Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Drag of Love

Needed, wanted, desired
Release of built up passion

Nerve endings jarring with
Lustful longing

Illicit moments snatched
Lit with brief fire of delight

Long slow kisses
Tongue wrapped

Satisfaction and relaxation
With one long drag

Then exhaled
Butt crushed with swivelling foot.

The Envelope

Ponderings from Beaufort St - 31st July 2013

Damp and torn,
Blown down a lonely unlit street

Small envelope
A little letter
Miniature love of
Flowering passion

No rubber would erase
Finger prints and sweaty palms
Hoping letter would be posted
Before the male had come

Flowering passion
In an unlit street
French letter’s empty envelope

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Lie

A lie
Requires intention
A deliberate attempt to deceive
Yet there was none
No deliberate intention

A fearful youth
Convinced by herculean strength alone
He could bar the gates of his being
Deluded that with Samson’s strength
Could grind his passions small

The youth lied to himself
His was the deliberate attempt
To deceive himself
An inconvenient truth
He lived his false impression

His intentions four ring bound
Gave meaning to his struggle
Not to mislead
Yet still despite intention
Herculean strength bowed and buckled


Above man made steeples
Spires of corporate worship
And air-conditioned chicken coops
Of commercial worry
Rembrandt grown tired of heaven’s gold
Came to paint the clouds

On canvas of blue grey
He began with blush of ruby rose
Then painted hue of merlot’s red
And added antique gold
Sunlight not to be outdone
Cast shade of daffodil yellow

For an eternal second
Sky canvas in brilliance hung
In all it’s wasteful grandeur
While corporate roosters scurried
Scratching their way to daily feeding troughs
Yet the universe was not done

Saddened that men were so oblivious
To beauty so voluptuous
Diaphanous tears it shed
And light sharing in the grief
Transfigured tears to rainbow hues

Between blue-grey clouds of ruby rose

Monday, July 29, 2013

A Walk on the Beach

Waves, passion unbridled
Rising potency passing
Swelling chaotic surges
Fling themselves with indecent haste
On seaweed strewn shore

Rough lover come too quickly
Shore sodden from rough kissing
Retreating embraces stretched too far
Sucked back into watery maelstrom
Tumultuous tumescence to rise again

Once more waves rush
To kiss the shore, bringing
Bouquet of dying fish
Bequeathed symbols of
Undying love


There is a silence
That must be heard
A silence so loud
It cannot be heard

There is a silence
We fear to hear
A silence when heard
Allows us to face our fears

There is a silence
That calls to us
A silence when answered
Requires no words

It is the silence of the empty cup
The cup of blessing when none was given
The cup of love that failed
The cup of bitterness drained

It is the soul unblest
Who blesses itself
Unloved, loves itself
In bitterness forgives

That silence hears


Wormy thoughts
Toil to fertilize my faults
With castings of imagined culpabilities

Slime silvery trails
Dried wrongs, lines like dandruff flakes
Where worm of guilt and Dendrite meet

Snorting to inhale
Silvery trails of remorse
Addicted to my guilt

I claim my highs
Adrenal rush of delightful blame
Ecstatic self flagellation

For would I redeem obsessive guilt
And grieve the loss
Of angelic lust?

Sunday, July 28, 2013

Prodigal Son

In ancient tales
It’s said
The son, sitting with pigs
Missed the fatted calf
At home

So leaving pigs alone
He wandered home
Back into his father’s arms
And into another pen
Duty to his family

Perhaps the son
Grown tired of pigs
Did not return home
Perhaps his father’s love
Strangled his very soul

Grown strong in pigs swill
He’d learnt to see through shit
And now could bear with pride
His name
The prodigal

For the prodigal no longer needed
His father’s embrace
Having learnt to embrace himself
And he had learnt
His duty to himself

Bit of Fun

Word colliding in collusion
Conspiring to combine
In messy copulation
Chains of confusion
For while I would like to write profoundly
I am confounded and discombobulated

So discomforted and discomposed
Baffled and bewildered
Aware I may muddle and mislead
Leading you to believe and postulate
To speculate and suppose 
I'm a poet who knows what he's talking about

When in reality I must confess
Concede and confide
To you, dear reader
I have absolutely
Completely and consummately 
No concept at all

Storm's Ode

Waves rise and dance
The Rumba in confusion

Clouds, sky’s damp clothing
Scurrying for sunlight to warm and dry

Winds prying fingers
Tickling cold

Lone seagull in flight
Cursing Jonathon Livingstone

Rainbows, assurances multicoloured
Of promises never spoken

Baptized in nature’s fury

My soul rises calm.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

When Darkness Came to Supper

Dread guest of mine
Sprawled at ease
Table spread in black lace
Drinking rum of black molasses

Eyes deadly nightshade white
Pale moons
In darkest night
Queer incubus’s delight
A fearful soul on which to feed

Seducing and inviting
Let’s play the devil’s dice
What have you to lose?
Stalling seductions entrancement
I asked

What have I to gain?
Darkness leant across black lace
And rummy breath rustled
It’s in the darkness
We learn to trust

We played the devils dice

The Final Words

He was the chosen one
He was the only one
The father’s perfect choice
The son who he could sacrifice
On the alter of his perfection

Perfection requires no memory
The son, an inconvenient memorial
To his father’s sexuality
The father’s Father would have forgiven
But he would not forgive himself

Instead, determined to wrong his rights
And infanticide not allowed
He chose to kill the soul
Of his son,
His only one.

He pillaged and plundered
In the name of holy sanctity
Ransacking his son’s privacy
Fearful and afraid
The devil had got there first

The cup of blessing he passed to son
Fire rimmed in hellish flame
Was laced with guilt and shame
The son, his plundered soul
In love did drink

When fathers Father turned his back
And rageful perfection was not enough
To translate to eternities gates
Age in decrepit steps
Slid skin from bony frame

The son in pity spoke again
I love you
Three times affirmed his love
Father’s perfectly cold eyes
Affirmed three times
It is not enough

And there was silence

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

My Philosophy of Poetry

Having written poetry for the past few months I have been reflecting on my philosophy of writing.  Why do I write?

At its simplest level, I write to reclaim my voice.  After years of speaking in the voice of others I seek to re-claim my own voice.  What do I mean “speaking in the voice of others”.  Some of you will have picked up I was a minister of religion.  Theoretically ministers speak the voice of God.  They speak of certainty and faith; of hope and of love.  They do not speak of their fears, their doubts and loneliness.  After the church I worked with men who had alcohol/drug and mental health issue.  I listened, I nodded, I made suggestions for counsellors do not speak their frustrations and annoyance with their clients.  Finally, free of both roles I write to rediscover my own voice.

The ordinary voice of an ordinary man who has grown tired to talking for others.  At this level writing is both a selfish and a therapeutic act.  It is selfish because it is about me.  It is an act of egotism to write, post what is written and think it will be read.  It is selfish because the more I discover my voice the more I realise I don’t really care for that part of me that was the “good minister” or the “good listener”.

Yet it is also a therapeutic act, an act of self-healing, for slowly each time I write I gain the confidence to be more authentically myself and step out from behind the walls I have erected to hide behind.  If philosophy is the love and pursuit of wisdom then surely it is wise to live unburdened by defences that keep us/me alienated and isolated from others.

Hence the process of writing helps me learn my own voice.  Yet it is more than this.  We have all been in meetings where we have listened to a speaker who has found his or her voice; a voice which is monotone, droning and without intonation.  So it is with poetry, it is not just finding my voice it is finding the cadences with my voice.  Cadence has to do with modulation, with intonation.  In terms of writing it is the ability to modulate tone.  To write lightly, “the gossamer sheen of dragonfly wings translucent in morning glory’s light”.  To write with anger – both hot and cold anger; to write with erotic sensitivity, “his voice hung in the auricle of my ear before deep tones slid in and body responded before my mind”.  I need to learn the modulations of my voice and this takes time and patience.  Often we write when we are too close to situations, particularly when they are painful emotions.  While it can be satisfying to do this, we often write with one intonation – rage, or pain.  We are like a dog with its’ leg caught in a trap continually gnawing to escape pain.  It takes discipline to sit and trust that life and time will give us space and in that space we/I will learn different cadences.  Do I have this time and patience?  Sometimes, sometimes not.  Sometimes I force myself to write and post as an act of courage rather than waiting for cadence.

Writing is a daily act of courage for me.  I mentioned above about stepping out from behind the walls I have erected over the years to protect myself.  It is true that what once protects us, ultimately will become our prison if we do not dismantle the walls and protective boundaries.  Yet courage is not just stepping out after years of pretending to be something and someone else to say this is who I am.  It is also the courage to question the status quo. 

Perhaps this is the most important role of true poet (and I am not including myself in this category).  It is the ability to call into question the accepted truths with the simplicity and beauty of poetry.  It is the ability to make people question.  For example, to realise that initially intimacy is not something between people.  Intimacy must start within ourselves before we can be intimate with others.  Love is not just about rainbows and sunsets and warm touches.  Love is a hard task master that if we allow strips away our pretences and our selfishness and may then re-build us.  To realise that spiritual enlightenment is not something we should be seeking, rather we should be discovering the depths of our humanity.

Yes, I am vain and egoistical enough to dream that one day when I am much older I will be able to write poetry like that.  In the meantime I am grateful for the opportunity to re-discover my voice and my cadence and take a little step of courage each day.

The First Date

Voice pitched too high
Too urgent in its raucousness
Laughter at unfunny jokes
Eyes bedazzled by lustful witlessness

Careful casualness to ensure
Right distance is maintained
For incidental collisions of arms
The first unhanded touches

Hips swaying, loose
Umbrella held
Mirrored image
Of phallic fantasies

Lust, starved
On phantasmagorical imagery
Is drunk on imagined possibilities
Convinced tonight will be reality

When erect potentials shrivel
And mirrors reflect unflattering light
Will lust, having spilt its seed
Grow into love?

Or will reality shattered
Retreat into cells of
Hands cold touches on

Fading fantasies.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

Love's Laugh

The bed is warmed
And petals spread
The wine is poured
And light is dim
I undressed
Wait your touch

Hold me in your arms
Wrap me in your embrace
Fill my mouth with your kisses
Let my bones feel your heat
Let passion mount within me
Let me breathe in ecstasy

And Love laughed
A cruel laugh
I’m not your fantasy
The melody of your dramatics
My gift is not your pleasure
My flair is not your passions heat

For I am love
And in love will strip you
I’ll leave you lonely and alone
Most will cringe in abject isolation
Convinced they are deserted, unloved
Will cower in desperation

Distracted grasp at substitutes
They’ll dial for
Locums of love
They’ll search the desert sands
To find the particle of one
They hope will satisfy

If you can stand the loneliness
And in dignity keep your peace
You’ll see my greatest gift to you
You’ll learn that you are loved by love
And learning to love yourself

Will then have love to give.


 If we could, would we?

If we could wipe the shame that creeps within
Smile with eyes clear and bright
And stand in confidence we did our best
Would we?

If we could clear the debt of guilt
And smile with eyes of peace
Assured we did our best
Would we?

If we could recompense for loves lost
And rest knowing
That love lost is not misplaced
Would we?

We like to think we would, yet
Convinced we can’t
We grow to love the shame
The restless guilt within our souls

We could and can
Be a soul at rest
Standing in confidence
It did its best

Spider's Grace

Lace table cloth
Spun with delicate grace
Web of subtle gauze
Spread across a table of space
Washed in Dawn’s dew
Starched in sunlight
Spider sat in silent prayer
“Give me this day
My daily fly,
And lead me not into 

Tempting someone else”

A Tribute to Two Women Walkers on Beaufort St

I walk to and from work.  It is a distance of about 6.5kms each way.  There is something wonderfully therapeutic just walking, looking around, watching the clouds, being in the moment!

This morning I set off and started walking down Beaufort St.  I became aware of two women walking behind me.  It was their voices I heard, chatting away.  Soon they had overtaken me.  

They were both of smallish statute – petite would sound better and both carried two bags each. Now I’m tall so have a fairly long stride when I walk.  These women were clocking up some speed because they passed me by, four bags between them and two tongues talking non-stop.  We came to the first set of lights where I caught up with them.  They stood waiting for the lights to change and kept talking.

The lights changed, they were off and racing again.  I tried to keep up with them but had no chance.  Off down Beaufort St, bags swinging tongues still talking till the next set of lights.  Repeat performance.

Do you know, those two women carrying 4 bags between them talked non-stop for 6.5kms into the city!  Not only is that a feat, they managed to walk faster than I ever could, they didn’t draw a sweat – sorry women don’t sweat, the glow!  They didn’t draw a glow nor were they breathless!

I was amazed!  I was knackered just from watching them!  The ability to walk fast and talk even faster for 6.5kms is remarkable.

It did get me thinking for any not-for-profit organisation that needs a new fund raising idea, instead of doing fun runs and pooch walks perhaps they could do “walk and talks”.  Women could be sponsored for walking and talking. 

As for me?  I just need a sit down and a coffee to recover!

Monday, July 22, 2013



For words need space
For rest and rhythm
They need their gaps
To relax

It’s in the break
The eye can rest
And voices cadence can be heard
Yet we are not as wise as words


Then perplexed we wonder
Why life is so hard
With no space to renew
Rest eludes

Like words
We need our spaces
For it’s in the gap
We hear the cadence of our soul

Train Tracks

Sunday afternoon
Heat hazed tracks
Teasing mirages of escape along
Shimmering long black lines

She, no figment, but human form
In love
Sought in soft and tender touch
To provide escape

He, trust traumatised
Bewildered by survival
Perplexed by this thing called love
Escaped into leave-taking

He spoke into the phone
Down isolated lines
For in his mind
He’d left this blighted town

Years later, after walking
Straight, straight tracks
He found the courage

To jump tracks

Wednesday, July 17, 2013

I Remember

Eyes agate cold
Hard black ice
Hatred’s disengagement
Disappointments toughened gaze

I remember the silence
Of simple words unspoken
“I love you” never heard
Until doubt made me ask

Thrown away line
“Of course”
God loves you if you are good

How could I be good enough
For God
When flesh of flesh
Was never good enough for you

Sperm grown from you
Male of male
Your hatred of your sexuality
Thrown full force in my face

Do I forgive?
It’s the Christian thing to do
Yet truth be told
I’m not sure I do

There is a part, Kronos like of mythology
Would take a sickle to dis-embowel
To see in eyes agate cold
The pain you caused in me

They say it’s patricide
Yet how could it be
That implies you were
A father to me

Your restless soul
Stalks the corridors of eternity
Still comes back to me
And I confess

If I could rip your soul apart
I’d tear you space from space
I’d throw my rage back in your face
Your disappointing son

I know you passed to me
The legacy of our family
Yet you and your God
Were impotent

Content to rage in
Hatred for your humanity
And wreck revenge
On me

And I, Vesuvius capped
Have learnt to smile
Yet sulphuric volcanic rage
Within subterranean layers roils

For I remember
But I will not let you win
Anger will be transformed

The phoenix will rise within

Untitled No 8

I stalk the edges of your soul
Unobserved I watch with baleful eyes
Ignored, I feed in corners
A voraciousness I hide

I live behind the fence of smiling eyes
Though blank stares suit me best
Dementia eludes me
I remember very well

Chameleon camouflaged
Concealed behind compassion
I choke on smoke screens empathy
Indifferent and uncaring

At times corrosive, caustic
Acid tongue
Will flash and flicker
Before dipped once more in honey

Know this
I am your rage
Powerful, potent, articulate
I cast aside my camouflage

I rise in wraths red heat
No childish tantrum this
No selfish sulk
That life did not go my way

From silent furies furnaces forged
My voice will learn to speak
And in the spoken word

My birth right I will claim

Piety Crucified

Piety crucified itself
Duty impaled on a cross
Martyr to self devotion
Wan smile of
Simpering religiosity
It hung, postponing

Behind pallid smile
Glint of evil eye
Devotion cloaked
In hypocritical vestments
Souls’ investments
Banked for fragile ego
Condemned by fruit and serpents

When self grown strong
Sought to take piety down
It shrieked unholy profanities
And called on God to witness
Its tortured godliness
And phony piousness
But God was unimpressed

For God, having once been
Is unimpressed by duplicates
And is perplexed by piety,
Tortured godliness, and
Fetishes for

Tuesday, July 16, 2013

My Priest

He sits within
In Pontifical silence
Watching and waiting
His unctuous words of blessings ring
Hollow benedictions in softly spoken melodies

His blessings are for good boys
Of the practiced plastic variety
Yet under holy oil
Rage in turmoil roils
A rage unholy and profane

A fury that rises to gates of heaven
And changes it to hell
He sits in suffering silence
Till man neuters his rage
And neuters himself as well

God forbid that man should rise in potency
And phallic sword unsheathed
Should rise in loud protest
And garb himself in reality

Than synthetic spirituality

The Glory of Dust

Man of dust
In breathed by ancient Gods
From primordial slime

Creation of mud
Skin wrapped to contain
Blood and bowel
You seek splendour

The splendour of transcendence
Dogged pursuit of mystery
To wrap divinity around
Corpuscled humanity

And lost in the mists of mystery
Convinced of what we do not know
Our fears convert us
Transforming us by uncertain holiness

Yet sacredness is not in holiness
But in the mud of our mortality
Fully incarnated, at one with dust

The mystery of our humanity

Last Leaves

Trees in stark nudity
Limbs akimbo
Waiting for fashion colours
Of next spring

Those final leaves
Cling with tenacity
Earrings of veined skin
Lined, translucent with age
Defiant relics of past beauty

Yet when age and gravity collude
Last leaves release their grip
Crinkled skin whispering goodbye
With silent tender kiss
Drift to earth

Monday, July 15, 2013

Love - No 1

Clutching with intensity
What cannot be held

Holding with greedy dissatisfaction
The fabric of our fantasy
While reality requests open hands

Avaricious to fill the emptiness
Of a soul disconnected from itself
Believing ourselves alone
We grasp another disconnected emptiness

Clutching a fantasy
That cannot be held
Devouring another disconnected soul
To find fullness
We name this love

Yet love
Cannot be held
It is a gift given with open hands
From a soul connected to itself
A soul who knows it is not alone

And from its fullness gifts love


Creative words
Cling, cohere
Struggle to articulate
New possibilities
Latent potentials of authenticity

The constant cycle
Of repetitive tedious thoughts
Old feelings ploughed into familiar furrows
Jaded memories, ruts of reiteration
Eulogies of unspoken monotony

Ruts make long coffins
Monotonous dirges of “could have been”
Yet words re-phrased
And memories re-fashioned
Give reality new possibility

Creation of what might be

Friday, July 12, 2013

Untitled No 7

Scarfed wrapped and bundled
Harried and hurried
Suited, they scurry from work
Faster than their souls
Can keep pace

Charity clad and layered
They ambled and dissembled
Waiting for locked doorways to claim
Souls wilted
Beneath the weight of life

They sauntered
In perfumed modish chic
Blatant lustful gaze
Hopeful souls
Lusts longing to meet

Harried hopes
Wilted dreams
And lustful longings
Debris of daily life
Swept down an empty street

A lonely blinking light
Don’t walk
Wilted hopes,
harried dreams and longings heat
Are stopped mid-stride

Sky Painter

He hid all day
Under drapes of grey
As if to hide
The weakness of his light

But then
Grown tired of dreary weight
And knowing the end was near
Vulnerability found courage

On ice grey canvas
Impetuously flung
Sulphureous yellow
Mixed with saffron’s ochre

Topaz streaked with
Burnt orange, stippled hints of
Gold and
Colours still un-named

Luminescent splendour hung suspended
Poised and paused
Then with a sigh
Walking home after the previous poem on walking on a cold morning there was the most glorious sunset.  The sun peaking through and drenching the cold grey clouds with light and colour.  This poem is an attempt to capture the beauty and colour of nature

Thursday, July 11, 2013

A Walk on a Cold Morning

Ponderings from Beaufort St -  11th July 2013
Glowering in
Sullen surliness
Clouds ice blue marbled grey

Sun having risen
In pity sought
To share it’s warmth

Yet discretion being the better
Half of valour, it retreated
Slide and hid

Leaving skeletal stalagmites
Of icy wind to
Pierce and penetrate

Make Believe

Let’s play at make believe
Tell me your name
But not your name
Make up a name
It’s make believe

Tell me your story
The good bits and the glad
Don’t tell your sadness
Your shadow, hide
It’s make believe

Tell me you love me
I’m special and unique
I’m the one and only
It matters
It’s make believe.

Why let reality
Spoil love’s fantasy
And realism
Soil the imagery
Of make believe

I promise this
If you spoil my fantasy of love
I’ll retaliate and wreck revenge
And that will be

No make believe.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Untitled No 6

It is neither leaving
Nor arriving
But the in-between
That challenges

It is the space
Between here and there
Between what was
And what might be

Where fears
Confuse reality
And thoughts
Confabulate to compensate

It is in-between
Where we must choose
Or not
The choice to choose is ours

We can stay always leaving
We can remain never arriving
Or we can travel

The space between.



Tentative, timid touch
Reticently tracing your skin
Sensing, weighing imprints
The living tapestry of your history

History of past hopes
Of hands held in warmth
Grown cold
Then released

Antiquity of expectations
This would be the one
The one to hold you and enfold you
Yet left you unwrapped, un-held, alone.

Desires left over
Passion withered on the stalk
Lust shrivelled, untouched
Body heat grown cold and damp

Leave history in the past
Tattoo me with your touch
Hold me, join me, enthral me
Let passion unfurl within me

Monday, July 8, 2013

The Christmas I Remember

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back – No 7
The smell of pine
Branch cut, into sand stuck
In hope it may resurrect
Vain hope,
It was the wrong season for resurrection

Dwarf Father Christmas’ in red and green
Pine scented from earlier years
Hang once more
Dangling silent witness to
Dying childhood hopes

That walk, through white crystalline land
Unhurried, no church meeting to attend
You, unshackled from God’s calling
Fires of hell, snow dampened
Were we once a happy family?

For fun, sheer useless fun
You leant over icy water to grab
Translucent ice and dragged
It into shore
We carried it home, you and I

The icy queen unimpressed by such frivolity
Was not amused
The ice it sat, till
In tears, it disappeared
And left a memory

The memory of a man
Who once had laughed
A man for whom
His son’s love

Was not enough

Do You Regret?

When River Styx chilled your toes
And filled your lungs with misty death
Did you regret?

You said before
You had none – no regrets
You’d do it all again

You’d do it once more
Convinced of its worth

Familial love neglected
Spurned for
Distant divinity

While countless sung your sainthood
Your son in silence sat
Aware your sainthood stood on clay feet

Did you regret?
That love was not enough
When you breathed your last

Did you regret?
Do you regret?

Regret is wasted on the dead

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Something More?

Phone call sync’d just right
Hormonal urge and body bored
Time and place arranged

The door knock
Judgmental eyes appraising
Hidden in smiling teeth

Hospitality’s bare minimum
A glass of water drunk
Feigned interest in the day

Then down to business
Bodies open, touched and held
Eyes shut to hide the soul

A spasm or a twitch
To mark the ending
A hurried good bye shower

Back into the day
Our restless souls

What were we looking for?

Friday, July 5, 2013

The Leaving

Reflections in the Mirror Looking Back No 6
He stood small
The smell of salt soaked rope
Burned into memory bank
Sun in graceful retreat
Tinges shadows with golden grief
Ships horn forlorn bleats once, then twice
And ties that bind are cut

Eyes salt tears filled but not spilled
For oceans have enough
And manhood’s early lessons
Can’t begin soon enough
For men don’t cry at leaving
He stands, small alone
And grief at tea is swallowed

Now standing tall
Leavings are repeated
And ties that bind are cut
Perhaps if he can spill his tears
And regurgitate his grief
He can arrive

And understand the leaving.

Thursday, July 4, 2013

The Wolf

You will know who you are!
A poem for someone

The cycle of infinity
Reduced to half a century
Contracted to a point in time
Where paths crossed

A corner
Intersection of roads
Opposite paths travelled
On the road to somewhere else

Lives intersected
By a wink
You grin at life’s absurdities
That all make sense

And I with wonder watch
In simple gratitude
Infinity inked in arms

Paths entwined

The Priest

Years ago, in another life, I was accepted into the Anglican Priesthood.  An acceptance I rejected, but that is another story!  I asked why Priests wore robes and was told it was to hide the personality of the priest and allow the Divine to shine through.  This work is a reflection of that comment.

He kneels in obedience
Collar clipped around his neck
Willingly chained and tethered to Divinity

He speaks when spoken to
Repeating the Master’s words
Truth that frees
Keeps him collared, choked

Dressed in white dress
Masculinity in pure drag
Male bride of God
Desires bleached

Dare I
Stand in defiance
Collar ripped from my neck
Un-choked, untethered speak

My truth
The gospel of doubt
The good news of uncertainty
The freedom of myself

Dare I undress
Incarnated in my nakedness
Declare before the Judgement Seat
Behold the man

Dare I not?

Wednesday, July 3, 2013


While it is true we write poetry for the sheer enjoyment of expression, and the delight of crafting words that resonate with our experience, it is also true that poetry has other reasons, other purposes.

A poet writes of the irony of life.  The irony of loneliness in love; the irony of beauty in ugliness, the irony of tears that may be tears of joy or sadness.  We need to be reminded of irony lest we take life too seriously and forget to smile and to laugh.  Poetry helps us to remember to smile.

A poet points beyond the appearance of things, not to what is for who know what is?  The love we think we have, may in hindsight simply be hormonal infatuation.  The anger we hold within may mellow to something more compassionate with time and understanding.  Our enemies may turn into friends and friends into enemies – who knows?

The poet points to what may be.  We point to a shaft of light that may grace us with a different perspective.  For we write, not so much for the reader as for ourselves the writer.  We write to give ourselves perspective, to shine a shaft of light onto our pain, to brighten our happiness; to enhance the beauty we see and feel.  

Then having written, we cast it out there into the public arena.  We set it free, to point to what may be.
In freeing our words, we also allow ourselves to grow in courage.  The courage to own our experience, the courage to move beyond our experience, the courage to say “I felt this but I am not this”.  For our words may describe us, yet they cannot define us, for what points cannot be the thing it points to.

Poetry helps us smile and laugh, it points to what may be and gifts us with the grace of courage.

Untitled No 5

Hidden through time
Petrify, fossilise

Stone walls create
Boundaried safe space
To hide behind

The paradox of hiding
External inquisitive eyes cannot see what
Internal inquisitorial eyes see all too well

Judging eyes
Cold, implacable, hard
Within the boundaried space

The boundaried space
Is not so safe
Filled with merciless fears

Perhaps it’s safer
To live

In unboundaried space

Family Secrets

Mutterings in old darkness
Muted scratching’s against febrile conscience
Whisperings of unheard syllables
Ancestral ghouls
Hidden in time’s detritus

Concealed amongst familial china
Bone fragile, time cracked
Sit in dusty silence
Cold mementos

Keepsakes past down
Relics to keep me safe
Keep the secrets
Keep the silence
Choked smile, cracking face

Inherited mementos
Smashed in anger
Ghouls warnings scorned
Towering rage fed
From secrets of the past

Monday, July 1, 2013

Web of Words

Spoken into the void
Fragile strands
Cast with faith
That somewhere
The strand will land
And bridge this space

A sound thread
Strung over emptiness
Filament of faith
Tis all that’s required
To built a web
Tenuous mesh
Of reality

Delicate lines
Created reality
Laced over space
Does it support or ensnare me
For what is real?
Fragile web of words spun?
Or this void of space