Black Frame

Chilled wind, pinned to the ceiling;
My truth pulsating
Grieving a lost loved one;
Trickle treat, I give up to a welcome
Blast the signet ring from the gun of my fire
Beckoning a jump out of the window, my risked penetrating thoughts
Crumble into a warm company; blessed with a love for simple things
A crust and a candle,
A mantle bottle with tired ashes
Leftover crumbs handed out to the birds on my table
The ones next to the wings that host a castle
Revealing a simple palette for revelation
Spread in small circles to cover the reason
A level playing field with me tossing the tarnished coin
Dressed like a pauper I enter the palace of wisdom
Crippled in teachers eyes
Muddled in my own
Further to a concession
From the whistler of tunes
The disguised harvest

Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee April 15th 2015

Blue Return


Horizontal sea ends to meet the sky
Iridescent violence meets with my heart
The cold chill of an ending resonates with my feeling
A brisk north wind bites in my lungs
Fingers are gloved not wishing to venture into the sparse Sunday
As doom looks on inviting resignation.

A simple contract to be signed
No need to struggle in anxiety any further
All responsibility relinquished if you choose to walk in
Just the suffocation holds me back.

The beauty is stunning
To become part of the universe again
Not having to partake in the savage ruin we are in
The harsh expectant wish
Rules made so let's be civil
Swim away fear
And embrace some sort of fresh beginning

April 5th 2015
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright

Staring at the Wind

My eyelids, falling like trapeze artists who missed the catch.
Caught in the net, by lazy endorphins.
I rest my case in the courts,
A chamber just filled with rippling waves.
I stare, with bloodshot eyes,
As clouds black and purple-stained drift in the sky

My pulse racing to stay alive
Awake, aghast at blue beauty
Rising slightly before me
A tear dripped decision
Precision jumping on the spot
A creased page number, picked in my dreams

Screaming danger, I cry out for a mug shot.
To see the service handler,
Cringing in the corner valuing nothing.
I'm troubled, by groups of starlings,
Flapping in my ear
I am whipped like cream.
I have lost my diminishing esteem.
I feel angry at such an afront,
Back to the start
I arrive at the beginning.

April 1st 2015
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2015

Far-Reaching Poise

Porcelain face, smooth, tapered and grandiose,
A chandelier shining in reflected diamond necklace
My heart skips a beat, as the purple surplice gown,
slithers onto the black polished marble entrance.

A grimace as reflections takes the place of beauty.
Spoiled in seconds; I turn and stroll back to the buffet.
Stuff my face with anchovy
Return to the façade I reckon to be following
Bellowing ignorance and nuclear-armed finance
A call out; a rule-bending issue.

Tissue for the transplant
A red-lipped wonder recalls the mystery.
Hysterical laughter jumbles hatred to deception
My lively mind murders,
A jacked-up four-wheel driver
The one in the shades
That took the picture
Took that moment's magic away

April 11th 2015
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2015

About Me.

A bit about my background

I grew up in the 1960s living in a family home in Bognor Regis in the south of England.

Times naturally were very different from now. My parents had both been through the Second World War and consequently were relieved to be in a peaceful time.

I am the youngest of five and after 25 years had enough of being at home and went out into the big world.

I discovered a passion for music and can play many different instruments.

I also learnt a bit about working with masks. I moved to Brighton in 1988 and started to work as a manager.

Twenty-six years later in 2013 on Xmas day, I had a heart attack.

During my recovery period, I wrote a poem a day and kept this up for nearly 24 months. Then, I started to make paintings. This led to my first sales and the start of a new life as a visual artist.

I believe that we are in exciting times where more people have great opportunities to share their life on and offline.


Bob Marley Oil on Linen

Brick Stone

Clamped hard in vice heat cauldron
Roasted for power, strength and durability
Cover all angles.
Soft warm and pleasing
The rest of time easing into self-adornment
A caress of smoothness
Marble shining skin pressed gently in rhythm
With beats in time
A line of attachment to passing hidden habits
The ones that rouse the conquest; a prey identified
A natural progression
Torn between dark and light; hard to embrace
Accept that time must move on
The drive is changing and rotating
Like the orbit of a planet
Jarred in the furnace
A brick, a solace and chosen story
A resort to return to
Then home to the beginning
A starting place


Copyright Patrick Turner-Lee April 22nd 2015

Scratch card Sensitivity

I have practical, bring it home roses,
Wrapped in foil, crinkling shiny
Magpies picking at a nest débâcle.
An attack on the good guys
My leaking shoes shaking the sodden socks
My emotions well up history in real-time
Hours built upon the credit card bill
To pay for a tall glass edifice, rich in gambling
My cards are on the table
Marble shimmering, a bargain at half the price
I look to reset rage to reason
My vision blocked by a commotion
Praying for decisions in lantern shadows
Lose my place in the dog eared bible
Black and green menacing streams coagulate
Mark the temperature is rising
Anxiety is eased by the springtime sunshine
Breathe gently

April 7th 2015
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2015


Hum roar
Crystal tinkling
Stream entwined with rattling grass bending
Sending ripples
Clashing rocks

Dust blasting eroding changing
With light and levels and reflection blinking
Battling with currents to surface from the darkness

Flush out confusion
Exciting fashion heels cracking
In rhythms

Messages are thrown
Seeds were blown


August 20th 2016
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright 2016

Flaked Window
Tinkering with locks: busting open
So you can see the light; the fracture
Enact the vision.
Steam building blossoms falling in gusts;
Busting prisons
Flowing: the veneer cracked and peeling
Feelings to savour; sublime in believing
Sleeves in pyjamas: to sleep
Breaking yellow steam with lemon-sharp decisions
Admissions of forgiveness
Crushing wisdom
Smiling at dictum
Well that’s the way it is
He says
A story;
Life without substance
Violence from the heart
To be part of a forgotten
Rotten core
A thought
Without intention
 August 12th 2017
Patrick Turner-Lee Copyright