He walks as though the floor might shift,
not from fear,
but from learning the weight of each new step.

A face assembled from borrowed futures,
caught in the glow of laboratory lamps
that promise more than they can hold.

The maker watches,
hands still warm from the work,
unsure whether to greet or retreat.

Outside, the night presses close.
Inside, a figure studies the room,
...

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In the final moment,

Orion unleashes a blinding radiance

that dispels the damnable Eclipse.

The kingdom is bathed

in light once more,

and Sol, though weakened,

smiles with pride.

Orion has transformed

from son to sun,

fulfilling the prophecy

and securing his legacy.

The people, awestruck,

hail Orion as the new Sun.

His light is different from...

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”Nipper”

A small dog waits
beside the brass horn,
ears lifted,
body held in that soft readiness
only devotion can teach.

Once a wanderer,
he learned the shape of shelter
in the warmth of a single voice.

Now the room is quiet,
yet he leans
toward the horn's bright mouth
as though a familiar breath
might rise again
from its painted metal.

Brush in hand,
he works the ca...

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Riddle of the Two Kin

One races the ridge

in a full coat of weather,

glinting as it moves.

One waits on ice

bare as dawn,

set neat for the table.

Which is the naked one,

which is the dressed—

the runner in its living jacket,

or the quiet figure

with nothing left to shed?

.

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"Crow at the Edge of the Yard"

A crow lowers itself

into a scatter of restless ants,

lets them climb the dark lift

of its wings.

Each tiny body

moves with its own intent,

a restless swarm working

through the bird’s old grit.

Nothing grand occurs—

just a creature allowing

the world to work on it,

letting small lives

soften what it carries...

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The Reckoning of Verse

Words do not wait. 

They press against silence, 

strain against the skin of unspoken 

thought, demanding release.

Time does not permit softness. 

It carves urgency into bone, 

   into pulse,

                into breath, 

         leaving no room for hesitation.

Poetry often arrives unbidden, 

clothed in necessity-

a for...

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The stairs feel longer this year.
Nothing in the house has moved,
yet a small clink follows me
as a name slips loose.
A sharp snap in the wall’s plaster.
I tap the switch anyway.
Mornings thin out.
The kettle sits cold after I set it.
Later, the kettle boils quietly over.
Frost slides across the bench,
soaking the list I should’ve tossed.
On the fridge, April leaves a red smear.
Most s...

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“compelled as ever”

I write because I must--
because the hour arrives unbidden
and yet expects to be received.

There is a kind of trembling in it,
a soft urgency,
as though the words themselves
have travelled far
and would be wounded
to find the door closed.

And so I open it.

I take up the pen
not out of pride,
nor even out of confidence,
but because somet...

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She moves as if the old stories
were inked into her coat‑hem—
not flaunted, nor claimed—
simply carried the way a gardener
carries soil beneath their nails.

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“The Bridge at Dusk”

They met where the old stone path
dropped toward the river bend,
light thinning, air sharp enough
to make every breath feel earned.
Neither had planned its timing.
Both arrived as if summoned
by the same stubborn thought.

“So you came.”
The voice carried more grit than welcome.

“Aye. Someone had to.”
A shrug, half‑defensive, half‑defiant.

Wind pressed...

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St Pancras lifts 
its red brick above the rails,
morning light slithering 
like a spine along the arches
as travellers eddy in loose currents
toward platforms breathing warm air.

A name rolls through the hall—
PANK‑rəs—
and in the drift of bodies
another sound shivers beside it,
PANK‑ree‑əs,
one note striking the tiles sharp and bright,
the other dragging low through the ...

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“between the leaves”


Midday.
A shaded path beside the stream.
The grass glows in the heat.
Damp earth rises — sharp, clean —
with a faint scent of wet bark.

A first gust
turns.
A curl of dust rises at my feet.
The air carries a metal tang.
The stream clicks over stone,
answered by a soft rustle
somewhere in the trees.

Light breaks hard on the water.
The grass shifts once.
...

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Broad‑Backed City

City with grit under its fingernails,
you stand there like someone who knows
the job will outlast the daylight.
You laugh with your whole chest,
not because the world is kind,
but because the joke lands better
when you’re still upright.

I’ve walked your blocks at first light,
steam lifting from grates like a cook’s breath
before the shift begins.
I’ve heard the fre...

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“Ode to the Poem That Built Itself”
 
 

It opens with a small stir—
a notion barely awake,
lifting its head as if the air
had asked it to begin.

One notion nudges another,
and soon they travel in pairs,
trading weight, trading colour,
finding fresh shapes against thought’s drifting.

Lines gather like quiet workers
around a long bench,
each adding a sliver of craft
to whatev...

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"our old stretch"
 

We gather with the year still warm
from all the hands that shaped it,
passing cups across the table
as if the work might start again
the moment someone nods,
each of us carrying this stretch of our year
in pockets, boots, and notebooks.

A creak in the floorboards falls in time
with the tune, making someone
twist their chair abruptly.
We speak of what we brought ...

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“from winter’s window”


A window holds its breath
as the day thins to a pale wash.
Someone walks past,
coat brushing the air

a thought in tentative sway

seeking its angle
in a brief drift of cold
that sharpens a thought
just enough to hold.



.

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"essence in Surikov"

He wrote it as the warmth left his hand,

a red‑warm script rising from within,

as though the line itself carried breath:

"In this life it is not new to die,"

spoken with the calm of someone

who has watched winter iterating

its familiar pattern for centuries,

each return neither omen nor surprise,

just the world continuing its old ...

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"there is a room"
 

There is a room
where names wait at the door,
stacked like coats
on a winter hook.

Inside, a chair holds its place.
Pages rest half‑turned.
Ink settles into shape
on the desk’s quiet plane.

These are the room’s fixtures —
the things that stay still
so other things can move.

Then the shift begins:
a line adjusting itself,
a thought testing its weight,
a g...

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"a new day whistling"

The day presses in—

a slow tightening—

and the air runs thin enough

to split the skin at my mouth’s border.

Sweat gathers at my jaw,

dust touches the tongue,

and the ground answers each step

with the dry crunch of gravel.

I pause—

right at the line

between what was

and what waits.

Ahead, the light thins into distance,

not a ...

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"root-river flow"

The seed was never still. 
Even before the soil embraced it,

it trembled with unseen currents,

sap already whispering its intent.

Planted, it did not wait —

roots pressed downward like questions,

branches lifted upward like answers,

each gesture a motion of becoming.

Wisdom is not the seed kept safe,

nor the tree frozen in stillness.

...

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"of shards and fragments"

One story walks the desert,  
learning to endure.  
The other climbs the rock,  
vanishing without answer.  
Both leave fragments—  
survival and absence—  
to be carried, not resolved.  

A cry begins,  
cut short,  
collapse denied,  
endurance affirmed.  
What cannot be answered  
is carried instead,  
a shard held together,  
not abandoned ...

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“a leafy bloom’s pledge"

Firm will enters through hidden morphemes,

a vow carried without leaf or bloom.

Resolve bends but does not shatter,

its path refusing the easy blossom.

Leaf trembles against the restless air,

flower opens to a waning flame.

Soil shifts beneath uncertain steps,

and measure falters in unspoken time.

Vows rise in breath’s hollo...

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"A widow's lament in the age of no flowers"

Late on the night of January’s frost,
I watched my husband pay the final cost.
They brought him wreathes, they brought him song,
they crowned his rest, they called it strong.

But I cannot forget the other ground,
where no flowers bloom, no bells resound.
The Romanov children, stripped and slain,
their bodies hidden in Siberian rain.

G...

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One

Star bright

Lantern-glow

Carols drifting

Candy cane dancing

Evergreen branches sway

Joy gathers around tables

Mistletoe brought home from forest

Year-end turning, warmth clear through the frost

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outstaring a blank wall 

You stand before a wall.
It waits, blank as withheld breath.

What hovers over you?
Drafts unpinned,
stories unspoken,
videos sealed,
pages chasing horizons
that never arrive.

Perfection dithers—
a mask for delay.
What if you placed
one imperfect mark?
What if you let motion
carve its shape?

The wall gathers:
crooked sketches,
half-born concepts...

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Wynken, Blynken, and Nod (reprise)

They set forth again, the fishermen three,

their chair of seasoned steel, rolling free,

their wheels carrying stories gathered

from seas where frolic once travelled.

Gold in their hair, not from youth’s frame

but from the long sun’s patient flame,

they cast their nets not for silver schools

but for recollection’s wispy spool...

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hearth of language

Set the table, and let the light fall, 

cut the bread, cost nothing but time. 

Read my face for the story— 

for and, or but, yet so— 

we keep finding ways to meet. 

A few laughs shared, 

a lot of pauses filled, 

twenty of those small gestures 

put us back in step. 

So often, many times, 

and always once more, 

my hand set beside...

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The poem bares its teeth: a hyena,
laughter breaking in jagged bursts,
circling the margins,
menace felt in scuffling shadows.

Then it rises upright: a meerkat,
eyes darting across horizons,
paws quick in sudden scurry,
a hesitant vigil before burrowing.

Between circling and scurry,
menace and play entwine,
scarfing fragments into chorus
more than jotted lines on a page.

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the river’s ardent flame

the river bends into dark corners

Argand lamps gleam across its skin

each flame a question

each ripple an answer folded away

the bridge waits in shadow

stone pressed against stone

listening to every footfall

holding the weight of crossings

the Argand light steadies

not words but fragments

a laughter broken into dust...

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“What Fox Says”

Fox says: apprivoiser won’t be possessed

but a slow-weave of absence into thread

you tilt among the stars

and i trace the outline of your missing shape

knowing the outline itself still abides

there the sketch suspends

hollowed lines tremble while

i cradle the paper as though

the blank within it were the closest

i could come to you

tu ...

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“More Than Scribbles”

The pen does not speak—
it holds its silence in a chamber,
a reservoir where sentences
float unformed,
dark rivers stalled
before the mouth of paper.

Each droplet is a thought
waiting for gravity’s compunction,
a poem in liquid pause,
its capillary compression
held at the narrow throat of the nib.

The pipeline presses with pressure,
yet nothing escapes—
un...

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Pen of Words

The bond is a rope,

a lash, a knot—

cords that tether,

cords that bruise,

a ligature of loyalty and loss.

We are bound as hogs are bound,

trussed like pork for market,

roped like boars dragged from the sty,

lashed like sows squealing in the cart.

Yet the pen is not only timber and mud,

but ink and nib, where the poet,

like a pig, root...

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hello poetry

Beneath the rustling of an unwritten page,

a quiver begins—soft as rain on glass.

Words lean toward each other,

testing the air between syllables,

like strangers exchanging glances

before they dare to speak.

Here, the ink is not just ink—

it is breath, the slow unfurling of a thought

that has waited years for its own voice.

Every line a b...

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"random inaccess"



Letters describe a moment
where time stretches—
stairs growing longer
with each season,
yet the house doesn’t change.

Names slip—
spoken and lost,
like coins lost in a torn pocket—
clinking faintly in empty halls.

Mornings are misplaced,
slipped into tired afternoons.

The calendar lies blank,
scraped raw,
its edges powdered with erased plans.

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empty nest

Stairs lengthen
with the seasons,
names slip like
coins in torn cloth.

A calendar lies scraped,
its edges powdered with absence.

Looking‑glass memory fogs,
reflections scatter into hollow rooms.
Between heartbeats—
quiet nestles within its cage.




.

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Signals

You said call me —

a door left ajar,

a hand extended into the silence,

 trusting the echo to return.

I said I’ll call you —

a promise folded in my pocket,

a coin that may never be spent,

control disguised as care.

Between us hangs the dial tone,

a wire strung tight with longing,

where one waits in quiet hope,

and the other drifts i...

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iolite, wayfinder’s stone

Blue as twilight,

a shard of horizon in stone.

Vikings held it to the sun,

a lens against indifference.

The sea was a silence without measure,

clouds erased the line of travel.

Yet in the fracture of crystal,

direction flickered—

not myth, but light bent into clarity.

No consolations,

no gentle voice.

On...

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"The Eleventh Hour" 

The vineyard calls at fading light,
The last are welcomed into sight.
No wage is lost, no soul denied,
The master’s mercy turns the tide.

At trenches’ edge, clocks did align,
The eleventh hour drew its sign.
Guns fell silent, breath was stayed,
A fragile peace at last was made.

So, numbers bind both war and word,
The Gospel’s grace, the bugle heard.
From vin...

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In the meadow of impossible mornings,

the daisies exhale in a trumpet’s blush,

petals fluttering like embarrassed fans as

the air fills with laughter disguised as wind.

Rosehip hiccups, clouds of lavender smoke,

their thorns rattling like spoons in a drawer.

Lilies bow low, releasing secret choruses,

a brass band hidden in their stems.

Children chase the gusts,

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Rain streaks the window of the late‑night tram, 

and I catch my reflection— 

half‑lit, half‑blurred, 

a passenger caught in between:

Cinema lights sputter, 

half the bulbs gone, 

yet the pavement glows enough 

to draw shadows forward, 

figures drifting past 

like fragments of a reel 

spliced mid‑story. 

The fairground stalls linger, 

shutters ratt...

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"A Slow Turning"

The stairs lengthen each season,
though the house remains the same.
Names slip from my tongue—
like coins through a frayed pocket,
clinking faintly in corridors I no longer patrol.

I misplace mornings,
folding them into afternoons
that arrive already weary.

The calendar stares back blank,
its squares scraped clean,
eraser dust gathering at the margins.

Onc...

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In the End

I carried the shape you traced,

a vessel cut to your measure,

but the grain ran otherwise—

knots where you wanted polish,

splinters where you asked for sheen.

I bent, yes,

but the bend was fracture,

and the fracture sang its own line.

You looked for a mirror,

I offered a window.

You asked for a key,

I was only a door left ajar.

...

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It comes with warmth, a friendly tone,

a note that seems to stand alone.

But read between the lines, beware—

not every praise is truly care.

“Beautifully done!” the words repeat,

yet nothing named, no detail sweet.

A hollow cheer, a practiced song,

a script that feels rehearsed, not strong.

The tale soon bends, the mask slips fast,

f...

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Swine Script

You call it a bond,

I call it a tether—

a hog‑tie dressed up as poetry.

The lash sings, the rope bites,

and suddenly loyalty

 looks a lot like livestock.

In the pigpen of verse

you root with your snout:

penning like a pig,

penned like a pig,

inking the sty

with squeals and scratchings.

Swine, hog, porker, boar—

your le...

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So stain—
as marks that remain longer than intent,
and hesitation pressed into the grain.

Second guess,
doubt’s small fracture widening,
as though the Voice were drowned,
as though we mistook the silence
for absence.

But sustain is not the clean note held—
it is the rough edge,
the falter carried forward,
the scar that steadies the hand.

And then—
awareness r...

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"Dusk"

The town exhales—
a soft geometry of roofs and fields
folding into shadow.
He sits where the light
still lingers,
jacket creased like memory,
hands easy on the stone.

The church steeple leans
into the horizon’s stillness,
a single bird
drawn to the vanishing point.

No declarations.
Just the red of his collar
holding warmth
as the sky turns
from blue...

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In the cellar,

greenglass vessels lean

          against one another,

  their shoulders dustpadded,

       throats sealed tight.

Some wait decades,

stoppered against the tremor of hands

that might one day twist them open.

Others burst early,

foam rushing into the air

as if silence itself were unbearable.

Life, too, is a rack of bottles—

some ...

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Boy with a Flute

Ankles in sand,
goats nose the salt air,
bells stumble against
the thin breath of reed.

A woman wheels past—
hair a sudden banner,
refusal swift as wind.
The goats turn too.

Desire rehearses itself:
first glance,
first quickening,
beauty always ahead.

Still he plays,
as if breath could bind
what wheels carry away.

Sea steady,
trail empty,
music l...

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in the waning light

The streetlight flickers,  
its circle thinning and swelling  
like a tired breath.  

A man drags a cart of bottles—  
they strike and scatter 
against each other,  
a bright clatter 
that almost arranges itself,  

as if you could lean in  
and hear the fragments  
choose their own song.

.

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The knife rests,
its silver edge carrying
a small sun across the crust.

You wanted the impossible—
to butter your toast and eat it too,
to keep the sheen intact
while tasting its warmth.

Isn’t that the old wish,
to hold the thing and spend it,
to keep the flame unbroken
while leaning into its light?

So we practice the art of vanish...

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