9-11 tracks to be included on forthcoming  album release 28 Mar 2026
"I enjoy Gabriel's music, lyrically his best stuff is really great and deserves a wide audience". Nigel Stonier - Music Producer

Courage is Reborn in Hearts Forlorn

One step, two step, three step four...

It has a buoyancy so it floats leisurely, it meanders gently and ends as it began although not as loud. There is tension in the song but it's not obvious so you have to listen carefully. I have to marvel at Cassie's ability to express anger in the most delightful way.

Our Perfect Contradiction

In April 2023, a group of 22 organisations, including cladding company Arconic, Whirlpool and several government bodies, reached a civil settlement with 900 people affected by the fire.
As of 26 February 2025, seven organisations are under investigation for Professional misconduct.

Grenfell. A Story Forever Told

Mrs. Sonja Burling is aclassically trained musician/singer with over 25 years of experience. She currently works for the Royal Northern College of Music on the Executive Team and founded the RNCM Staff Choir which is an upbeat modern mix of musical theatre and pop culture.

Manchester Sun in the Rain

Integral to the publication of a multi media short book of the same title in Nov 2025

A Day in Dust and Dreams

Eternally Blessed



Verse 3)
I’ll wear your coat, and tip my hat,
Sing "Hallelujah," where I’m at.
With your ghost in every chord,
I find solace, my dear Lord.


To Love, To Regret A Tribute To Leonard Cohen

The Ink on the Paper is Fading Away

The Ink on the Paper is Fading Away (album version)

"Memoirs by dragoons who fought in the Peninsular war (Waterloo) are quite rare, which makes Smithies' account even more important. However, a word of caution must also be made. James Smithies ( A distant relative) apparently recounted his story shortly before his death, some fifty three years after the last events he describes had occurred and therefore, not surprisingly, he occasionally errs in his memory. Which memoirs do not carry such fault?!"  https://www.amazon.co.uk/Adventurous-Pursuits-Peninsular-Waterloo-Veteran/dp/1907417281#:~:text=Buy%20Adventurous%20Pursuits%20of%20a%20Peninsular%20War%20and,low%20prices%20and%20free%20delivery%20on%20eligible%20orders.

Private James Smithies. 1st Royal Dragoons. A Reflection

Together we roam, through the silence we find,
A tapestry woven in the threads of the mind.
With every step forward, the horizon expands,
Navigating the unknown, side by side we stand.

Side by Side. We Roam

My Son. Take the Road

A Way to Be

"From 1814 Keats had two bequests, held in trust for him until his 21st birthday. £800 was willed by his grandfather John Jennings. Also Keats's mother left a legacy of £8000 to be equally divided among her living children. It seems he was not told of the £800 and probably knew nothing of it as he never applied for it. Historically, blame has often been laid on Abbey as legal guardian, but he may also have been unaware of it.[17] William Walton, solicitor for Keats's mother and grandmother, definitely knew and had a duty of care to relay the information to Keats. It seems he did not, though it would have made a critical difference to the poet's expectations. Money was always a great concern and difficulty, as he struggled to stay out of debt and make his way in the world independently" Wiki

Who Failed John Keats

It is estimated that over 6 million Irish people have emigrated to the US since 1820. Of all the emigrants to the US between 1851 and 1860, it is estimated that 81 per cent (990,000) were Irish. Today one sixth of US citizens (43 million) identify their national background as Irish

The peak of Irish emigration resulted from the Great Famine of 1845-1852. It has been estimated that nearly two million people - about a quarter of the population - emigrated to the United States in a ten year period at that time. In Mayo the population declined from 388,887 to 274, 830, between 1841 and 1851.

To the Trail and the Ties that Bind

Red Wing's Lament

What Is Now Could Never Be

V1) Adorned with emblems, each a narrative,
Of the journey it took, so steadfast.
A pilgrim of sorts, though made of wood,
It's travelled through meadows and climbed the fells,
Through the cobbled streets of ancient cities,
Where the echoes of history dwells.



Emblems. Each a Narrative

Resist the urge to self-deprecate, To silence the voice that seeks to undermine. Nurture hope, and resolutely state, That every great idea, in time, will shine. Cultivate a garden of belief, Where resilience and courage take their root. Shield the seed from every form of grief, And tend to it with dedicated pursuit.  Research deep, analyze and glean, from diverse sources, knowledge old and new. Seek to understand what lies between, the known and unknown, the false and the true. Challenge assumptions, break down paradigms, And question everything you hold so dear. Open your mind to uncharted climes, And banish the specter of paralyzing fear.

A Seed of Spark

Corn and Squash

In shadows of the mind, where dreams softly drift,
A whispering lullaby, a delicate rift.
Narcolepsy’s gentle tide, an unbidden slide,
Where consciousness wavers, a silent, flowing tide.  

Fleeting moments of wakefulness, slipping like sand,
Caught between worlds, unplanned, unplanned.
A sleep that beckons, a peaceful, fleeting embrace,
Yet leaves behind a longing—a restless trace.  

Within this fragile dance of night and day,
A heart yearns to stay, to find its way.
In the hush of shadows, hope softly gleams,
A dawn beyond the dreams, beyond the seams.  

For in each slumber, a silent plea,
To understand what it means to be free—
From the hush that beckons, from the quiet, deep,
To find the strength to wake, to dream, to keep.

Falling

The Soul of 'Man' under Conservatism

"Sexual Orientation and Gender Identity 
In May, after his visit to the UK, the UN independent expert on protection against violence and discrimination based on sexual orientation and gender identity warned that abusive rhetoric by politicians and in the media was creating a climate of hostility against LGBT people in the UK and contributing to a surge in anti-LGBT violence. He also acknowledged the UK’s valuable collection of disaggregated data on LGBT people but expressed concern at the government’s undermining of protections for the rights of trans women and overrepresentation of LGBT people among the unhoused population". Human Rights Watch

In the Heart of the Universe

In outskirts dusted, cracked and worn, there lived a man named Eli,
A carpenter whose rugged hands had tilled beneath the burning sky.
His eyes, though aged with countless years, still held a restless flame,
A ghost of dreams once vivid, now subdued by dust and shame.

At dawn the fire cracked its bones, stale bread breathed heavy sighs,
The muezzin’s call would echo through the canyon’s silent cries.
Beneath a sun that kissed the earth with tongues of molten flame,
Each day repeated like a curse, yet nothing stayed the same.

Today the wind bore whispered tales across the arid street,
Of one who came from distant lands with wounds he chose to meet.
A man called Jesus—miracle-sung, whose touch could heal and save—
But burdened eyes betrayed a weight no mortal strength could brave.

Eli watched him approach the town; soft prints upon the sand—
A stranger cloaked in shadowed light who bore no sword or brand.
The folk drew near with whispered hope while Eli’s heart grew cold—
For in those haunted eyes he saw old battles dark and old.

Ten days beneath the ruthless sun—the hunger deep and bare—
Jesus stood alone in silence, shrouded more than clothing’s wear.
His cloak hung loose like broken wings; his skin as taut as drum;
A war between temptation’s grip and something far more glum.

The townsfolk came with crippled faith to beg for healing’s art;
Their shattered limbs and broken dreams lay heavy on their heart.
Yet Jesus turned away from all—the crowd dissolved to doubt—
Was this a prophet sent to save, or lies that whispers shout?

Eli felt within those depths the storm no eyes could see:
A fight for life beyond his own—a fierce new birth to be.
From ash of desert’s ruthless breath and trials forged unseen—
Would darkness yield to fragile dawn where hope might bloom between?

The dusty town lay hushed again—a place half left behind,
Yet stirred was something tender there—a seed within man’s mind:
Though barren land may crush the soul beneath its cruel reign,
New life clings tight within despair… waiting to rise again.

A Moment Between Temptations Grip and Something Far More Glum

Seek the Good

[Verse 1]
In the garden of silence where shadows intertwine
Memories dance on the edge of dawn
An echo faint of a laughter sweet and bright
Once vibrant blooms now hang in gentle decay

[Verse 2]
Whispers of sunlight filtered through
The tangled vines of forgotten dreams
Each petal a story, each leaf a sigh
A canvas once painted with hues of delight

[Chorus]
But now the brush has grown weary
Traces of joy retreating
Like a tide withdrawing, leaving only
The cold smooth rocks of resignation

[Verse 3]
I wander these pathways, heart in hand
Searching for warmth in the chill of absence
The rhythm of life a distant drumbeat
In the quiet halls of muted echoes

[Chorus]
Words linger like ghosts
Promises long faded
Each syllable a leaf fallen
Drifting in the breeze of what could have been

[Outro]
Yet still in the hushed moments
A flicker, a spark beneath the layers of gray
Hope creeps in, stubborn and alive
Finding cracks in the darkness
A reverberation of laughter yet to come
And in this hollow space the seeds of tomorrow
Take root and bloom

Drifting in the Breeze of What Could Have Been

If limbs were stilled, and muscles ceased to strain,
And motion's grace were lost, a silent pain,
How then, my soul, would rhythm find its way?
To speak of dance, in a more subtle sway?

Perhaps with eyes that mirrored skies so wide,
And caught the sunbeams, dancing, side by side.
A whispered sigh, a tremor in the air,
A silent ballet, banished from all care.

The heart might beat, a drum within the breast,
A measured pulse, a rhythm put to test.
The head might nod, a gentle, swaying grace,
Reflecting movement, in a timeless space.

The hands might trace, on air, a flowing line,
A symphony of gestures, truly divine.
The very soul, might move in silent flight,
Expressing passion, bathed in moonlit light.

And though the body couldn't leap and soar,
The spirit's dance, would evermore explore.
In silent whispers, and in thoughts profound,
A silent motion, on hallowed ground.

For movement's essence, lives within the soul,
A dance of feeling, taking full control.
And though the body's bound, the spirit's free,
To find its rhythm, internally




If Limbs were Stilled and Muscles Cease

In the quiet ache of sleepless nights,
where shadows stretch and lose their light,
a soul wearied by relentless fight,
yearns for dawn’s gentle, healing sight.

Fading embers of hope flicker low,
a heavy heart begins to slow,
each breath a burdensome, distant echo,
searching for strength it used to know.

Yet in this depth of silent despair,
a whisper softly threads the air—
a promise hidden, tender, rare,
that even worn, we still can bear.

For after storms that break and bend,
the dawn will come, and wounds will mend,
and from the ashes, hopes ascend—
a chance to heal, to love again.

A Chance to Heal, to Love Again

In the damp cold breath of this northern night
Where shadows creep like whispers of despair
A boy stood counting dreams lost to the fight
With empty pockets and an empty stare

[Verse 2]
The dirty gray sky bore witness to our plight
And the factories groaned breeding doubt in air
In every heart a flicker dimmed tonight
The clang of bigotry wrought with scornful care

[Verse 3]
With eyes wide open I walked down those streets
Where laughter echoed only in retreat
Each face a mask, resentment bittersweet
Disappointment nestled where hate would meet
They taught us anger was a shroud of pride
To shield our names against the world's cruel bite
Yet bitterness burned deep within inside
Enflamed by petty flames that snuffed out light
All the earth will spill their silent truth
Graffiti etched with venomous decree
Each spring an echo from self-righteous youth
Freedom's just another chain
Whispered me

[Verse 4]
Dare not to hate, defers in the day
The parish gates are locked against both fear and flame
We wore indifference like a cloak of gray
To feel was weakness, to conform was fame

[Verse 5]
I played on purple soil, poisoned with chemical .....
Kick and shout drowned in muffled screams
For what is childhood if not lost in time
We traded innocence for jagged dreams
An orange ball met dust beneath my heel
It rolled away a symbol of lost grace
Each kick returned cracked echoes made to real
Reflections of our hearts etched on our face
But as the sun crawled low and shadows grew
A knowing stirred within this weary chest
That every path we'd tread was steeped in rue
How heavy hangs this life devoid of rest

[Verse 6]
Confusion danced upon my thoughts like rain
Would kindness bloom or wane beneath bridges torn
Or would we watch goodwill drown under disdain
And rise from anger's ashes yet forlorn
In crackling neighborhoods where tempers flare
Cigarettes smoke and twirl with neon signs
Where anger painted smiles distinctly rare
Disappointment's child with darkness as his eyes
Each promise made was swallowed by the chill
This is your lot, they said, a poignant jest
Yet deep within me brewed a storm to thrill
With every distancing word I become less blessed

[Verse 7]
So here I stand beneath these ashen skies
A boy becoming man with heavy heart
Yet unbowed still before bitterness lies
With every scar a chance for fresh restart
But pain's sharp whisper clings like autumn's breath
Can hope be sown amidst this bitter earth
Or shall we form themselves anew till death
Remain entwined with shadows since our birth
I'll wrestle down yet rise in uncertainty
Through hatred's churning tide and silence grim
I carry forth my weight upon memory
To find my voice in a world growing dim

Disappointments Child

Jagged Dreams


To shed the skin of what I've had to be,
And float in primal, fluid liberty.
No gravity, no clock, no urgent plea,
Just liquid warmth, cradling all of me.


















Back to the Womb

The Soul Has Lost The Will to Riot

Joan of Arc is a patron saint of France, honoured as a defender of the French nation for her role in the siege of Orléans and her insistence on the coronation of Charles VII of France during the Hundred Years' War.

I am the Flicker, the Ash, the Echo of a Grieving Vow

I reflect on the geometry of patience,
the lessons filtered through the iron light
of twenty-seven vanishing years. - of twenty seven visiting angels who would sing in dissonance, long into the night


I learned that a wall, if stared at long enough,
will eventually dissolve, not into dust, but into
a stack of compressed silence.
And inside that silence, I saw hunger—
not for bread, but for the impossible alchemy
of transforming rage into a useful key.


They showed me the mechanism of that lock.
It was not built from concrete, but from the fibers
of my own anticipated bitterness.
I held the sharp, beautiful weight of vengeance,
a collapsed star, cold and dense, waiting to anchor me
to the past's dark gravitational pull.


But the lesson glowed:
Hatred is the heaviest cloak.
To forgive is not to erase the shadow,
but to step out of its shape entirely,
to let the wound remain—a translucent scar
through which the future must be viewed.


I understood that freedom
is not the sound of a gate clanging open,
but the internal architecture shifting.
The long walk was never about distance.
It was about walking backward into the fire
of reconciliation, extending the hand
that should, by all logic, be clenching a fist.


Now, I carry the weight of that inheritance.
I feel the fractal shattering of the past,
where every shard of pain, if held correctly,
becomes a lens showing a different colour of the shared sky.
We build the future upon a spectral bridge, I realize,
where the foundations are constructed
not from victory, but from profound, deliberate grace.

A Translucent Scar Through Which the Future Must be Viewed

And I know you're feeling small
Oh don't we all sometimes
But you don't have to change it all
To let it be alright


What if you gave
All of your faith
To all the parts
That never fade away


And lean towards grace
With every voice
In every space

Lean Toward Grace

Making love in a moment's bloom
Where stars collapse to give us room
The world dissolved in your perfume

You Ran to me on a Windless Tide

"Memoirs by dragoons who fought in the Peninsular war (Waterloo) are quite rare, which makes Smithies' account even more important. However, a word of caution must also be made. James Smithies ( A distant relative) apparently recounted his story shortly before his death, some fifty three years after the last events he describes had occurred and therefore, not surprisingly, he occasionally errs in his memory. Which memoirs do not carry such fault?!"

"Private James Smithies. A Reflection" HD

I can be short, a snap of thought,
or long, a winding, thoughtful trail.
I can be answered in a single word,
or never be answered at all.

I Am

Virgil and Nero on their deathbed lying
Hercules watching from the stars and crying
Prometheus watching' as the thunderbolt strikes
Davy in the locker where the torchlight lights


Virgil and Nero on their Deathbed Lying

Storyteller/Songwriter under Artist development : James Sanger. Represented by Anara Publishing +44 (0) 116 253 0203 (ext. 4) Founding artist at Subvert Co-Op. See link below

Gabriel Brox

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