I died yesterday
With a pen in one hand and a diary in the other.
The latter's pages were inlaid
With prints of my curry stained fingers,
And splotches of tea,
And smudges of ink,
And spools of memories,
And streams of ridiculous cravings.
I fashioned the contents with the loose threads
I'd been stockpiling since forever.
Vibrant, prismatic, but half-completed...
Friday 24th April 2020 5:59 pm
10th October 2018
The radio speaks, it's daylight, I'm wakened
A momentary pause: consciousness beckoned
Sunlight on the trees says late Autumn Summer
More news on Brexit and the policy's dumber
The bins must be put out for the lorry
I had better get up, it's late and I'm sorry
There's news of a flood and a broke coffee chain
I'll email a poem to friends up the lane...
Thursday 11th October 2018 1:53 pm
There is no good way to really start a poem
and by far
This is the third time I've tried to find a line to begin this
Which will never be the line that could best cooperate with myself
to get what I want.
So I could start my push
into talking about several things
Like how literary poetry is so different in nature to slam poetry, and why I think
both are good
But one is fine art,...
Friday 8th December 2017 12:05 am
This Book Is Bound In Leather And Writ In Blood
once soft skin cover
now weathered and beaten
into cracked and ancient hide
that smells of cedar wood
once tightly bound
now coming apart
at the seams
its pages yellowing with age
with a tracing finger
on the memories
Monday 3rd April 2017 12:56 pm