sees you on the stand, held by judging eyes,

Learn to see and always be open, there is always grey, in the blackest of black skies.

In our moments of low and ebb, keep chin up and facing true,

You may end up back on the stand, with all eyes watching you.


If you love then make it blazing, if you hate, cool and douse the flames,

Look at yourself in the mirror, 

Ask if you were the one to blame.

We are all imperfect during this life.


And even as write this collection of bursting thoughts,

No order set dictates my meanings course, 

Confusion is often driving, screeching with always my burning thoughts.

I will recall after what it is, what it is I should have thought.

As is so often the case, 

It is, what it is.



Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.