Poetry Blogs (2017, winter)
The empty stems of the fennel
Under umbrella heads of raindrops
Are perches for the waiting birds
The grey green sage leaves
Glow crystal white in the frost
Moss grows where the branch
Leaves the trunk of the bonsai
Its ruddy leaves falling
Amongst the yellowing leaves
A single crimson rose bud perishes
Yellow leaves have fallen from the dogwood...
Wednesday 15th November 2017 10:53 am
And then, suddenly, it was calm - the morning wind which threw
rain hard against the window panes and sent beech leaves rushing
across the grass to pile gold-brown against all that the borders grew,
all slowly dulling their greens to wet, muted browns, brushing
the soil as their leaves curl and droop - vibrant Spring-strength gone,
The wind ...
Wednesday 11th October 2017 10:50 am
Back in 1995 I seem to have been a whole lot angrier than I am today! And more lost. But there's certainly some energy here.
Lost when your eyes are too wide,
lost when the sky
shouts high notes
when it should be whispering;
lost when the fires die.
Lost when complete strangers
give you the finger and grin,
or when the beer and the noise stop
Sunday 12th February 2017 2:55 pm
white, ashen, charcoal berms
to the left
to the right
everywhere in sight.
pulling at it's lead
owner nervous indeed.
hot steamy mustard stains
pains to walk around.
disregarded rides peaking out,
entries frozen shut.
mukluk, brogan, boot impressions
paint the path.
naked saplings fractured,
boskage leaning on each other
like bashed r...
Thursday 9th February 2017 3:28 am
Snowy night in
The early spring—
Winter heavy upon
I see your figure
Approaching in the dark,
A silhouette in the snow
Against the lantern lights.
Inside, the house is warm,
Though I stand below the lintel
Watching your approach and
Feeling the chilly breeze.
The sight of you
After the long season
Of longing separation
Brings a smile to my heart.
You hesitate in the ...
Sunday 15th January 2017 2:25 pm
The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past
passes its knives by her cheeks;
the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,
winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.
The season of concealing crowns and faces,
of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls
to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.
Frozen into the bark are age and time.
Monday 9th January 2017 4:51 pm