Is this what drowning is like?

I feel myself slipping beneath the waves,

waves of bigotry and self-righteous bile.

Fingers rest heavy on triggers,

as we push, push, push.


Dark voices clamour over

the thin call for reason,

and values of god are lost

beneath a deluge of religion,

as we push, push, push.


The indecent reign of the decent

and the righteous howl of the fearful

haul us back into darkness,

the light is flickering now,

as we push, push, push.


Walls rise from hallowed soil

razor wire blocks escape

explosive reason spills blood.

Normal service will be exhumed as soon as possible,

as we push, push, push.


The narrative of love is lost,

replaced by the logic of fear,

its steady march thunders out

rhythms of punishing hysteria,

as we push, push, push.


We pile insult atop insanity

and sing glorious songs,

eyes firmly fixed on the past.

The future withers, starved at birth,

as we push, push, push.


All that remains is bubbling chaos.

The pressure’s to great now

Who will remain when fall comes?

Not me, thankfully.

Weeping for my children, and yours,

I fear we have pushed too far.



By Francis de Aguilar©











There is this dream, but I’ve hidden it
in the back of the dream cupboard.
way up on the top shelf.

I can’t describe it, I never give it voice.
I know it’s there still, it haunts me.
Taunting, daring me to pull it out.

Every now and then it hitches a ride
on a new dream and waves hello
from some obscure corner of my mind.

Sometimes I see glimpses of it
hiding in the eyes of others.
or hear it’s whisper in a laugh.

Hidden though it is, I’m always searching.
Not for the dream you know, I search
for that from which this dream was born.

That all I have is this dream, empties my heart.
The heart that leapt that day, so long ago.
The one that still hopes, the one that broke.

Francis de Aguilar©2015

She lay dreaming.

She lay dreaming,
moving through tales
of wondrous imagining.
A vessel of beauty
overflowing with innocence and
frivolous babbling giggles.

Delighted by bees and
sticky toffee.
Enthralled by horses and
bicycles with bells.
As curious as Alice,
always in wonderland.

One night, mid-dream,
a crushing weight
bore down upon
this delicate vessel.
She knew this weight
her rock, her anchor, till now.

The vessel shattered
into a pile of shards,
spilling innocence,
scattering love.
Delight escaped
leaving only fear.

Years past, tears fell.
The shards boxed,
hidden from sight.
Nothing felt safe,
even dreams were fearful.
Less of a life, more of a plight.

A decision was made
to bury the shards,
to end this hurt,
to escape a crushing weight
that had never left,
always pressing, always down.

By chance one day
she discovered a copse
resonant of lightness.
She carried the box,
searching for a spot
to lay to rest her broken soul.

Startled by a rustle, she
looked up from her digging
to see a boy and a girl
who stood in shimmering light.
“What’s in the box?”
They chorused in bell-like tones.

“These shards that once were me.”
She replied, lifting the lid.
The boy waved his hands
and sent glowing tendrils
coiling around the shards
lifting them spinning into the air.

The girl, singing, lifted her hands
and a musical light merged
with the spinning shards
as one by one they reformed
each joined by coloured light
to make anew the vessel smashed.

Now more beautiful
and stunningly unique,
the vessel settled to the ground.
Golden innocence returned,
it filled with joy and laughter,
it sounded as myriad crystal bells.

The lines of the breaks
would never leave.
In rainbow light
they mapped her life
in a tender weave of hope,
and a tracery of healing.

Written by Francis de Aguilar© May 2015

G-olden Years.

G-olden Years.

Waking to pain, all to often,
a wave of sadness engulfs.
Reviewing the potential for distraction
as the prospect of another day looms.

It’s just no fun anymore.
Not much left to enjoy.
Gone is the mystery, the anticipation.
Hand dealt, cards played, all bets are off.

Now just a window shopper
shuffling along the high street of life.
Each day an uphill trudge toward
the goal; the darkness of sleep.

Every fair encounter
once blooming with sensual potential,
only brings a stinging grief,
fearfully endured in sad silence.

Options drop like autumn leaves,
without the hope of another spring.
This last passage drags by
in a slurry of boredom and regret.

Horrified by reflections that shout,
“This is what they see, this is you.”
aching body once coveted, now covered,
fits like someone else’s coat

Held to life by the love of others,
the kindest thing would hurt the most.
This descent feels like a climb while
searching for a way to survive today.

It’s just no fun anymore.

Written by Francis de Aguilar © May 2015

Unless you want to piss me off.

Unless you want to piss me off.

When I say I’m lonely,
don’t start your reply with;
Have you considered…

When I say I feel shame,
don’t start by telling me;
You have nothing…

When I say I’m unhappy,
don’t respond by saying;
Look on the…

When you see me looking sad,
Don’t smile happily
and say cheer up.

When I tell you I can’t be arsed,
don’t start your response with;
You really should…

When I ask you how you feel,
don’t preface your reply with;
I think…

When I tell you I’m angry,
don’t start your response by asking;
What can I…

When I’m down in the dumps
don’t frown and say;
I’m sorry…

When I try to tell you how I feel
Don’t immediately
Try to fix everything.

When I have a problem
Listen and talk, but
Don’t try to solve it.

When I tell you I feel guilt
Don’t start by saying;
You’ve done nothing….

When I’m in emotional pain
Don’t look hurt and start with;
What have I…

When you’re angry
Tell me, but don’t start with;
You make…

When I say no,
Please note it starts;
Capital N and ends, full stop.

Unless you want to piss me off.

By Francis de Aguilar ©2015

Pain and Misunderstanding.

Pain and Misunderstanding.


Trial by self Part 1. The charges.


You stand accused of being a bad person

How do you plead?


Guilty as charged.


You stand accused of being of worthless

How do you plead?


Guilty as charged


You stand accused of being unlovable

How do you plead?


Guilty as charged.


Trial by self Part 2. The Evidence.


The evidence for these matters are manifold,

why else would I tempt an adult to sexual acts.

No good child would invite this corruption.


What else explains that my body responded?

What else but badness accounts for my silence?

What else could it be, that this continues to fit?

My appetites persist in proving these charges.


I continue to find the traces in my heart.

The hot flush of shame haunts any moment

where good threatens or asserts, I always

find shadow even when light beckons.


I watched the worthy receive the tokens

wondering why I was ignored, neglected,

why I was so far down the list, then it made sense,

It was me, who was the unworthy impediment.



Trial by self Part 3 The Sentence


You will forever keep your head down.

You will always reject love.

You will never know what it is to be safe.

You will never understand what is a healthy boundary.


Trial by self Part 4. The Appeal.










Written by Francis de Aguilar ©2014










Some things we only use once.

Some things we only use once.

A moment, taken.
A stolen kiss.
A breath, lost on wind.

A line crossed.
A fatal blow.
Trust so fragile, vanishes like frost in the sun.

A tear dropped.
A dream forgotten.
A childhood skipped, unnoticed till now.

A life lived too soon.
A heart, not yours.
A seed that grows into a child.

A promise made.
A promise broken.
A secret told, no longer hidden.

The finishing touch.
The last word.
This final line of verse.

Written by Francis de Aguilar Jan 2015©



The goose is fatted, the larder full and digital gifts abound.
Can I sit and feast while most of the world starves?
While my neighbours eat rotting pizza from a bin?
Can I fell a pagan tree of Jeremiah, and
wreathe it in energy consuming bedazzlement
while the planet gasps for breath.

What can I tell my self this excess is about?
Am I celebrating the birth of Jesus, the saviour,
while the christian and other slaughter rages?
Will my excess’s, contribute to this, pay their wages?
How many times will I hear “peace and goodwill.”
Can our world really be this ill?

Written by Francis de Aguilar. December 2014©



Born bad, intrinsically bad, screaming demanding.
Self-centred baby, need is all, self is want,
incessant hunger driving, searching.
Eat everything, Then shit, then sleep.

Human being, going where?

Born good, intrinsically good, love giving, trusting,
innocent, free wide-eyed uninhibited wonder.
Simple needs, content and warm, accessing new ways
To absorb the world, your world, to connect with life.

Human being, going where?

Born bad, grow into good, show me how to
move from greed, from I, me, you, you, me
What’s true; us? Watch for signs, how to grow,
how to love, how to share, to lose self-ish

Human being, going where?

Born good, temptations flood daily assaulted by
Screen flicker, ideas quicker, sugar, fast, pretty, bright,
how to tell greed from need, light from dark.
Resistance seems futile, there-there-don’t-cry

Human being, going where?

Born bad, profit leads, consumer feeds, valued skills.
Anger fuels, hate works, clamber up the chain of waste.
Glory condones, justified killing, hate versus hate,
successful wanker/banker steals hay while the sun kills.

Human being, going where.

Born good, offers love, weak fool, truth tells,
feels pain, looks insane, creator not appropriator.
Not a killer, prey for the hunter, slave to the rich.
conscience stinging. Poppies are blood.

Human being, going where?

Born bad, the insatiable badge wearing zealot.
Full of pride, always right, loves the patriotic fight.
Condemning love as weakness, freedom as chaos,
difference as danger and defending lies till death.

Human beings, going where?

Born good, tears flow for the oppressed and lonely
Stands in defiance to be cut-down-trodden, scorned.
Show the world, how to love how to give with peaceful courage,
how to encourage equality and reason, love versus hate.

Human being, going where?

Born good, born bad, born as raw material,
shaped by a lottery, what are the odds?
What will you do? What will they learn?
What will you teach the child, born into your care?

Human being, going where?

Written by Francis de Aguilar ©2014


It’s an inside job.

It’s an inside job.

Everyone sees
the edges but me.
I cast around
stumble, collide,
reaching for hands
and imaginary love
I fall again

looking up I see
perfect attention.
With hope’s fierce appetite
and love’s intention
I reach out to grasp
the puzzle piece
to end my plight.

Always searching,
longing to fill
this emptiness, fly free.
The outline hidden
or was, until I risked
to glance
deep down in me.

And there it was, this
secret born and bound
to silence by a tearing grief.
The shape was me,
I was the form
from nowhere else,
could I find relief.

Written by Francis de Aguilar©2014