.

flame
running faster than
you can flutter a lash
flash
rushing swifter than
we can sniff a flower
fresh
rippling quieter than
they can queue on Black
Friday

.

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.

a husk, a shell that's fallen off 

the back that bore its longest day 

to struggle for release supreme 

from odious yesterday redeemed 




i gaze in stupefied wonder 

and peer into the dusky swirls 

of the distant pealing thunder 

that offers me a new day's thrill 

 

.

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.

over many moons and calendars
over many many miles of verse
both in sharing and receiving, lines
feeding an ever emptying purse
may these blossoms fruit among their vines

.

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.

filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

.

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`


My butterfly is no longer mine,
I wonder if she ever really was;
When she alights on my shoulder
I know she wants me to hold her -
Flies off and she's mine no longer.

My butterfly so frail and fine,
I wonder if I was ever hers;
When she returns to kiss me again
I know she's more than just a friend -
Flies off and gone forever more.





`

 

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none of these life choices
are mine
though they are yours to enjoy
without so much as a batted lash
none of these improvisations 
are theirs
though we live barely existing
with not much more than breath

no choice could be given
no chance to chance upon
living and loving out of bounds
perimeter embankment of
social media static hairs
we aren't what we seem

should gladnes...

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.

The birthing of articulated expression
will always find its means of entering
into the world outside and beyond
the inner recesses of our awareness.

I love the wee and trippy hours of the
after midnight when the glass slipper
lay glimmering aloof in the moonlight
and the weary dreamer sets some
ink of thoughts onto the parchment
of a woozy head - too early in the day
to ...

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.

Spun out of control. 
Bobbing then pommeled, squashed then bloated. 
A lone occupant within the confines of a tumble dryer 
at full spin.... 
An impatient hand lifts the lid off 
with deft, well practised fingers 
hopeful that in so doing would speed up the process. 

The spinning abruptly stops 
resuming only when the lid is firmly shut 
securely in place. 
With a banging and...

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.

there need not be iron bars
to keep a heart imprisoned
there is no white flag of surrender
nor o-d, nor cutting would resolve

nor does the coming-off of chains make one trully free
the stench of blood curdled cold
staining my cheek with ferrous-ity

on that flee bitten bunk each unforgiving night
a plaintive prayer wafts in upward draft
to rejoin the fraying bonds of you...

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Is it not a foe who taunts — 
that in itself could be borne? 
Is it not an enemy's tirades— 
from them one could hide? 
Instead, an arrogant intimacy—
life's equal, companion & friend. 

What close companionship 
now scattered in the chill
of uncaring autumn winds;
from familiar paths once  
walked together in gardens
of fond affection and glee.

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You ARE,

however contrary your reality may be.

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some time, somewhere out there

someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world

What then does this say of a poet?

it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears

are tears morphed in pressed ink

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turn your gaze to power 
of life and death:
they lie dormant,
seeded potentialities;

a flower's expectancy
in each quiescent tongue
and those who love either 
will surely sup of their fruit

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when
wriggly worms are done
with you
i shall await 
sweet scent of blooms
that should some day
sprout and mark
this very spot
in which 
you last
reclined
that is, 
if i don't 
follow
after you

soon

`

Fourteen days until your birthday, but you are no longer here. You have left us 10 weeks ago, Dad. All the special days are now another farewell.

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crocus buds burst forth
peep and poke through dunes of white
winter bows to spring

when the sun begins to shine again
vital truths on wood-lined paths arise  

 

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quarter turn of a century
can't relieve this quandary;
what run across our puerile minds,
raising up these woollen blinds?
perhaps another season; two
to find for us a useful clue
we stand upon a smouldered wreck
in this our unenviable trek
from these ashes phoenixes arise

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Picking up the internal slack 
and bring about an inward tension 
that emboldens for one to face the day 
and the prospects of oncoming ones. 
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues 
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf: 
existing surrenders 
and like a sparkled after-rain, 
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks 
and mends the broken places.

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in its purest form
the simplest of 
possible affirmations
is to be loved in return

in similar manner
the most complex of
probable affirmations
is reciprocating like affection

in conclusion, then, 
it seems most apparent
to appreciate with reckless
abandon the air we breathe

for we build tomorrows 
on these simplest, most 
basic of molecules, our
humble bricks of being

whose...

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as botanical tendrils stretch skyward 
toward slivered rays of speckled sunlight
a longing for the simplicity of an all but 
forgotten yesterday, tucked within 
a breastplate that advances forward
today is all that is left, salve of former
melodies, always incongruous against
dissipating tomorrows, here and now
a flight of cranes in blinding light  

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