Dark Lady Poetry - John Stocks




John Stocks



There would always have been beauty

A shared benefice

An indiscriminating sunset

Falling on the blood red tide

The dismembered limbs, hacked heads

At Martyrs bay

Sensuous, sublime unknowing.


On the bronzed faces of tourists

Clicking ‘Canon’s’ back to Mull and Oban.

Or the faces of the grieving mother’s

With sons lost in the mud of Flanders.


At twilight, pagan and pilgrim

Would feel the same creeping sense of awe.

The hermit frying sprats in his cave

A pious monk; lost in cerebral prayer

The witches knitting ‘popetts’ out of hair.


The roar from the Ocean’s mighty swell

The majestic indifference

Of Gannett, Sea Eagle or sonorous Whale

Would resonate with all.


There will always be beauty here

Long after the words have died

And the cottages have crumbled into dust

One morning from the edge of time

A new, tempestuous sun will rise.




New Years Eve (Part Two)


Only the naïve will anticipate

An end to war, a global harmony

Or imagine that we can change our course

And not press on to self destruction.


Let us focus on some private beauty

The unique innocence of a small child


Or a love that can transcend anything

The hope, if anything, is in the detail.


Presently we will try to hold a glass

To the future, we know that it is out there

A glass of champagne and an uneasy toast

Our thoughts are random, indecisive.


Love has no politics or division

Just an essence, an essential secret

That prevails, in blizzards of destruction

In any heaven, we wish to enter.





‘The Jews are not the men that will be blamed for nothing’


It was not the rain, but how and where it fell

beating an insidious tattoo on tin

splashing into east end pavement puddles

the streets that once had a name

as welcoming as the rippers’ kiss.


This is Limehouse

this is death


transcending eras.


It hangs in the air

in codeless dislocation

beyond the west winds soulless murmurings

‘Annie Chapman, Cathy Eddowes’

In the creeping gloom of twilight

the coal back eyes, the leering smile.


On half lit streets the cobbles glisten

a girl in a hoodie, leggings, hurries past

a disembodied voice yells

‘Ere, over ere!’

(Someone screams-is anyone listening?)


All is disquiet, all elusive dread

blank faces at the bus stop

unclaimed bodies in the morgue

the dizzy angst of resurrection.







John Stocks is a widely anthologized poet, and a Pushcart prize nominee. His recent poetry has appeared in a variety ok UK magazines including Candelabrum, The Coffee House Magazine, Dawntreader, Harlequin, Manifold Poetry Monthly, Littoral, Taj Mahal Review, and Involution and Interlude. Currently he is working on his first novel.