Why does he keep us? When will we ever be heard? What’s the point of filling these shelves? Packed, prominent but inert. 

We’ve become part of the furniture, when once we were front and centre. The most invested thing in the room, his entire world, his very epicentre.

He used to pour over our gatefolds, stare as we spiralled round, carefully replace us in our sleeves, introduce us to his new...

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The Tracks Of My Years

We sat cross legged in summer dusk

A smoky haze passing through

Admired artwork airbrushed

In fantastic swirls of colour

Reading words in synchronised

Staccato with the music

Flowing from the stereo

Simpler times

Longer hair

No aching joints

I wish we could do that again

But friends disappear like exhaled smoke

And some a...

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I remember hearing my father's voice

      from beyond the grave.

      No dream—a single, scratchy vinyl

      had captured his characteristic

      lilting, homiletic style,

      that seemed,

       in and of itself,

       to be the message—

       no surprises there,

       nor flights,

       yet a resonance

       that touched

       and stays with me

...

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