bitterness sticks on the tongue

and fingers here

twittering slick ice-knife parable

a phD in pain from blunt instruments

serving up noble death as a

turd in the drinking water dialogue.

Have you tasted it?

Nothing good left here,

just methane – the daffodil scent of it –

filtering and eventually bruised yellow and away.

Let boys learn well,

sorry will not make it safe to drink yet.

Letter from out here in Poetry


Dearest reader,

I write to you from Poetry

out here peripheral and near to dream

where the sun spattered trees

sentinel in autumn’s air

and the detailed sky is entirely held together

by voices of pardelotes and peewees

who call and call for summer.

The season shifts and exhales

at 3 am and slow pulses align

poems grow best in dark soft night

and bloom fantastic morning’s beam

birdsong, sky, clarity.

Goggle Man


It is the last uphill –

my face flushed; the sun is all akimbo in the trees.

Bike pulls against slope and those tendons those joints

that until now laid under skin uncomplaining 

tell me how they are in flickers of pain 

pushing up then pulling down gravity unrelenting –

when the goggle man appears flowing downhill like river falls

he is henchman to the hill pull;

is the harbinger of summit –

he almost wears a cape 

and he never smiles.

Pawprint Imprint

Poetry, Uncategorized



You will not be at the door

and maybe never wait for me again

by the road or on the tiles.

Night walks to look at the moon

or smell those passing scents

as the street quietens, are over.

Now, you have gone home, forever,

away from us and our loud songs

of love and fear and frustration.

But there is s small song I will always sing

my pawprint imprint

under the skin.