Tears of the Bitter Man


Just like your father
you sing that fearful song
spelling out your anger
peeling back the hate
of the bitter man
Just like your father
constant exclamations
in the lexicon of loathing
the angry poetry
of the bitter man
How saddening to hear
you singing your father's song
How sad it is to hear
you singing his bitter song

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Great Warmth of a Curious Heart

Lurking in the natural world
there are sentences, still unspoken
always waiting to be written
frozen in time
waiting for the great warmth 
of a curious heart

Haunting at the edges of the living world
are spirits of the unspoken connectivity in people
dead and alive, the as-yet unborn
caught between planes
waiting for the flashlight beam
of a curious heart

There is an untapped seem ...

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The Hate Destroying You

Doe-eyed woodland artistry glows
oh, how you hide your face away
I give and give to you
investment in a broken thing
once-grateful hands grab more and more

There is a sickness of mind
a blackness and a spoilt heart
where blame is always searching
and mirrors cannot exist
once-blooming thoughts crush more and more

Pushing on the posts that held you up
you’ve pushed to...

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30 Steps


The city is drenched in gold tonight

The sea is silver, like my temples

My hands feel older now than ever

But my mind and my grip is so much surer

Than back when I was younger;


I've run from love when it got tough

My hair was bleached in boiling light

I helped as many people as I could

Still, my thoughts were darkened in the wilderness

Felt alone in crowds of s...

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Only Moments


Remembering dim rooms
all hushed conversation
whispering those compliments
almost embarrassed
trying to communicate the reverence
the pure weight of all this feeling
of wading so deeply in love
Oh, they're only moments...
Remembering the falling rain
buried in each-others coats
kisses through smiles
desires between laughs
so perf...

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The Train is Waiting

The nib bends gently on the paper
well, I suppose there’s time;
A river of thoughts flow out
a third of a life is spent
in raven ink; the shapeless smoke
the molten mess of me, emerges

We slip, we push, we drag ourselves
into some sort of position
You can call it adulthood, you may be wrong
me, I call it wising-up, but I may be wrong
Lives change, worlds shrink, egos are appeased
we l...

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Can You Hear The People Sing?

They dwell in strange rooms
the murky recesses of affordability
barely buildings, bedrooms with sinks
chair pushed up against the door
flakes of lives flung everywhere
A curtain, a quilt - who can really say?

A bare bulb hangs in an open window
no shade inside from day or night
Still lives go on; the rudimentary,
ramshackle, clutching at homeliness
the need for shelter unites us all

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