Tuesday, March 24, 2015

The Turning

I used to look
For the seasons turning
Green leaves crumpling
Into brown
The air's
Cold kiss, caressing
Goose bumped skin

I used to look
For the turning
When days
Stayed under
Star lit quilts
Taking time
To wake

This year
The turning
Came to me
Those first leaves
Scuffed against me
Jolting me from
My busy slumber

I realised,
Nostalgia tinged
With sadness
I’d missed the turning
But the turning
Had not
Missed me

There is a
Turning, taking
Place in me
A wrinkling, precursor
Of the crumpling
Though pretence
Still works for now

There is a turning
A craving to cease
My busy slumber
And waking,
To watch,
In silence
This turning

To feel again
The still breeze
Of eternity
Flowing through
Time’s transience
To feel it’s kiss

Welcoming me

Monday, March 23, 2015


And the bud
Is a prelude
To the rose

And the rose
Is a prelude
To fading beauty

And fading beauty
Is a prelude
To sleep

And sleep
Is a prelude
To the dream

And the dream
Is a prelude
To reality

And reality
Is a prelude
To possibilities

And the possibilities
Of a kiss?
Love’s prelude?


Perhaps in the requiem
Of the kiss
There is

The prelude
To love’s

And the resurrection
Is a prelude
To the bud

Tuesday, March 10, 2015


Light ripples
Into my room
A burglar who
Breaks no glass

A light wave
From aeons past
Now laps languidly
Against my body

A coastline
Of physicality
Erased to
Shadowy illusion

Form fragmenting
Into silhouette
Boundaries blending
With each breath,

After breath
That carries me out
Past the flickering
Last synapse

That dying
Thought, caught
Half formed, then

While in the
Ripples, reality

And dreams
Dance across
The boundary
Of illusion

Monday, March 2, 2015


They sit in silence
Beauty once succulent
In its fullness, now
Folded into story lines

Black dresses
Mementos to men
Who were never there
Now long gone

Fingers, unadorned
By love’s symbol,
Made inconsequential
By arthritic knuckles

They sit in silence
Love’s sacrament
Sipped in the cup
Of memories

The scent of his
Shaving soap
His sound, when
He spilled his passion

Their aching bodies
Reminisces on
The pain of birthing
Passion’s creation

They sit, knowing
It takes time, and
Silence to age
The lees of love