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As the title may suggest this is my journey, a pathway from chaos to order told through poetry.  It’s an exciting, affecting, and meaningful story.  An interesting read for anyone to enjoy. I also believe it has the power to encourage anyone who is trying to find their place in the world, who may be lost searching for meaning, a story with answers to a better life.

The journey begins with chapter 1 ‘Ill Fated Energy’ written about episodes of mental confusion, mania and breakdowns. ‘Seeing Death’ describes a suicide attempt. For a time, I was what I can only describe myself as a street urchin, living a crazy life. If I wasn’t ‘fucking, thieving or fighting’, as was our saying, I was in prison and going nowhere very quickly as described in ‘Troublesome’ chapter 2.

Chapter 3, ‘Penetrating Words’ I’m trying to understand the opposite sex with lust, heartbreak, and betrayal.

I start to listen to my conscience in Chapter 4 ‘Winds of Change’ as my soul cried out for meaning. I plead with God to enter my life and He pushes me to seek out answers, looking where I least wanted to look, at myself.  From this, I found therapy, one of the toughest battles I’ve been through. However, also the most rewarding. Much of this chapter reflects on my therapeutic process. The poem ‘Thy Will be Done’ is written to my daughter which I wrote after one tough session.  During therapy I felt the chains coming off one by one with each session. ‘Wild Winds’ is written about my therapist Dr. Melany Ball, and where I was as we departed ways.

‘Into the Light’ the 5th and final chapter, where it all starts falling together, and I share the answers to my deepest questions.  I also find true love with a tall blonde, who looked at me twice and inspired me in abundance to write of falling in love and the answers to transformation. Finally, I could not have been able to write this book or face my problems without reading 12 RULES FOR LIFE by Dr. Jordan B. Peterson and A MANS SEARCH FOR MEANING by Dr. Viktor E. Frankl.  I thank God for their wisdom, care, and encouragement.  Thank you and enjoy, K.L. Smith.

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I’m Free

My reality, I submit onto the spirit
as feelings form into tears
with each tear I taste
I realize again faith is sufficient.

It's difficult to accept matters of this world
flesh will more than condemn
hope slides seeming all to to be lost.

His blood again has cleansed me
spirit lead me where I need to stand
raindrops become my rhythm
this world can keep its merry band.

Through his painful attacks
my arms reached out in praise
I need not a silver cloud
nor even the wings of an angel
to remind me who I serve to know
whom is my Lord.

He was flogged and tortured.
He carried His cross.
His blood shed for me
I’m not imprisoned by guilt
but through his love like the truth
I'm free.

The wee Church in Overleigh Cemetery.

Standing high where the silent sleep,
Among the graves the English earth keeps.
Sword-cross of stone, a cenotaph stands,
Guarding brave souls, the names of this land.

Incense drifts on the solemn air,
Byzantine chants weave the branches bare.
Saint Barbra prays above the grounds,
Where life has departed. yet Christ is found.

Time meets eternity, the living pass.
Faith growing strong in the roots of her grass.
Here beauty blooms where death may lie.
A sacred bridge amidst earth and sky.

Shrove Tuesday

Pancakes and laughter tossed in the air.
Mummy mixing more - flour everywhere.

Children cheer - pancakes, dinner, dessert.
Sugar rains down lemons squirt.

A table laid, wine and beer.
Family moments we hold so dear.

As the syrup flows in ribbons of gold.
Daddy recalls a story told.
The feast before the fasting phase,
Christ in the desert forty days.

Flip the pan and fill your plate.
Yet pause - Shrove Tuesday contemplate.

The man I was

Bent steel still warm, tight in my hand,
Heart cold - anger blazed, its blurred where I stand.
Demon on my chest, his blood drips from my fingers,
worry whispers, but hatred still lingers.

Out of hell, were not the same,
ash in my breath, got the devil to blame.
One not enough, so in fury I swung,
blade rise and fell 'til no breath my lung.

Turned his head so I plunged his back, he be dead.
I left nothing unsaid.

Sirens crying, still blood on my skin.
War on the street. I know my battles within.

Years of this life without the cross,
I didn't just stab him - but the man I was.


Lines

I tried to read between the lines.
I snorted them. Still half a bottle of red.
The cocaine like the logs - lost to the burner.
I have an impulse to run aimlessly.
But now I must be the earner.

Their forefathers cry to the moon.
Bury them at sea.
I'll fight them for my daughter. Defeat them with my sons.
What more must we see.

They need us we don't want them.
As it bubbles in the channel.
The lion must raw once again.

My wife cry's. Christ, next to her as one.
In sacrifice we heal. We must remain.
We cant be gone.


Six Nations

As winter thors over hallowed grounds
six nations wait on thunder pounds.

In the cold air - an ancient battle call.
In pain or glory - anthems sang loud,
anthems stood tall.

Red and Blue - marching separate toward
the same fight.
Emerald Green or blood stained White.

Flowing through the veins - a stubborn pride.
A broken line, a wounded stride.

Six nations - one burning aim.
The honour to lift - rugby's finest flame.

Saint Valentine

Before the cards, the wine, the flowers.
A courages soul, love has powers.
In Romes dark days the faith is banned.
A Priest stood strong in loves own hand.

In a secret vow of incense flare.
Married as one he did dare.
In prison he prayed, in death he proved.
That Christ is love, love unremoved.

So with every rose and poem we send.
remember our faith, our spirited friend.

In the season of love birds... 

St. Valentine is more than art...
   
A sacrifice, a daring heart.

In a Dark Room

In a dark room breaths breach the silence.
The unseen gathers, the gnashing of violence.

Orisons, just cries in the wilderness?
Fear to gag the wounded soul. Villainous!

I reach for a match and the incense burns.
I invoke the Jesus prayer. Bravery churns.

Incense rising, delivering my prayers to heaven.
Peace returns, no best of seven.

The Suffering of the Saints

Midnight chanting - Tears drying in the dark.
East face fasting - Seeing no morning - No man apart.

Chains now prayer ropes - Not one ask why.
Lord have mercy - No light in the sky.

Not suffering more - Just suffering towards.
With Psalms - Not swords.

Aim is clear - Not peaceful.
Screaming rage through tears pull.

Still suffering towards - No turning away.
Even crawling to death they know Christ - The only way.

Write Alone

The lad, the no income bard.
And love just don't cut it,
when times get hard.

She thanked me for the laughs,
rhymes, and the billet-doux.
But I'm a silk stocking girl,
that needs more than you.

In a silent shrug I understood.

Still had my hair, still a handsome
young blood.

Just one of those times life sends
you back home.
To pick up a pen and write alone.