Conversations with grief



Fissures Garamond

*Writer’s notes: This piece is part of an ongoing French poetry series this year, designed to push my limits as a writer and diversify my content. This poem relies on the feelings of fear and love and imagines their consequences when juxtaposed.

Hors Système

In any age

a writer may say

“It’s gone too far

we have lost our way.”

Though it was always true

it’s ne’er been truer

than today.


We swap friendship for facebook?

We trade love for tinder?

What have we become?

Have we come undone?


We are numb.

Numb to the suffering

and the pain

‘cos on the news

day in

day out

it’s the same.


We are blind.

Blind to the wasted minutes

and hours

that erode

our time

that erode

our life.


We are liars.

Liars, we feign acceptance

and equality

when really

we’re still steeped

in violence

and poverty.


We are alone.

Alone and isolated

we pray

a device will give us value

but it’s too late

you’re no longer you.


Well, as a writer of today

let me say

we’ve gone too far.

we have lost our way.

© K.N.Liddington


*Writer’s notes:

This piece is a social commentary reacting to our desensitization, isolation and misinformation. All such pieces are written with a view to expressing dissatisfaction with the faults of our society and encouraging readers to question our routines, our truths for the hope of a better future. The title is French ‘hors’ meaning in this instance apart from or separate from the system.

My Friend Tyler

I had a friend called Tyler

Tyler liked to rewrite the sky

Tyler liked to live, fight and die.


My friend Tyler made sense

down with fathers and God

burn the ground they trod.


Tyler knew how to break rules

fight, bleed to beat the system

pillage it and make them listen.


My first fight was with Tyler

I hit him too hard in the ear

he swung back with a sneer.


I met Tyler in a dream of nothing

despairing a routine existence

Tyler became my resistance.


Tyler made purpose simple

challenge every moment

or die without atonement.

© K.N.Liddington


*Writer’s notes:

This piece was inspired by Chuck Palahniuk’s book ‘Fight Club’ and the film adaptation of the same name directed by David Fincher. Part of a project to write a series on influential films and literature.

Writer’s Delight

Oh, to be naked and writing by the beach

to hear the summer wind’s winnowing plea.

Basking in white heat alone atop the dunes

safe to savour the siren of the wave’s tunes.


Squinting in sun my eyes upon the horizon feast;

endless expanses of blue from the west to the east.

A place beyond memory or ticking, tocking time

without judgment for all the wicked sins of mine.


…oh, to be naked and writing again beside the sea

to feel the breeze once more kissing my long locks free.


© K.N.Liddington



*Writer’s notes:

This piece was written on holiday last year, as the poem suggests, at one with nature in a secluded spot on a beach, in beautifully bright Gran Canaria. Revised and edited for reflective effect.




I only have to open my eyes,

to see the friends at my side,

feel the warmth in their hearts,

so, this friendship poem starts.


Thank you, thank you and thank you,

for always being faithful and true…

I don’t know where I’d be without you,

you brought me in from the blue.


Your kind words of encouragement,

nourish my hopes for achievement.

Your careful and considered advice

comes open-minded without a price.


I love you all dear friends – my family,

long may we continue so happily.


© K.N.Liddington

The Silent Playground

A dear, old friend and teacher told me a tale the other day

When I asked him “How’s the school, has it changed in any way?”


He sighed deeply, turned sad eyes on me and said:

“The playground is silent… they’d rather WhatsApp instead.

Some days when I finish class and walk through the hall

All I can see is motionless zombies, not talking at all.”


A silent playground – do we dare to imagine that?

I admit – it is hard to imagine so sad a fact.


A whirlwind is coming, the extent of which we cannot predict,

A fast-moving knock-on effect that surely can but afflict.

What has become of society… fostering swathes of the socially inept.

Later, after we spoke, I cradled my head in my hands and I wept.


© K.N.Liddington

Hotel California

They say they think its acute psychosis.

They state the usual cease and desist.

Everything – seems upside down,

As they dress me in the asylum gown.

Reality is an illusion of quick twitches

Kept from the realm of broken witches.

I halt, I look right and I look left,

My eyes are of their vision bereft!

That girl says we swim in a pool of lies,

That man sleeps in a monster’s guise.

The fences remind us of our lone sin,

The mental cages climb in and win.

Tortured husks haunt my steps,

Our maddened bodies know no rest.

The door out is labelled ‘Exit’,

But our timid selves fear it.

At last, a fresh breath of air…

Hark, a woman mid-nightmare.

I run and I run till at last I am free!

Then, too soon, the nurse traps me.

© K.N.Liddington


The wind was howling through the trees and it felt as if something was surely about to give way and come crashing down.

Inside his body was warm and his breath invisible, to look out across forest and sea gave him a great rush – to be at the centre of a storm whilst impervious to its violence.

Occasionally the wind would propel small bursts of smoke into the room but otherwise, the castle was a fortress.

That is unless your torment already lies within; steadily he turned to look back towards the library, a single shudder passing through him.


© K.N.Liddington

The Mercenary

There once was a man known as no- name

who’d fled home to pursue ill-gotten gains.

A soldier of fortune he became, to sow

bullets and bloodshed for his every foe.


He’d string them up and bleed them out,

Acting unburdened by conscience or doubt.

What drives a man to forsake his name?

To kill others?  For greed, or for shame?


Once  –  he’d had a family

Once  –  he’d known mercy.


Now, behind smoke-filled eyes…

He contemplates his own demise.

Free from fear and driven by rage

This man would never die in a cage.


He’s a lone wolf,

a gun for hire,

A wicked man,

rough-wrought in fire.

© K.N.Liddington