Sunday, June 30, 2013

Madness' Dance

Come dance with me
Said madness
Come dance this dance with me
Let me hold you in my arms
While you loose touch
With reality

You’ve things to do
I know
There’s washing and there’s dusting
There’s being sensible and straight
But come and loiter, linger on the floor
And let me dance with you

For time is but a construct
And work will wait
Dance is for the present
So come and dance with me
We’ll dance the slow waltz of

A slow one, two, three
Stately in its solemnity
Don’t concentrate so hard
Lean into me
Just let me lead
The slow one, two three

Now let’s jive
Anxieties jive
It’s quick, it’s smart
I’ll twirl you and I’ll throw you
Just trust
I’m good with anxieties jive

I’m not so sure
I like to dance with madness
Yet madness likes to dance with me
I wonder does sanity dance
Perhaps it’s sensible and straight

Son's Words

Tis time to close
The door
You’ve held ajar in hope
You know I’ve gone
I won’t be back
I won’t walk through that door
You’ve done your part
Release me
Don’t keep the door ajar
And while you may resist
Know this
Life’s current still connects us
I’m just ahead.

I’m just ahead
As you said
When you said goodbye
So close the door
Don’t fret
I’m in your heart
I know you won’t forget
My memory is not served by grief
So close the door
Don’t live betwixt between
Live in life
For eternity begins
Here not there.

My life was all it should have been
Perfect in eternities perspective
And while I fell
I fell into grace
Would you grieve me that?
Now I tread a different path
A different time and place
So close the door
I won’t be back
I won’t walk through the door
Yet we are still connected
With love’s heart

So love life and live

Saturday, June 29, 2013


Parrots screech their greetings.
Magpies warble in harmonics
Doves coo a minor scale
Honey eaters tweet and twitter
Light shimmering dances
And I?

I snatch the last strands of sleep
And wait to see if I’ll sing
When sleep has slid away
But not yet
Let me truss myself again in sleep

Till light shadowing dances

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back No 5

The Shell

Its mouth cold and hard
Against my ear
Not turning a deaf ear
Against its hardness
Soft sighing I hear
Whispered echoes

The soulful longing
To return,
To where, ocean’s gentleness
Sweeps across sand
Obliterating tracks and traces
The present, remade untouched

I turn my ear
To whispered echoes
The mellow longing
To what or where
I know not
The present remains

Tracks and traces

Friday, June 28, 2013

Guilt's Monk

Cowled eyes downcast
Hidden in my shadows
Universe constricted to
Moving feet
The constant motion
Of my restless soul

Pacing to escape
The guilt I will not name
Penitential prayers
No peace or forgiveness bring
Condemning myself
Guilt keeps pace

Mercy’s quality
A gift to others
On myself, I won’t bestow
What would I do
With compassion’s pity
How could I let guilt go?

The sacrament of sovereignty
My rite of potency
Shrivels before my judgment
Yet still with poignant ache
I yearn to be embraced
And kissed by grace

I seek the easy part
Approval from divinity
The harder part
Is to accept myself
To gift myself
With compassion’s grace

My restless soul
Finds peace
When I learn to
Look with love
Into eyes
My eyes, unhidden

Ponderings from Beaufort St - 27th June 2013

Bedlam has closed

The sign hit me
As I walked past
It hit me between the eyes
It said
“Bedlam has closed”
How could bedlam close?

Bedlam was empty

My mind was full

Thoughts scurried
Like rats on speed
Thoughts I thought
Or would have thought
If I had some space
Then again

Perhaps I thought those thoughts
Yet if the thoughts were thought earlier
Are they the same thoughts
I’m thinking now?
Perhaps not?

Perhaps the thoughts I think I’m thinking
I’m not really thinking
Perhaps I'm just thinking, I'm thinking
Yet is thinking about thinking, thinking?
Perhaps thoughts thought earlier are like
The thoughts I think I'm thinking

You see
Bedlam has not closed
It’s just relocated
It’s in my mind!
Or was that my brain
Or in my head?

Bedlam was the name of a shop on Beaufort St.  It sold bed linen and one Monday morning it had closed.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

Dew Drop on a Rose

Dew drop 
Translucent pearl
Perched on white petals
Night’s tears
Till kissed by

Sun’s smile

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Untitled No 4

Time slows
Suspended waits
Dithering which way to go
Incontinent seconds
Leak weakly into moments

Anaemic thoughts
Paled by their insignificance
Blanch, wither and
Slip away, behind
Inner windows

The soul’s aperture
Through which he stares
At shadows
Shades of memories
Stretched from the past

Time and shadows
Vapours of insubstantiality
Elusive seconds of memory
Confuse, split
The present

It’s best not to stare
At shadows from the past
Thoughts are best watered
With light that illuminates
The present

How do you say good bye?

It should be easy
To say good bye
Two simple words
That signify the end

Two single words
To release you
Release the tie that binds
Yet words are not so simple

How do I free you?
Yet hold your memory close
How do I let you go
And hold you in my heart?

I’m not really sure.
And if truth be told
I’m don’t know I want
To say good bye to you

Grief is the process
Of learning to let go
Of learning to say good bye
Until we say hello

So yet again I say good bye
And trust you’ll know
You’re in heart, until we meet
And say hello.

The Art of being a Father

The art of being a Father
Is knowing when to step back
To let your child grow strong
In their own sunlight

Step back too soon
And they may not have learnt from you
The resilience to withstand
Sun’s heat

Step back too late
And they may have spent so long
In your shade
They do not grow strong

Few are the fathers who
Teach their sons
The art of being a father
I hope you are one of the lucky ones

If not, don’t despair
The art of being a father
Can be learnt
It starts with a step back

Sunday, June 23, 2013

Untitled No 3

Defined by the senses
Solidified by touch
Believed with conviction
Assured by our perspective
We are right

But what if we are wrong?
Our perspective distorted
Warped by fears infection
What if dancing molecules
Respond to touch by
Deluding solid form

We are right
We can’t be wrong
We have to hold the line
Reality is as we describe
Substance defined by

But what if we are wrong?
Our faith infected by
Corrosive doubt
And substance an illusive form
What if descriptors of reality
Are fabricated fantasy

We are content
To live within the rules
The confines of our reality
Convinced of our correctness
Assured of our rightness
Gagging on our certainty

Yet perhaps there may arise within
A discontent with conformity
A revolt against orthodoxy
And gagging against our certainty
Some courage form
To live with uncertainty

It is the space between belief and doubt
The gap between our faith and fear
The shadow between our certainty and insecurities
It is here
In this place

We are ourselves.

Friday, June 21, 2013


I smile
It’s a masked smile
But you can’t tell
I’m a placid man
Of calm serenity

I keep myself civilised
Restrained, contained
Congenial, courteous
And urbane; a polite man
Not shabby in society

Yet there are times
I would prefer
To throw a tantrum
Foam at the mouth, and
Fly off the handle

I’d like to chuck a hissy fit
Blow a fuse
Fret and fulminate
I’d like to rave and roar
Scream and seethe

I’d like to yell and holler
Bawl and bellow
Swear and shout
For once, just once
I’d like to go beserk

Excuse me,
I’m not really like that
I don’t know what came over me
I keep my rage to myself

It’s not for you to see

Thursday, June 20, 2013

Grieving for Grief

How does one grieve for grief?
When grief is all that’s left
How do we let it go
And say good bye with grace?

They say, time heals
I’m not so sure
Perhaps time blurs the pain
The rest?  We delude ourselves

Don’t ask of me
To say good-bye with grace
Rabid dog I will protect
The grief I have left

Don’t come to me with platitudes
Do not say you’ll pray for me
I’ll claw your chest
And rip your heart

I’ll wait to see
If time heals your wounded heart
And if you
Still delude yourself

I’ll howl a lone dementing howl
I’ll yowl and wail my grief
Raw and vicious, I’ll pour it out
The grief that I have left.

If you have grieved
Till grief is all you have left
And if you've found a way
To grieve for grief

Then come to me
Stand next to me
Tell me what you learnt
For I have yet to learn to grieve for grief.

Mausoleum of Memories

I’ve built a mausoleum
Its bricks are memories
Cemented by my love

I keep this mausoleum
Locked within my heart
A place, deep within

It’s mine, this place
A polished plaque
Life reduced to words

It is the place
Where love was pierced
The heart of love attacked

You come and whisper in my ear
Release me
I’m not here

Unlock the door
And let the wind of life
Sweep in

Release me
Don’t bind me
With your grief

Liberate me from your sorrow
Liberate yourself
The final act of love

For I was never yours to keep
Simply a gift agreed
Within this web called life

My son, you ask of me
To grieve my grief
Then let it go?

I’m not sure I’m strong enough
Or heart attacked by grief
Has healed enough

Yet, I’ve heard you ask
I’ll try to let the wind of life

Sweep in

Between You and Me

There is a space
Between me and you
Yet we are told,
If we love we shall be one
A single whole, complete

Forgive me, if
I’m not so sure
I want to be a single whole
I know the norm is,
I should leave and cleave

I’m sorry.
I can leave but
Cannot cleave.
Perhaps it’s my fault
I like this space
Between me and you

In this space
I know where you start
And where I stop
The boundaries are clear
But if we’re one?

Enmeshed, entangled
Brittle reflection of a whole
Reflecting you
You’re my reflection
Reflected back to me

You see, I like the space
Between you and me
I want to see you and me
I do not want to be
A reflection of a mirrored image of me

I like this space between you and me
For mystery needs some space
And in this place
I see you
I see your mystery

So while you may want to be
My one, enmeshed and only one
I’ll keep this space between us
This space where I can see

The mystery of you and me

Wednesday, June 19, 2013


Between the lines
There is a space
An empty space
Stark, unfilled

In this space
Between the lines
Weaving stories
I write my lines

I’ve scratched through my past
Birthed scribbles onto blankness
This is me, defined
Between the lines

Perhaps the story is not me
A plot created from my fear
A padded room of words
More figment than fact

If truth be told, I’m frightened
By the space between the lines
I’m not sure
I can live unscribed within this place

So creator of my scratching’s
I fill stark space
Than risk, to
Live in between the spaces

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back No 4

Guy Fawkes Night

It was a simpler time
When Governments were not so concerned
And fun did not need a licence

November night
When Jack Frost jumped the fence
And plants shriveled at his breath

We would come out
And penny crackers light
To watch them jump and spark about

The Catherine wheels pinned
To walls, would spin
Excited circles of flickering colour

Rockets ignited
Launching with a whoosh
To reach stars above

It was Guy Fawkes night
The night for crackers
A night of light and sparks

I remember
A child’s excitement
Enchanted with colour and light

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

The Door

There is a door
A door in the wall of time
Tis open just ajar
Ethereal light glances in
A gleam from another realm

Not all see the door
For most there is no space
Between the tick and tock
Of time’s solid wall
For unlocked doors

Tis only when
Time has thinned,
Whispered callings heard
And watched
A soul take flight

Then in the subtle passing
A glint within sun light
There just beyond my reach
There is a door
I saw you enter in

You left the door ajar
You left if just for me
Timelessness ruptured into time
Streams through that open door

An elegy in eternity’s light


When fog comes
It always creeps
As if embarrassed by itself
Or shamed to show its face
Its slithering grin
Seeks to charm
But how can one
Make friends with fog?

It wraps grey folds
To embrace and warm
But light leeched
Grows cold and weak
Seeped in sepia tones
Life bland, tasteless
No salt strong enough
Flavour to ignite

A bully, fog pushes
Into me
Friendships strained by distance
Not of place but silence
Kissed by fogs vampiric kiss
I gaze with vacant stare
And thoughts disjointed
Aborted while they form
Die in muted horror

Encased in fog’s sepulcher
Wrapped in its misty shroud
Resting in its sarcophagus
I wait for resurrection
For life to roll away the stone
Yet perhaps while I wait
It may be feasible
Or at least possible
To unwrap my misty shroud

Monday, June 17, 2013


I hear the sounds
And watch their mouths
Masticating language as if in final feast
The juice of mangled words
Dribbling down self assured chins
Slurping, regurgitated consonants

I see and hear
Distracted, agitated
For another sound comes to my ear
The echo of the spoken word
Heard before it’s said

I hear
The sound of love’s bloom uncurling
Petals opening to whispered expectation
I listen to
Symphonic sound of sunbeams on glass
Crystallized notes of warmth

I’m distracted by the final prayer
Of a star’s expiration
The final breath
Of a soul’s cessation
I’m distracted
Diverted and abstracted

So if you speak to me
Speak slowly, or not at all
Don’t slurp or slur your words
And if I stare
I’m not rude
Just preoccupied and perturbed

For I hear the
Sound of others world
A world that calls to me
Attracts and entices me
I hear the echo of a word
Said before it’s spoken

Of Tracks and Spirals

We like to think
That life is single tracked
A straight trajectory from birth to death
We move through stages
Rail carriages
Though sometimes we get stuck
Doomed to repeat
Until, lesson learnt
We make the grade
And next carriage
We continue on

Yet perhaps life is more spiral
Than a track
It brings us back
To lessons learnt
While we, determined by our drive
To arrive, strong-minded
Strive to ascend this spiral
To enlightenment

I’ve learnt that life is less
Of lessons to be learnt
Than panorama’s to ponder
For lessons often are more singular
Carriages on the track of life
While life is often blended, interconnected
And enlightenment?
Is usually downwards not upwards
Found behind doors revisited

And while we might complain
We've sorted this lot out
We've moved past it
Reframed, processed,
Counselled and released it all
Yet it’s there most often
When we open doors we thought we locked
Where we look in ancient mirrors
Tis there, enlightened
We greet ourselves
And in the blended, interconnected
Multi-strand mess called life
We learn to like ourselves

Sunday, June 16, 2013

The Void Within

It is the void within
That lives in us
The space within our souls
That cave of loneliness
The cavity of shame within our core

We hide within our smiles
Our hollow laughter echoes, as
We throw gold
Within the void
A wishing well of unfulfilled desire
And hope to buy some peace

Weighed down, we chance
What we have bought
Will choke our loneliness
And strangle our silent screaming
With bling we hide the vacant stares
Of hollowed eyes that will not gaze
Into the void

Distracted by our drink
We grope to grasp at intimacy
Clutching anonymous warm bodies
To soothe our loneliness
While rage roils within
And feeds our shame and guilt

We would avoid the void
Like Oedipus before, we blind ourselves
Content blind eyes cannot see
Yet our spirit hears
The echoed sound
Of the space within
The space within our souls

We must stand at the void
And stare within
We must pierce the shadows
And see, if perchance
There is some gold
Within the void
The cavity of our soul

Saturday, June 15, 2013

The Preacher

The Preacher[1]

The Preacher spoke the Word
With confidence
Assured he’d heard God right
He expounded with fluent eloquence
The intricacies of theology
Convinced, through him God spoke

Perhaps he hadn’t heard quite right
For voices in his head
Had distracted God
Perhaps his ego was more
Cogito ergo sum[2] than grace
Perhaps God was not so eloquent

He did not doubt his word
He could not doubt theologies
His God did not doubt
For a doubting God
Could not be God
Doubt and God could not exist

Yet perhaps God doubted
The Preacher’s capacity to hear
Perhaps God doubted
The confidence with which he spoke
Perhaps God doubts
When it comes to man

If God doubts
Perhaps the Preacher
Should pause
Than presumptuously to preach
Of what he thinks
Are the thoughts of God

And if God doubts us
Perhaps it’s best
We talk less
And rather than pontificate
We learn to listen
In wonder to the silence

[1] I have spoken of the Preacher in the masculine, this is just for ease of reference.  I acknowledge that there are an increasing number of female Preachers.  The lesson is still the same for all Preachers
[2] I think therefore I am

Dialogues on Love No 4

I stood and waited
In the void of night
An empty fruitless wait
Chilled, I entered a bar
To numb my soul
On some synthetic cheer
Embracing my Shiraz
I found a corner dark
And raised my lips to taste her flesh
The richness of her savour
Her peppery kisses on my lips
Her full bodied flavour
Soon had me warmed
And while she wrapped her arms round me
I watched

The couple at the bar
The boyish grin, to wide, too pleased
A signifier he had caught his catch
But not too sure
What next to do
He did not know her drink
They giggled and they laughed
Each comment imbued with significance
Their bodies danced close
But not to close, for
Touch was still to come
Their eyes luminous with love
I wondered what would be,
If love would crack with time
And dull luminosity.

The two at the table
Stared into their wine
While silence sat between them
A train run out of track
With nothing left to say
The force of habit repeated
Into a rut
And passed for love
I wondered what it would take
For love to spark
For eyes descaled to see afresh
What treaties would have to be drawn?
And boundaries marked
For eyes to lift again
And see with love

I sighed
And turned to warm my lips
And kiss her glassy curves
Perhaps this fight of love
Is tilting at wind mills
Perhaps sands of time
Leech and bleed
The heart of love
Fossilised memories
To what was or might have been
Perhaps tis easier to pay for love
Illusion that is time weighed
Yet still we search
Like him, propping up the bar, convinced
He’ll find love, at least for tonight

I sensed him before I saw
I watched him as he walked
Across to me
He walked with supple confidence
I wondered why he was shadow bound
What did he fear?
I wondered how he had tracked me
I wondered as I watched
And reaching me, he leant across
Took my glass and raised it to his lips
He savoured my shiraz
Then leant across once more
And whispered in my ear
“Come walk with me”

Friday, June 14, 2013

This Cup

This cup
Can you drink it
to the bitter end?

This cup
Can you raise it full?
And say amen

This cup
Can you endure the pain, and
Still believe in life?

This cup
Fermented fruit,
Dual blest with life and death

I took this cup
And raised it up, and
Cursed my fate

I took this cup
And drank
It to the dregs

I took this cup
And swallowing bitter lees
I blest my life

This cup
The sacramental cup
Of life

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Dialogues on Love No 3

I pondered what he meant
About the fight of love
I know that lovers fight
For I have my battles fought
What did he mean?
This fight of love
I wondered as I walked

The night drew in
And shadows kissed me
As I passed them by
Phantoms of darkness
Memories of lost loves
Slipped between my feet
A tribute to my failure

The loves I’ve had but could not keep
The loves I wanted but could not have
The loves I desired that desired me not
The loves of my imagination
The love I have received
The love that enriched and emboldened
Were these the fight of love he spoke of?

I wondered if it was me
Perhaps I had missed out
My soul defective to love’s delights
I thought of promises made
That could not be kept
Of fear and struggle
And vows in sacred space

Pondering, I scuffed through
Withered leaves of love’s memory
As I wandered home
And as I reached my door
I turned and strode with firmer step
To find this stranger of the dark
And ask of him

What is this fight of love?


It starts with expectancy
The anticipation of success
The impossible possibility
To achieve
Success, a short stroll down
The path of sun strewn light
Gold and bright

Failure unconsidered
Brute strength will see it through
Sun, the silent witness
Rises, leaves her tent
To watch if strength alone
Is strong enough to win the day
And wreath of victory claim

The mid-point reached
The golden globe does pause
With wisdom's poise
And weighs what has been done
Tis usual to find
What has been done, feather weight
Against what is required

Tis in the aureate season
When autumnal colours infect our souls
And shadows cast long palls
Hind sight gifts its clarity
Tis then, we often find
That what we did was not required
A simpler, more important thing was missed

The wise will pause mid-point
To consider and reflect
And fools will hurry on
Before their strength gives out
I wonder, did I choose
The simpler more important thing


He Came

He came to me
In the silence of the written word
He asked of me to love him
I thought he meant for me to serve

I served him well
At least I thought
I was faithful
And I cared

But he, my service
Did not want
He simply sought
My love

Tis easier to serve
To strive and struggle
To be good
Than to love

When doubt had wormed
Its way through faith
And anger ceased to strive
And goodness couldn't care

He came back
Hunting me
Not in the written word
But in the silent spaces of my soul

And once again
He sought my love
This Ancient One
This Lover of my soul

Dialogues on Love No 2

As night closed in
And shadows turned to black
I went once more
To meet with him
Though I knew not
If he would come for me
I hoped with all my heart
And while I hoped I asked myself
What did I want from him?
Companion, lover, friend
I knew not
I didn’t even know his name
All I knew, that moth like
I was attracted to him

Down dark lanes I scurried
Foolish desire, hope and racing heart
And reaching where we last met
I stood and listened for his breath
But all was silent in the dark
I turned as disappointment rose
And mocked my hope
“You’ve come into the cold
To meet a phantom of the night
I leant against the wall
And closed my eyes
In prayer that would not come
And as I stood and turned to go
I heard his voice

“You go so soon?
The night is young
The shadows still not deep’
I caught my breath
And looked around
Yet him I could not see
“Where are you?” I asked
“I cannot see;
Where are you and how do you see me?”
I heard a chuckle, low and deep
Then his presence next to me I felt
And whispering in my ear, he spoke
You will see when your soul sees
And the soul sees when the Seer sees

I listened to the silence
He said no more
“What is your name” I asked
“and who is this Seer?”
He simply said
“The Seer is the one who sees
Who witnesses and is
The Lover of your soul”
We stood in stillness
“Your name?” I asked again
We stood so long
I thought he had not heard
Then he murmured
Your tear, last night?”

As if he read my soul
He said
You are lonely and upset
You want friends, companionship
A lover to take you in their arms
Entwined to ride the wave of orgasmic bliss
Lost in romantic passion
You want to know you’re not alone
But do you really know what you ask for?
Do you know the fight of love?
Or the fight of rage about love?[1]
And I stood and it was true
I knew not of what he spoke
This fight of love.

[1] Phrase is taken from Madness in the Family – Stories” by William Saroyan, pg.48

Dialogues on Love - No 1

I saw him in the shadows
Brooding deep and dark
His breath vapoured white
Drew my eyes to him
A puff of cloud in night’s cold air
He lured me to himself
Yet drawing deeper into shadows
He sought to disappear
And all the bells did toll
To warn my tempted soul
But I ignored their cautious ring
And followed after him
No moon did light my path
As I stalked him
Cowled eyes unseen gazed at me
And seemed to weigh me up
Yet still I followed the path of fools
To see where he would go

I turned a corner
And he was gone
A phantom of the night
Perhaps t’was just a figment
Of a lonely heart
I stood and tried to see ahead
But it was black and dark
And sighing with a heavy heart
I turned once more back to the light
And in the space ‘tween black and light
Where grey was most opaque
He whispered in my ear
“what do you seek?”
His breath was warm upon my neck
His whisper rich and deep
I turned to answer him
But a single tear
Ran down my cheek

We stood in silence
Him and I
Separated by that tear
And then he whispered yet again

Tomorrow night.

Soliloquy to Ennui

They say when talking to oneself
One should ensure another does not hear
In case the hearer thinks the speaker mad
So I will write my thoughts
And they shall be a witness
To my madness
The madness of ennui

This thing that has infected me
A dreadful dreary apathy
I should be man enough to shake it off
But it has its grip on me.
An indifferent tediousness
A weary apathy
Cocoons and suffocates me

I stand under sapphire blue sky
And roses confused blooming full
In autumn spring warmth
Trees a riot of richness
Coinage of colour
The warming embrace of sun on skin
And I?

Perhaps monk like
I will withdraw
In the solitude of grey stone wall
And daily rites of penitence
Perhaps then my surfeited soul
Starved, can once again enjoy
The riches of this world

Perhaps the richness of beauty
The bountiful profligacy of nature
Excess exceedingly overpowering
Leaves my soul engorged
And ennui
The fevered response

Of a soul in recovery.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back No 3

The Bear

I had a bear
A teddy bear
A queer bear
Whose fur was blue not brown
Red tongue of felt
Small of statue
He was not new
But he was my bear

I can’t remember how we meet
Firm friends we were
He would listen as I rambled
And watch with beady eyes
While games I played
And at the ending of the day
As I drifted off to sleep
He would snuggle next to me

T’was Sunday afternoon
And I, most concerned
The soul of my queer teddy bear
Should be saved
From hell’s slippery slope
I preached to my bear
Of God’s amazing grace

And as the final hymn we sang
My sister waltzed in
Grabbed bear by his tongue
Ripped his red felt tongue
And flung him of his chair
It was then, perhaps, I began to doubt
How could God let my teddy bear’s
Tongue be ripped out.

I wonder what became of
My teddy bear
Perhaps it was the father’s shame
His son should have a bear
Yet even as a man
I still remember with a smile
My teddy bear

The queer bear whose fur was blue

Reflection in the Mirror Looking Back No 2.

Of Locks and Lochs

Locked within my soul
There is
The echo of the Lochs
And locked within these Lochs
There is
An echo

An echo
Carried far in
Still waters
Running deep
These are the sounds
I keep
Locked within my soul

The sound of eagles
Haunting cry carried on the wind
The gentle slap
As water sylphs
Run through rushes by the shore
The silent brooding
Of highland glens
Where haunting ghosts of
Friend and foe do meet

I’ve stood on those shores
Though t’was in distant past
When I was just a bairn
Still I’ve gathered to me
The haunting echoes
Locked within the Lochs
And locked them in my soul

Yet still I see and yearn
To stand again on the shore
Of silent Lochs
But I’m not sure
The high road or the low
Will get me there again

Perhaps in dreams, I’ll stand
And listen to the echoes of the Lochs.
Till then, I must keep
Locked within my soul
The ancient echoes

Of the Lochs

Sunday, June 9, 2013

The Bible

She sat two chairs up from me
Diagonally across
And on her lap
She read a book

My eyes turning to avert
Became alert
For I recognized the book
That was on her lap

It had seen better days
Yet was much loved
For sticking out from pages
Were notes and bits of paper

As she waited for the Doctor
She read from Titus Chapter 1
It took me to a past
When I had such a book

The crinkle of the paper
The verses underlined
Notes scribbled in the margin
And bits of paper stuck within

Sometimes God still spoke
Though not within the Canon
Hence stick-it notes were needed
To jot His sayings down

And as I reminisced
I heard the paper crinkle
She flicked through pages
Perhaps God had spoken

Another verse was she looking for?
No her nail file
She found it in some battle scene
Within the Old Testament

God now waited
In the waiting room
To speak His word
While her nail she filed

Or perhaps God looked down
And unimpressed
Had spoken
Child do your nails!


Swords of green
Piercing upwards through the membrane
Of mother earth

Swords that slip their sheaths
In cold black clods
Of winters reign

Then bud and bloom
Early trumpeters
Heralds of the spring

Sun’s raindrops
Splashed upwards
Bright yellow

Yellow lights
From long ago

Memories of child's
Bright yellowed hopes
And unheralded possibilities

A past where it was hoped
The sword of green manhood
Would warm maternal mother’s whims

The daffodils of spring
Are bitter sweet
For they remind

Of hopes yellowed with disappointment
Of maternal love

That in winter’s reign remained.

Friday, June 7, 2013

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back - No 1

 Grandma K

Lace curtains
Hang with idle indolence
Prickling in lethargic heat
Against the afternoon sun

White sheets, white pillows
Off cream coloured spread
White hair, guilty of disorderly conduct
Breaking out from conventional restraints
Skin, clotted cream, tissued, fading

Pale cold eyes stare at me
White night dress, off white bed jacket
A smile
A scrabbling from ancient yellowing skeletal claw
Insect like, clutching at off cream spread
The silent scratching of an emphysemic scarab
A clawed finger beckoning to me

Into the white heat I tread
A room bleached white
By age and lack of air
And walking round this whiteness
I bend to kiss her cheek
And there my eye catches

Ivory white spittoon
Half filled with light green slime
The septic outpouring of her lungs
Colour contrasted bright
And as she wheezes her love for me
My mind reels and heaves

I made sure, poor Grandma K
I never went that side of the bed again
I waved and smiled my love from afar
Safe distance from bright green
And family duty done
Scurried back into the bright light of life.