Thursday, October 31, 2013


Wrong shoes for walking
More fashion than honest
Then again

The shoes might be right
The path may be wrong
Then again

The shoes may be wrong
And the path may be wrong
Where does that leave me?

Perhaps two wrongs
Do make a right
I suspect they don’t

Wrong shoes, wrong path
And my feet are sore
That’s wrong, three wrongs

Much like life really
I mean

Hoping your on
The right path
And learning

Honesty is better
Than fashion
That takes some learning.

And like my feet

Some pain

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Believe me

Believe me
When I said I loved

I did,
Though it was not enough
For love is greedy
Its hunger devoured me
I needed a morsel of myself
For myself

What would I give you?
If I had nothing to give

Togetherness, closeness
The standard of love
I did not meet up
For distance, space
Separation is my need

Then I know what I can give
I can give you myself
Part of myself
Will it be enough?

I doubt it but
I try
Lovers see stars
I see space
I could not love perfectly
I hadn’t learnt how

Believe me
When I said I loved
I believed myself
Till now,

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Young man

I passed him in the street
Sitting in warrior pose
Surrounded by his tools of trade
Lap top and mobile

White shirted
More sail upon the mast
Of his lithe body
A body still lean
From concentrating
On growing up

I turned
He was behind me
Stalking me
As if prey
Or was he praying
Behind the confessional
Of his sunglasses
He didn’t know

He paused mid step and
Lost his poise
His face storm clouded with
Baffled bewilderment
Uncertain what to do
He resorted to his mobile phone

Miniature shield
The +30 UV protection
From the glare of
Human interaction
The deity whose
Rings and tones
We bow before

I left him
Eyes downcast, waiting the force
Of his electronic shield
A shadow of
Hopeful baffled bewilderment
He is still learning

Shields do not protect
From shadows

They have their own force

Monday, October 28, 2013

Afternoon Tea

A# struck pianissimo
Politeness compacted to a note
Porcelain fragility resonating
Held in hand, the
Ancient rituals of avoidance
Handed down

Tea sipped in silence
Secrets swallowed
In hot water
Steam’s curtain
Decorously hiding
What we will not say

Eyes peer over china walls
Watchful, on alert
The momentary pause
The muscle twitch
Truth spoken
Though not in words
The ancient rituals
Must be observed

Sitting, frozen, waiting
Time beats out a deeper note
Forte, strident, insistent
Cooling ancient rituals, leaving
Tea leaves, the mulch of hope
To fertilised future dreams

Time ticks
A# is struck as
Cup and saucer unite
Ancient ritual preserved
Nothing left to say
For nothing was said
Just a pinkie raised

The definitive salute

Sunday, October 27, 2013


I bought a bouquet
Arum lilies
Beautiful white
Purity’s flowering

It’s easy to be pure
When there is no life

A bouquet of lilies
No scent
Nothing to remind
Of earlier memories
Grandma’s soda bread
Fresh peas unpodded
The smell of a puppy
The scent of man’s odour

A bouquet of flowers
Placed and positioned
With careful attention

Yet life more random
Than careful
More opportunist
Than placed
Has left
Many ragged edges

Edges not contained
Inside a bouquet

The bouquet laid
On the grave
Of my passion
Blood and bone
Mulching my dreams
Thoughts infatuations

Spent passion
Decaying, wilting lilies
Curling brown
Ringlets of desire

Into dust
The dust we are
The dust we will be
Dust cradling us
Holding us
While waiting
The resurrection of passion
Life’s potentiality

Breaking us apart

Friday, October 25, 2013


I stand a silent worshipper
Of the setting sun

Content in my discontent
Deeds left undone
Justified by procrastinator’s creed
“There’s always tomorrow”

Happy to be punished
By wind whipped sand
Flogged by unseen cat-of-nine
Pain, life’s elixir

Pain to justify my failure
Though of what and when
I failed
I’m unsure
Still it’s easier
To punish yourself
Than leave it up to God

It is the anticipation of punishment
That’s half the delight
Though of which half I am uncertain
And whether it is the punishor or punishee
Who has the most delight
I don’t like to ponder

As for me
Unmoved by
Anticipation and delight
I prefer the immediacy of guilt

Mind, sand blasted
The minutiae of failure
Whipped about

What will atone?
What will I confess to buy my peace?

Perhaps I did not fail
Perhaps failure is more a mind set
Than a fact

As the sun declines
Its final rays, slipping
Kiss me

And I am content
Though at peace I doubt
Still, there is always


City Street

City street gritty and growling
Restless in the afternoon heat
Fractious and testy
With sudden summer

The farts and fumes of cars
All wind and noise
Rushing somewhere else
Buses barging in with self-importance
Who says size does not count

White noise of engine sounds
Missing the Theta range
By many octaves, leaves me
Disgruntled, thoughts a
Traffic jam of frustration

Smokers rush with ritual compulsion
To their sacred alter
A votive bin constantly alight
White smoke, another
Fag not put out

Asthmatic trees
Their anaemic leaves
Congested from too much fumes
Trunks weedy from malnutrition
Struggle vainly

Fantasies of the night
Fed by texts and messages
Blink and disappear
Electronic detritus

Dissolve in the atmosphere

Thursday, October 24, 2013


The comment
Sharp as a paper cut
Surgical precision to
Slice the filaments of
Self confidence

I’ve learnt to laugh
Diverting my gaze
From watching
Self assurance
Ooze onto the floor

It doesn’t hurt so much
When you laugh, the
Bloodied mess of self assurance
Knifed by those who say
They loved me best

Infanticide can be subtle
Life killed in so many ways
The cutting comment,
The hard edge stare
So laughter, is what’s important

You cannot laugh and cry
Though you may laugh till you cry
And well may you cry
For self-confidence’s death
Is a slow drawn out affair

Laugh, remember to laugh
While memory needles with many thorns
And you wait for
The resurrection of self confidence

It takes longer than three days

Wednesday, October 23, 2013


I sit observing
Eyes, glassy vacant
A human mannequin
Propped in a corner
Waiting my cue

I learnt my lines
But did not learn to speak
I learnt to say what I was told
Smooth actor of many parts
Numerous lines and other truths

I talk with different voices, the
Burlesques shows I’ve performed
Orator for the Divine, my best
I filled the silence and
Warmed the crowds with hope

I’ve thrown my voice
Into many roles
Yet never thrown it into myself
I’ve played the game
Some say, far to well
But never played myself

I never could play myself
My voice too loud
Was best suppressed
My voice was always wrong
So I hid my voice
In a Chinese box

The crowds have gone
Though if truth be told
It was I who left, not them
Their truth became a burden
And now?

In the silence
I’m listening for an echo
Hoping for a faint reverberation
That will show me where
I hid the Chinese box
In which I hid my voice

The Morning Star

Bright star
Bringer of hope
We’ve made it
Through another night
Suspended between the
In between
The velvet dark and
Crimson smudge 

Morning courier of love
Brilliant in bright assurance
Hope’s daily resurrection
We are not alone
The mornings cool hesitant kiss
Taste of golden foreplay amongst
The shadows of ourselves
Lengthening into afternoon shade

Lucifer glints in laughter
As Apollo winks awake
Content to leave us
Tempted to believe
We’re separated and detached
When in reality
We are the stuff of stars.

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

I Am

I am
Pure essence of myself

But essence of myself
Is not enough
I’m told
More is required
Much more

A layer of discipline
Wrapped with a leaf of responsibility
A film of embarrassment
Held within a skin of guilt

A rose
First buds then blooms
In simple majestic confidence

But I
Born in bloom
Grew and contracted
To a bud
Shamed I was not enough

I hid my wonder
It was too clumsy
I hid my awe
It was not cool
My tastes too gay
My manner too straight

I am
Not myself
Now a Chimera
Composed of many parts
All disagreeable in their joining

Perhaps it’s not too late
Contraction can be inverted
The bud reversed back into blooming
Having learnt to be for others
I can learn to be for me

I am

The simple essence of myself

The next generation

He screwed up his nose
Unafraid to give offence
Unimpressed the
Maternal extension of himself
Should attempt to feed
Him something else
Than mothers milk
He is still to learn the
Protocols of civility

He is learning the
Boundaries of civility
The ones he can transgress
His hair has gone
From short to long
His style and fashion
More his own, and
Cute is loosing
Its appeal

She has learnt
To push the boundaries
More tigress cub
Than princess
Unafraid to stand her ground
Will speak her mind with a smile
An arsenal fully equipped
Of burgeoning female skills
More coy and sharp than cute

Grandpa sits and wonders
How this came about
Not the facts of life
Those he knows
But this generation
It’s grip on life so bold
What will he tell them
That’s of worth, he’s still
Working that out himself

Perhaps grandpa’s role
Is not to talk and tell
But to create a space
Where they are loved
Where they can know
It’s save to fail
For failing is never the end
It’s just
A new beginning

Monday, October 21, 2013

The Ghost Walker

We passed each other
Up-raised eyebrow
Imperceptible nod
The subtle muscle spasms
Of recognition

He drifted by
Nimble, insubstantial
Dapper, neat and trim
A light blond ghost
Dressed to daintily disappear

Perhaps he had perfected
His camouflage
A coat hanger
On which men
Could drape their pain

Then with a shake
Would let it fall
And leave it on the ground
The rotting compost
Of pain and shame

Or perhaps
The secrets of too many
Had bleached his sense of life
Disconnected, he had learnt
To blink and disappear

I wondered
As this pale ghost walker
Crossed my path again
My thoughts as unsubstantial
As he

Reflections in the mirror looking back - No 10

Lilac Trees

I walked under the
Lilac tree
Blossoms fragrant history
Cascading into the present
Memories of Granny MacDonald
All lilac water and powder
Yodelling and hooting
Over the fence
The ancient call
Of neighbours

Her skin descending
Seeking rest at lower altitudes
Was held in place with creams
And powders
Though thought has now
Made her of sepia tones
It was her black and white TV
I remember

JFK’s funeral
A six year olds introduction
To a requiem for a dream
All state and stately
Grief standing at attention
A wedding veil exchanged for black
A bride of loss
She wore it well

The sweet smell of lilac
For ever now linked
With decrepit age
The powdery avalanche
Of skin’s slow subsidence
And untimely death
Dreams boxed and carted off

And grief standing to attention

Sunday, October 20, 2013


Slight cracks
Appearing at the top
The ceiling reached
Yet needing space for breathing

Though trying to
Remain attached
Walls settling with a sigh

A slight gap
Tension of a hair line crack
A gradual
Drawing apart

No animosity
Still supporting as best they can
Yet now a space
Where none existed

Some would say
Unstable foundations
Perhaps, perhaps
They are wrong

There may always
Need to be a gap
A space for movement
A settling and a distance

So with us,
Still supportive and supporting
You and me
There is a space

Not a space of animosity
A crack of tension
Just a widening

A space for growing

Saturday, October 19, 2013

An Answer

I need an answer
I’m not sure what to
But an answer I know
Will give me peace

I need an answer
One I like
Not one I don’t
That will only confuse

I need an answer
To know I’m right
To be wrong
Well, would be…..just wrong

I had my aura cleaned
Dry cleaned in fact
I’ve white saged my place
And run the rosary

I have Theta streaming
And candles burning
I have fifteen minutes
I need an answer

I wish I could remember
The question
Life has been too busy
I’m sure you understand

This silence is so annoying
So out of place
I wish you’d speak
And fill this space

Five minutes
Still no answer
The silence is so grating
It’s getting on my nerves

It’s not fair you know
Other people
Get answers
All I get is silence

Did you miss the
Whisper under
The silence?

What whisper?
I didn’t hear anything
Except the silence

It was too loud.

Friday, October 18, 2013

The Lying Kiss

It was given
In the dark
A sultry seductive hint
A touching
Emotions extracted
An essence of promise

He did not speak
Content to let
The warmth of his mouth
Ignite a thought
Was it a lie?
That he did not speak

Or was it more
That I, a joker
Against this knight, missed
Hard eyes that would not give
Hardened and cracked
By disappointment

The kiss beneath
His lips, grew cold
Extract of bitterness
Was all that was left
And a joker
Less naïve

Perhaps he lied to himself
Hoping in the constant repetition
Of kissing nondescript
Unnamed strangers
He would find one to
Name and hold

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Salt Tears on Ice

Let me drink
Salt tears on ice
Twist of forgetfulness
Tang of oblivion

Let me taste
Salt tears on ice
Time corroding
Drained memories

Memories, blended pain
Cocktail of emotions
Shaken and stirred
Yet not poured out

A toast to my oblivion
Worm like emotions
Turn within my soul
Captured in ice

The clink of ice
Begins the beat
Now let me dance
Into oblivion

This bacchanalian festival
Of memories,
Salt tear thawed ice

Now I dance
Dance out of oblivion
Dance out of pain
Dance into life


He didn’t mind the cold.  He had grown used to the state of slow suspended animation; in fact he enjoyed it, the contraction inwards, heat flowing to the centre of his being.  On the surface, he was calm; he walked the silent corridors suspended as if in a trance.  It was safer this way; he was invisible in the cold, hidden by the blizzard of her rage and anger.

What he hated was when the blizzard stopped, because then she saw him.  Her hollow eyes flickered with recognition; her face began to thaw and crack into a caricature of a smile.  He cringed but was careful not to let her see him flinch.  He knew the outcome of these brief summer seasons and they were always bad.  

She knew how to hold back the blizzard until the first snow drop of hope pushed its way through him, the blade of green, a symbol of potency and growth and sometime even a flower, small, white, delicate, bravely nodding as if acknowledging the vast frozen wastes of his life.  Then, the crackling of ice forming at speed, her face re-freezing, and her eyes crevasses of blackness.  She would blast the blade of green and snap freeze it.

It was always the green that offended her, as if he did it deliberately to spite her.  Yet there was no malice in him, it was just who he was, young and hopeful.  It was the potency of hope that tripped him up and added to his confusion.  He always thought he had it wrong, or worse that something must be wrong with him.  Everyone seemed to love her, she was called a gracious hostess; a gentle woman.  It was like they spoke of another person entirely and this confused him.

So with the simple reasoning of a child, he figured it had to be him, something must be wrong with him but he couldn't work out what.  He walked the still corridors looking to see if he could find his fault hidden in the frozen walls.  Perhaps there was sarcophagus, a secret vault that if uncovered would reveal the key.  Yet the corridors held their reserve and silence.  The sacred texts of his tribe enforced the belief he had to honour her otherwise he would be condemned.  He remained perplexed and confused.

He tried to honour her; he bought her gifts, small gifts out of the pittance he was given if they remembered.  It was the old classic of buying love but he was too young to understand love cannot be bought.  He was old enough to know he was not loved for who he was; perhaps a gift given with love would be enough.

It wasn’t, nor was the work he did.  Her rage made her voracious.  Her cold, implacable, hard edged fury was exempt from the quality of mercy and forgiveness.  He allowed himself to freeze.  It was safer this way.  Yet as cold and as deathly as his surface became deep down a volcano grew.  He learnt to keep it capped with a frozen smile and ice control.  He was trapped.  Trapped in the perfect prison from which there was no escape, the prison of her blizzard and his freezing.

Her shrunken cadaver smiled, content her plan had worked, she had outlived the priest of God and had her revenge on the next generation.  There was justice in life after all, you just had to play the long game and though he hadn't seen her for a number of years now, she was at peace as she drew her final breath knowing he remained frozen in perplexity and unbelieving in the depth of her rage.  She chuckled, coughed and died.

Even ice-ages do not last forever.  Climate change occurs in many layers of reality and slowly the bars of his prison began to thaw.  The heat of his inner volcano glowed red through the ice, he realised a new era was beginning and he needed to live in this new reality.  Would he be able to adapt or like the woolly mammoth become a carcass frozen in-situ a relic of another time and place?

He joined other man-boys like himself, their eyes cloudy white or ice blue depending on how frozen they were.  He learnt they were called the ice walkers, boys frozen, seeking the warmth of touch, wanting to be ‘unfrozen’ yet afraid of thawing.  Boys seeking to replicate the same weather patterns they had experienced, longing again for the old blizzards that would keep them cold and unseen.  He listened to their stories, their admiration for their queens, old vampiric bats who dissatisfied with their spouses fed on their young, who grew fat, voluptuous and sticky on the life force of their sons.  He felt himself grow hot in disgust and the volcano within him surged.  He grew alarmed at the heat not used to such intensity.  It felt dangerous, untrustworthy.  Ice coldness he could trust.  The others picked up on his heat and becoming scared moved away from him.  The cold do not like heat.

Leaving them he sought his own space, he enjoyed being by himself.  Too much contact with other people was painful.  The energy of other people jarred the ice flows in his soul and emotions.  He needed time by himself.  He knew too much time by himself was dangerous, he would become set in his ways, the freezing would be permanent.  He required people as much as they pained him, but for now he needed to be by himself.

He sat and listened to the sound of his ice settling around him.  As silence settled and the ice stilled he heard a slight movement behind him.  Turning, he looked into the amber brown eyes of a wolf.  Time contracted as they looked at each other, there was no space for fear, and neither was startled by the presence of the other.  Both were survivors of the cold.  The wolf pointed his nose skyward and howled as he listened to that ancient sound, he looked down and a tear formed, trickled down his cheek, followed by another.
He wept the tears he could not weep as a child.  He wept for the snow drops that had not survived.  He wept for the frozen child he had been.  He wept as he had never wept.  The song of the wolf and his weeping echoed and reverberated through space.  In his grief he sang;

Salt tears on ice

May be continued:

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

The Locked Door

On your way out
Did you lock the door?
Are you sure you locked it fast?

I’m sure
I always do
I check it once, then twice

I close the windows
Shut the blinds
And lock the door

I’m just not sure
Which side of the door
I’m standing

Sometimes I’m outside
Locking myself in
Others I’m inside
Locking the world out

And you?
Are you outside

Trying to come in?

Evening Coffee

The air heavy
Strangled by words
Bloated with conversations
Up-turned cups
Tired from giving pleasure

The sultry smoky tones of songs
A woman looking for love
In love or out of love
Swirl around the sound
Of hissing steam

The newspaper, limp
From too much turning
Lies relegated
It’s news old
And out-dated

Arabica dressed in crema
The allure of feverish dreams
Ears listening to idle chatter
Eyes watching
Someone else

The blank stare of appraisal
Bland but too alert
The slight flaring of interest
Imagination, lusting climaxed

Hand reaching for a cigarette

Tuesday, October 15, 2013



What is this toxic venom?
That ghosts its way
Truculent in its discontent

The uncharmed kiss
Of hooded words
Venom's bite of love

Words coiled as love
Crushing unsuspecting
Famished soul

Words spat out
Can not be re-cycled and
Converted into something else

Can the venom of mother’s milk
Be collected from
Capillaries of the soul

Impotent dreams
Of healing, inflame
Floundering illusions

Moments of discontent

Fragments of tension
Restless anxiety, the
Agitated particles spewed up
From internal fault lines

Soul’s tectonic plates for
Deflecting defences
Years spent in the making
Now shift and tilt

I grip skeletal remains of
Fabricated reality
A curled corpse
Shimmering in diamanté drag

Dazzle me with diamante’s
Divert me from my discontent
Amuse me with sparkles
Drug my desperation

Kiss me
With plastic lips
Distract me from my
Festering restlessness

I sit, waiting for 
A rebel from my past
To be content
In this moment


Illumination gifts clarification, and
Clarification gifts understanding
But what is the gift of understanding?

Enlightenment may gift us insight
And insight may gift us wisdom
But what is the gift of wisdom?

Travellers of spaces
We do not know
Explorers, searching
For what we do not understand

Understanding may not bring recognition
And what we cannot recognise
Remains in the darkness

In the darkness
We cannot see
Perhaps this is the gift of wisdom

To trust the darkness, and
The brilliant flare
Of light refracted in the darkness

Monday, October 14, 2013

Evening Wind

The wind tugged
Bored with butts
Tossed aside
Fag ends of anxiety and tedium
Ground with into the ground

It pulled at me
Grasping dry and grimy
To see if it could bully me
But eyes gritty
From too much technology
I slip away

She scurries past
Shield of frozen pizza
Held to her breast
McCain’s double cheese topping
Double strength cardboard
Protector against harassing wind

The pigeon, scabby
Sky rat, grown tired
Of flight
Plumps its feathers
Settled for the footpath
Hoping the wind wouldn’t see

An Irish lad walking, weary from
Eight hours of sun
With no respite of cloud or rain
Assures his mammy he’s fine
Repeating himself while the wind

Flings his words aside

The Field

There is a field
In no place
An empty field
Except for me

It is a field of
Rich and loamy soil
Fertilised with tears
Unseen, except by me

It is the field of now
A quiet and solitary place
Yet I am not alone
I am with myself

I stand in no place
Deep within myself
I am grounded in this space
Myself and I

In this place
Accompanied by this silence
I wait

And be still

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Losing faith in faith

In the end it was simple
Rolling over
Snuggling into doona
Still warm from turbid sleep
Blinking awake
It had gone

No burning at the stake
No reasoned thesis
Staked to conscience’s door
Guilt had tried its best
To keep a convert
In the fold

Feet swung out of bed
Stood on solid ground
The sudden realization
Of vacant space;
Yet, solid ground remained
In place of faith

The years came down to this
A simple blink
The body waking
And somewhere in the night
Faith had fled
Faith had lost faith in faith

In the quiet waking
The day approaching
I knew I’d lost my faith
And in the losing
I was free
To be myself

I was reading a review in the Weekend Magazine by William Yeoman and he used the phrase “losing faith in faith”.  It reminded me of my own loss of faith in the religion of my up-bringing.  This poem is the result.

Thursday, October 10, 2013


A writer by profession
She writes many a story line
Reality not favoured
Imagination is required

The gaze of naked eyes
Caught feasting on the human form
Two seconds, too long, is quite enough
To start her off

Or perhaps eyes veiled
Shrouding blatant lust
The desire to strip,
To expose and bare

While she starts her
Story line with grand aspiration
Desire is a tragedian
And sadly bares too much

Desire is sweeter in the mind
The whispered words of affirmation
More seductive in the thinking
Than in the saying

That kiss so slow
And sensual
Lips so tentative, the tingling

Is just the burning
Left over, from last nights
Dinner of

Chilli paste


Movement imperceptible
An unseen wing beat
Sensed, not seen
Gentle turbulence
Too quick for human eye

Shimmering radiance
Of ephemeral light
Flitting against
Solid shadows
Flickering dissipates

The unfelt weight
Of you
Leaning into me
The sense but not
The sound

You still walk with me
Unheard footsteps
Next to mine
Once I called you
An angel

I had faith back then
I’ve journeyed far
Faith, part of luggage
Left behind
What do I call you now?

Still you walk with me
I’m glad, I’ve grown
To like your company
I like you don’t judge me
For my lack of faith

Wednesday, October 9, 2013


Sitting waiting
For words 
The slow condensation of
Verbal steam
Into concrete form

The ritual of tea
Without tea
Thought brought to
Boil, which boil
I’m uncertain of

Perhaps a thought
To be lanced
Toxic thoughts
Too long sat
Waiting to be cleaned out

Thoughts strained
Cast aside
Or is it thoughts
Straining to be expressed
Through minds viscosity

Words poured out
Spilled onto a page
Damp with emotions heat
Dry cold and blurred

Sitting, waiting
Or is it
Waiting while I sit
What’s important is

The waiting

Silent Scream

Life sharpened
Dragged slowly, indifferently
Across taut souls
Stretched fabric

A silent scream
No expressionists painting
Cavernous, unvoiced pain
Contorting sound waves
Deforming perception

Grimaced muscles
Frozen into a smile
Bleak reassurance
Soul’s wounds
Do not show

Life’s mundane banality
Continues, pedantic
In its ordinariness
Uninterested in the souls

We must live
This pedantic banality
To give our souls
Time, to learn the song
Behind the silent scream

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Bush Spell

Leaves scratch against
Each other
Irritable from

Birds grow shy
Beady eyes search skyward
As if embarrassed
By their song

The air
Breath held
Stilled in

A gust
Slight movement in the stillness
A sighing of leaves
A rustling alertness

Then a drop
Or two

Breaks the spell

Monday, October 7, 2013

Let time stop

Let time stop
Seconds, small droplets of
Coagulated time coalesced
Let this wave
Curling to embrace with heedless force
And kiss with its foam sprayed lip
Never break

Let time stop
Let me hear
The hissing silence
The resting pause
Before it crashes
A thousand droplets deep
Flung skyward

Let time stop
Let me sit
By oceans
Hypnotic waves
Let me watch
Spell bound in my restlessness

 Let time stop

Yet, time unstopping
Perpetually unceasing
Always breaking

Limpet like, I cling
Hypnotised in my waiting

Restless for my resting place

Reflection in the mirror looking back - No 9

Grandfather’s Fob Watch

Time chained
To a waistcoat
By a golden thread

Memories snap shot
Of time
Held in your hand
Encased with golden lid

The elegance of
Another moment
Perhaps tinted golden
By recollection

You had lived long enough
To know time must be held
With a gentle touch

Saturday, October 5, 2013

A Broken Heart

In pieces
A broken heart

Ripped apart
Torn in two
Left in tatters
A broken heart

The pieces
Held by strands
Of pain
Yet nothing
Is so whole
As a broken heart

More than

A rose, a flower
More than that
A symbol red of
Fragrant, flagrant love
A symbol of beauty’s

A note, a tune
More than that
A resonance
A memory of
Place and time

And I?
More than memories
Of place and time
Notes of yesteryear
Much more, I am also

The potential of beauty’s
Perfection unfolding
Flagrant potentials, for
Freedom is
Permitting myself to be

More than


You, the centre point
Within the cloud of unknowing
The light beyond light
And light within light
You who dwell in silence
So deep
The universe sings
In melodic harmonies
My human ear cannot hear

You, the single point
From which time flows
And gathering up time
Folding it back into yourself
It ceases yet becomes
Parallel universes
Where beauty
Unparallel abounds
Beauty I cannot gaze on

You, who are no point,
But the flow between points
The grand mystical
Mystery of life
The reverberating shadow
That crosses my mind
The aching longing
To be folding back
Into harmonic silence.

The Hungry Ones

We are the hungry
Filling our mouths
Our soul’s larder bare
Teeth masticate
Minds regurgitate
Gnawed memories

Our souls stare
In vacant desperation
Begging bowl pleading
For simple recognition
We are the hungry, grown
Fat on our desperation

The ritual of grace forgotten
Unrequired by souls bloated
By wind and emptiness
We are the starving
Failing to remember, our souls

Do not live by fast food alone.