Guilt – (old post)

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.

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.

Bluest Moon Rare

While scratching cat claws at singing bell
I write these gentle words,
I have gentle
Most gentle words to tell.

With crows feet eyes, under my patch of bluest skies,
Bird branch trees, choired in threes,
Sing against
Singing sails breeze.

In this burning olive sun
I write these perfectly imperfect words of impractical scrawl,
With no cast of doubt
No shadows crawl.

Seas of scented coloured air
Fill my mind with grateful tear eyed thanks,
While my 
feet are warmed, warmed on darkened planks.

I have a thing of bluest moon rare,
I am deeply loved
A gift of once diamond found,
Is to be held and cherished
On this most thankful ground.

And I will love her until my mortal days have faded
And my crown of greys are bound,
A love like ours is forever
Forever till dust and ground.

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.