Under the Hammer and Clock

Under the hammer and clock

Promised a diamond

Presented a rock,

Under this hammering clock.


Under the hammer and clock

Morning engines tick their tock

Churning their fumes,

Waiting our turns, under the hammering clock.


Under the hammer and clock

Weathered lines storm the flock

Masses the stirring brick, cracking the immovable rock,

Hammers continue to stone, this forever hammering clock.


Under the hammer and clock

We curse the hammer, we spit at the clock

White as doves our hands crumble,

Ash beneath the dust and eternal hammering clock


Under the hammer and clock

We lasso the hand, scramble the rock

Swaying we swing ageing, chime the greys we rock.

Till dust and shadow we sit under, under the hammering clock.



Copyright © 2019 Charlie Hasler.

Mind Radio (a poem from my new book)

Turn down the volume,

It makes me want to scream out loud, while standing amongst this bustling silent crowd.


No volume button at my discretion,

To sooth my thoughts or allow for a calmer expression.


A tortured look butterfly sliced across my face,

Here stands a man who once had a happier mind space.


Is this just me or can you hear it too? that painful laugh,

That devils shrill, that teases me like a twilight winter daffodil.


Let me hear your music for a while, so I may lie quiet and bare a smile,

Quiet and peace is all I long for, not this pounding in my brain nor that hammering on my minds door.


How I wish I could tune in like you, and whistle to the silence of my own free will.

I scramble for that invisible switch, to silence the cackle of this cackling mind Witch.


But you wouldn’t know, you have silence, try listening to these hell like sirens.

All clutter now, all clutter, help me stop the banging of this relentless mind shutter.


I look at your face but hear no words, I can’t hear you, I wish I could, then perhaps

We could talk and solve this riddle, of why my mind only plays this devils fiddle.

The Captains Pit

Into this pit of captains I stare,

Down into the depths of my most shallow dreams,

Appear the ripples of my despair,

And all my worries gleam.


Falling back into the green of smoke and haze,

Into the heavens my mind does glaze.

And in the corner of my praying eye,

A steeple does slash that holy sky.


Below sits captain perched on his pitted rock,

No calls to answer, no ships to dock.

In the distance tolls the bobbing bells,

No more coconuts, nor foreign shells.


Above I lay falling and fell from my fallen grace,

A collection plate taken, from that holy place.

Pockets lined with burden and guilt,

Cast from mind, my memories silt.


This pit of captains sits upon one memory sill,

Next to that repentant cross, that place of good will.

And in the grass where once a boy did lie,

I remember that captain, from days gone by.



Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Choired Land


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

Aloft I stood the mountain,

Below lays 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 © 2018 Charlie Hasler.


Lemon Pepper – (old post)

There is no more fat to chew,

No more the bitter taste nor choking gristle words to spew.

I sit more peaceful,

More peaceful I sit undisturbed,


Nose cut and spite grinds that tempered grid,

No kind to be found, nor gentle to be sourced from under that hollow lid.

All lemon pepper sucking and twisted vanity unfair,

Nothing is happening behind that vacant vacuous stare.


It was a cold heart that shifted my mood to one side,

How I sat there bare as the day I fell falling from my Mothers tide.

Now I find I walk that small rope tight and balanced alone,

Calm now the melody, that tunes my calmer tone.



Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Connected – (old post)

I did not turn out the man I would hope I would be, 

Not as brave or broad chested as some would think, 

Can’t handle the basics or connect the link

Rage my fall-back position of choice, 

Trembling voice, sweated tears,

Cowering boy hiding in shadows of memory fears, broken years,

Lost, I wander from one day to new.

Lives and loves pulled to the depths with me, 

Head-locked down I take them deep

Down to the pits where my nightmares creep, 

Down, down, down, darkness drowns,

To a place where banshee`s wale, a repeated story, repeated tale.

Always the dancing tear eyed clown, absent the tears, absent the frown,

Further down into the drown, 

I take them all.

The stage is lit and burning bright

Crowds of selective vision, selective sight, 

All with their own worries, personal plight,

No more answers, 

All ears dumb to my screams,

Muffled claps, broken dreams,

Again, the curtain  falls.

I feel nothing, an empty hollow void,

Hell bent destruction spat life destroyed

Not a flicker of love, not a flicker of care, 

Empty heart, thousand yard stare. 

With a bull dust kicking pant,

Trembling rambling poison tongue tipped rant,

Feelings disregarded cast to dirt from spit,  pick up your feelings from between the grit

Together we sit, in this hell cursed mind raped pit,


We all but are.


Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Crow Scared – (old post)

Scared as a crow I fear the always open field,

Armour ready, steady shield,


My march is glacier slow.


As hard is the rock and open the place,

Iron shoes, lactic lace,


My back is arched like a clock stuck at two.


Head cracked with ball and fist,

Frustration racing, mind blitzed,


My teeth grind the board with gritted chalk.


I rest my forehead against the clawed door,

Eyes shut, fingers sore,


I am weighed with anchored breath.


Tomorrow, always tomorrow,

Words hollow, tears follow,


My thoughts banshee the muted wall.


With all that is sudden the door closes, 

That man I know leaves, gliding shut on a gentle breeze,


Who knows when he will return.


Now all is quiet as silence is still,

Slowed heart, hushed shrill,


I reclaim what pieces I can.



Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Lonely Whisper – (old post)

Drifting we do from early bud, to all but ash and ground

Happiness is a lonely whisper,

Amongst this bustling crowd.

Snap of fingers echo’s, from a hindsight setting hand,

Dreams sit behind the cusp of yesterday’s forgotten,

More lay waiting, beyond tomorrows remembered land.


Moments of content are few, as flakes in the autumn snow,

All must be held with a rose clasp,

Better to whether the thorn, than wince, and regretful let them go.


Copyright © 2018 Charlie Hasler.

Hates Self Reflection – (old post)

Those vicious insults bounce right back

the burden of guilt is yours to carry

on your own bitter twisted back.

I hope those bricks are heavy

way you down

you are the cause of your own

wretched frown.

Your cold stare makes me feel warm

your coldness only makes you wither

against your own internal storm.

I wonder what you see

when the shadows come

a sad face of a mother

once proud to call you son.

The bully you are

kind you are not

awaits for you a lonely grave

in a dark solemn spot.

And when you look in the mirror

what do you see

not a kind reflection

like the one looking back at me.



Copyright © 2018 Charie Hasler.


Finding The Pace – (old post)

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 © 2018 Charlie Hasler.