With disdain they looked upon one Billy McGee
a boy that promised never to be;
a rep that’s scarred and scratched,
for sure his name’s mismatched
as darker skin ya’ever did see
on blackish hair with reddish flecks of Billy McGee.

A red haired aboriginal boy
matches were only a toy
and he was caught red handed
and always branded
the troublesome fire starter.
Poor boy had no farda
he was stolen in a generation;
trouble, his one destination
for any of his wild-sown seed.
Never had a chance, Billy McGee.

his tears used to wake him
from an unduly prolonged delay

her smiles used to hurt him for
their beauty his heart, dismay:

their love had locked them up
and threw away the only key

and mile upon mile of wishful thinking
pushed them further away, though free

he looked into a well-used mirror to find
the devil he danced with was himself

and the fireflies that once lit their canopy
have also lost their former glee

The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.

from misty stupor

faceless sentinels are roused

absinthian rev’ries

an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye
its skin glowed invitingly
reflected table top sheen
only to bring a belated sigh
when all at once it rolled
and rushed and crashed
on a cold polished marble floor

somewhere overhead
the smaller bear sits
my constant companion

whose trajectory lights up
carries forward my story arc
brings us our own constellation

revolving as sundial shadows
in the darkened doorways
will always ever be in transit

Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light;

alone again in darkness, glum;
gleams, instant companion of night --

blind to grief and deaf to joy,
save by pristine thought, on lonely height:

a lone, canine howl reports and echoes,
as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.*



_✒
●○
°

Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?

resuscitate
an ailing soul
bereft of starlight's

superb glimmer
and woollen warmth.  
Mayhap, stellate glow

in the stillness
of tranquil flight,
their counsel, console.

Humbly, we plea--
hymn of the night,
come and tarry awhile.*




_ _ __ ✏
○●
°

.


revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough


away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely


drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time


.

on the first day of the month
we flipped all calendars in sight
and one on the sitting room wall
brought but a moment’s flicker
as the floral display exchanged
my dad’s now absent voice replayed
his botanic wit and joy displayed
what then was a random comment
during our regular video calls
but now no longer to be so
in another couple of months
shall mark the first year of his passing
a pinch it was of a fond memory
a punch in the gut of new reality

Right in front of the koban
Star-B’s cramp and crammed
Not for the presently starving
Perhaps not or the Summer
With its heat reflecting tiles
Where else is boxed contentment?
But where it’s found in a moment.

a lonely light
shall be the only
one to shine upon
a poorly lit spot
until its image
reveals a well
hidden spark

Belatedly, towing a rust-worn Saab, where
many dreams and adventures are wrenched
from a youngster's brooding petulance ...

Gravel crunches under a pair of balding tires
guttural screaming to a downbeat of debt
spewing silently from a tattered billfold.

What a present: timely to an empty fridge,
in the hallway, a growing pile of washing
impatiently reeking of malodorous intent.

.











In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle-aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?







.

as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard
words   e v a  p  o  r   a   t   e
words depreciate
so we try to keep them frozen
and chisel them onto poems
with a hope, come melt-time
a fossilised facsimile resides

filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

Picking up the internal slack
and bring about an inward tension
that emboldens for one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
existing surrenders
and like a sparkled after-rain,
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks
and mends the broken places.

When your winter breaks into spring
think of new and wonderful things

while autumn creeps passed your window
break this winter free of sorrow

wait upon seasons - wait on life
live each day loving - escaping

weave each day's new strands - engaging
one day looking back - mem'ries rife.

Were it not for one to play buffoon

or to say of none we're way too soon

involved in peddling mass hysteria

when it's been held in each posterior

consciousness - makers of peace are

blessed. So ever to be near or far

we at our disposal have in hand

a power to write upon our sand.

droplets of honey--
your words varnish
my waking mind,
coaxing me to
leave all, behind

gone, but ever remaining
never learning
held, ever close but
never belonging
cradled light - metaphed demise

on a spring morning
melting, paraffin wax;
now a shadow of a
hand, held tight
in the deep of night

some time, somewhere out there


someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world


What then does this say of a poet?


it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears


are tears morphed in pressed ink

sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne

Child of the outside
on the inside
one foot out
one foot in
never belonging
never apart

Child of the inside
on the outside
one foot in
one foot out
never apart
never belonging

Child of both sides
on neither side
both feet out
both feet in
never apart
never a part

Heart & soul divided
Mind & hands confused
Ears & nose demanding
Eyes & tongue confiding
Child of both
Child of none

__________
an older piece retrieved from the 'attic'

'

It might the flying Dutchman be
Or the fame of those fishermen three
How it, planks of our own fashioning, walk we!

quarter turn of a century
can't relieve this quandary;
what run across our puerile minds,
raising up these woollen blinds?
perhaps another season; two
to find for us a useful clue
we stand upon a smouldered wreck
in this our unenviable trek
from these ashes phoenixes arise

Ribald footprints

of a silent, brooding zitar

rendezvous with an ebbing tide

recalcitrant thoughts wash away

along this sandy shoal.

it's quite sad, so sad

when afterthoughts don't count

lopsided in the mind



where fore thoughts do abound

it's like gazing intently

at those flat rainbow lollipops



what spins you round and round

emptying memories we've had

and new thoughts find

tragic queen Elyssa, foundress
of Carthage. Her brother, Pygmalion
slew her husband, the chief priest
Acharbas and in the uproar fled
with Tyrian nobles, bearing gold 
on a fleet of Phoenician ships.

Then on Mauritanian coastline
she bought some land to build 
a new city-state, from the vantage
of Byrsa on which her citadel stands
'circumfenced' by strips of ox-hide
strung along the perimeter of the hill

The Berber chieftain rather stingily
offered as much land as an ox-hide
could cover and later on sought her 
hand in marriage as the city grew
in wealth and regional importance
but she threw herself into flames

of a priestly funeral pyre to Tanit,
in self-immolation for the dead
god of vegetation, Adonis-Eshmun;
Dido, as she was known, hence was
elevated to goddess and patroness
of that great Punic realm of Carthage

I may not be

your cup of tea

but I am your

bottle of *** --

most definitely...

so ease up that grip:

Stop strangling my neck.



Let My liquid conflagration

scorch your lying condescension

again and again and again.... without fail.



If you but remember to be true

to what lurks deep within you

I will assail your doubts

And numb their fight,

Send insanity to flight.

No, I am not your cup of tea!

And more's the better for me!

.


sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne


.

though stairs above, unlit
well at each landing glows
where spiralled shadows fly
its bridge curtails its distance

through yearning measured steps
their creaking shrugs off decay

enough of you
and all of me

before letting go
this consider--
once posted, one
may thus wonder
is there a reader at the other end of this poem?
oh, sure there is

but the privilege
of knowing their thought process and journey
is theirs to keep
or to you share
at their behest
so now let’s see

enough from me
and now to you

flaw bearing retinue
fore bearing revenue
insolent foreboding

load-bearing attitude
unyielding fortitude
latitudinal aspirations

Going on in unblemished grace
Onward with a freshness true
Its fullness eternally perfected
Newness spouting varied hues
Growing all the while giving chase

Three years, three months and three days
Perhaps it’s a random amount of time
But in three hours this flight will take off
Gotta take three minutes to freshen up
And look away for for three seconds
No worrying now about free pushbacks
Let’s put up memories with thumbtacks
All adds up in life’s measured advances

candle in the window
for the son of a widow
now left orphaned, save

for a bejewelled crown
whose issue once secured
now stands a former flame

for want of royal surrogacy
where an uncle demurred
now twice an heir found


candle once in the wind
on a window sill still, sits
once, always the people’s princess

A "dying" family car can drive a child to grow up or become sad.

witnessed a Sarasota sunrise today
at 20:21 PM via live feed, on screen
to tidal songs that sounded like pounding
wavelets folding into the shore while
gulls milled about on a wooden jetty

clouds hovering in a lazy breeze that
didn't care either way for its entrance
peeking past the horizon between gaps
piercing through the distant haze
with an orangey sparkle in its wake

behind each poem
behind each rhyme
is more than a story
more than a parody

under each layer of verse
there is a beating heart
under each line we find
a poet, a person, a mind

behind each poem
past each non-rhyme
in a varied place and clime
there a person wrote in time

Valens, you are esteemed worthy,
at the Via Flaminia you lay:
Valentinus offered up in faith.
Your deeds aren't known in our day.

In this life you wed young couples;
an act the Emperor would not permit.
And though your grace the monarch received,
your execution he did transmit.

Alas, with clubs and stones they came,
challenged by your fortitude great;
whose blows did not complete the deed -
your head severed at Flaminian's Gate.

These days we celebrate Valentine,
dedicate and plan for those we love;
oblivious to how it all began-
the depth of love known only Above.

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can
reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried
by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much
so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

in the finality of this hour
as all of this shall disappear
while these broken words become clear
our dearest thoughts bloom like a flower
having been watered by many a tear
fear is but momentary, please don’t cower
spare a thought, plant seeds of good cheer
peer at what still may be for us here
so through ensuing years our hearts steer

Hello
PeOple of the once
EThereal metamoRph
Your moment has now
arrived; PERiwinkle
adornments on your
china on display,
SPecific to table placements
ICarian silhouettes on
placemats, UnIcorn-lined
doilies in conTrast Yell
out: 'perspicacity.'
Your aid and companionability
see us through it all.

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest,
and those alive muse the touch of soil:

Where commemorating stones are monumental;
a reminder to all creatures that waste away
in vessels that perish beneath a hundred years.

Where manicured gardens court Repose
whose silence disturbed by a lazy breeze
interrupts one's meditation.

think of me, of us, some time
bandying of thoughts will do
let them sidle up close to you
just as we did not so long ago

then come and gaze again at

the light residing in my eyes
then tell me if your reflection
shines with crystalline truth
some time, think of us, of me

Here again, there again;
Staring at an empty page
Like a wait for a balloon 🎈
To pop 💥 as it rises high
Up it goes into the sky ☁️
In the end we won’t find
Out, nor shall we ever -
Never been that clever.

why are you so easy
to be walk passed
but then so difficult
to completely forget

a cattle brand that
sears waking memory
scathes dreams of night
what remains of you

are rumpled bed-
clothes at sun-up
and crumpled sheets
on litter-strewn desk

give up shallying; on finding and sharing
what could be thought of as inner beauty
when these hirsute thoughts bristle again
berating what little of self regard remains
it’s but an exaggeration to point out hate
when clearly it wasn’t my poem but myself
that lay on literature’s butcher-block altar