Cuban motorists
expect the odd puff of wind
‘nother day, ‘nother Zephyr

Your thirst
Now quenched,
Fuels the fire
Of my regret,
A post-****** paradox.

You ask of which I am most afeart, the rumbling tumblings of the troll beneath the bridge or the tinkering favours of an eccentric fairy godmother. Alas, it is the marzipan crumbs of inspiration leading me down the brambled garden path which most unsettle me; the ink that does not write; the unpainted page with not a gingerbread house...in sight.

Morning is not my time of day,
That's when concepts float away,
Across the garden, down the lane,
Through the gate at Hester Payne's.

Teacher's pet and top pass,
Hester sits eyes front in class,
With rubbers straight and pencils sharp,
A clean page ready to start.

I, of course, am running late,
Hair a-fly, face scrubbed in haste.
Chasing my thoughts, I see them now,
Bouncing ahead: ’Where? Why? How?’

Miss Armitage says I can do better,
Just follow her lead to the letter.
She raps twice: ’Attention, please!’
We all fall quiet - three sniffs, one sneeze.

’Now settle down, it's time to count.’
Braids and partings turn around
To face the board and I'm up first.
Chalk in hand, could things get worse?

In front of Danny, in front of Sue,
In front of Seamus. And you know who?
Three plus three, then five times six,
Square root of nine, just take your pick.

Six and...thirty...three, I'm sure.
Or was that seven? Maybe four.
My mouth goes dry, I stare and blink.
Lord knows, I find it hard to think.

Up the corridor, down the stairs,
Right then left, my thoughts in pairs,
Sift and swirl and giddy about.
’Behave yourself, now cut that out!’

’Come back here, where you belong.
Don't wonder off! Don't make me wrong!’
I scratch my answers, the class is aghast,
It seems I've something right at last.

Hester sighs, as glum as can be,
For today...this morning...for everyone to see,
My thoughts have stuck with me.

I used to be your little cream puff;
But these days I just feel like a medium-sized cabbage.

You caught my eye but once,
You caught me eye but twice,
Then popped them in a cocktail glass,
And topped it up with ice.

Vermouth you added first,
And then a shot of gin,
A squeeze of lime, a dash of tea,
With salt around the rim.

‘One martini coming up!’ you drawled,
You slid it down the bar,
And so returned my eyes to me,
Like olives from a jar.

To those who swear that love is blind,
You've surely never been,
The subject of a stolen glance,
From a waitress called Nadine.

my parentheses:
in need of a Venice Beach
semi-colonic
;)

Up
At five,
Rummaging
For matching socks;
I meet my train, asymmetrically dressed.

My tongue is tethered to the words which have failed me.

12
•                               •

•                                                 •
|
9         «———  >§<  ———»         3

•                                                 •

•                               •
6

“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,

As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;

Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,

Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock.”

Why do you scurry along life's unlit byways
Your head bowed, fists jammed in your pockets?
To avert calamity? To guarantee success?

Did you miss the turn-off?
In your busyness and inattention
Did you forget to read the signposts?

Lift your eyes from the ground
Slow your pace and stretch the kink from your neck
Do you know where you are?

Unfurl your empty grasp and consult your inner compass
You will find a map etched on the inside of your heart
Do you see the way ahead?

Yes, I thought so.

Together we melted,
Slower than ice cream but faster than chocolate,
Into a confection of infinite sweetness.

Tell me, how did it all turn to custard?

Wherefore, Fortune bled and mortal wounded,
Will thou not relinquish heart nor hope?
Yet stand a part for truth, and duty bound
Do wield thy sword securely still.

IN HOC SIGNO VINCO

You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.

A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.

You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition
...OF YOUR OWN...

𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐,
𝚁𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙸’𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗.
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚕𝚢,
𝙾𝚛 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚊𝚛𝚎.
𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜,
𝙾𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎...

𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

Surely, this life is but an aberration. For have I not been oblivious to the heraldry of the firmament for far longer than I have craved to acquaint myself with its mystery; of the moon and stars to know their secrets.

Gazing in awe at the doorway to infinity whence I have so recently arrived, it seems unimaginable that I should recollect nothing of the stepping through, the horror vacui of my incarnation, the shuffling forward in the queue.

My existence a blink of an eye; my non-existence the remainder of time.
Is it any wonder - glorying at the night sky - that I am confused as to whether I am on the inside looking out...or the outside looking in?

We are all dictionaries;
Collections of words,
Defined by our commonality,
Refined by our uniqueness.

We edit and omit,
Abbreviate and compound,
Expanding our vocabulary,
In the hope of rewriting our yesterdays
Into a best-selling tomorrow.

Stick girl embering,
Lollipop meandering,
Molten toffee trail.

::
There is place in my mind
Where my thoughts can wander freely,
Once they stop inspecting themselves
So very very CLOSELY;
A place where they can dance
Naked around the living room,
Unencumbered by attention
To detail, to the opposite of detail,
To the opposite of the opposite of detail.
:
The tricky part is that to find this place
I must get lost looking for it;
Only ever realising that I was there
Once I am no longer where
...Intention meets in-attention...
::

Ah - the weekend!
Time to open my emotional closet,
Have a good rummage around,
And find something we both can wear.

A caged bird sings,
not to entertain
but in the hope
that its call
will be answered
by a familiar tune.

To the north: Can you hear me?
To the east: I am listening.
To the south: Are you there?
To the west: Until tomorrow.

Wit when overreached
Is neither as endearing nor amusing
As the antics of a court jester;
But it is infinitely more foolish.

pledges to purchase
intent on acquisition
baby-grow wishful thinking

If I want
flour, water, yeast, and churned cream
I’ll consult a dictionary;

If I want
a loaf of raised hopes which she spread thinly with the charity of others
I’ll read a novel;

If I want
unleavened lassitude, greasy with the guilt of neglected privilege
I’ll write poetry.

Change, opportunity, difference, risk;
These words have no value in themselves,
They carry no judgement and wear no costume,
But like the moon reflecting the light of the sun,
They shine or gutter with the quality of our own perception.

Sometimes I'm an apathist,
Infrequently an anarchist,
Mostly an apologetic aesthete,
And almost never myself.

Whatever...f$@k it...sorry...hello.

You caught my eye but once,
You caught me eye but twice,
Then popped them in a cocktail glass,
And topped it up with ice.

Vermouth you added first,
And then a shot of gin,
A squeeze of lime, a dash of tea,
With salt around the rim.

‘One martini coming up!’ you drawled,
You slid it down the bar,
And so returned my eyes to me,
Like olives from a jar.

To those who swear that love is blind,
You've surely never been,
The subject of a stolen glance,
From a barmaid named Nadine.

You tilted your halo at me,
While I was polishing my horns,
A twinkle in your eye,
A prayer on your lips;
I can resist anything except temptation.
Can you?

Wind to the west,
From the east blows cold,
Bringing tales of lost ships,
And sailors of old.

Wind to the east,
From the west blows warm,
Carrying the promise of summer,
And friendships reborn.

From the north and the south,
Opposing forces collide,
Threatening snow in September,
And gales in July.

But here in the centre,
Is where I like best,
Where the air is familiar,
And my heart is at rest.

For here in the centre,
Is where I call home,
Many miles from the places,
Where the winds do roam.

Papa always said, ‘Parallel lives meet when love travels sideways.’

Vellichor (n.): the strange wistfulness of used bookstores.

Oak leaf and oath,
Rock water and spun linen,
Unction and atonement,
The circle and the flame.
☤
”While there is strength in this body, I will raise the sword;
While there is breath in yours, you will do no harm.
Whether warrior or healer, a truth
Appointed by the heart is
Irrevocable.”

Spooling shallows,
In which spring reflected,
Soothes the jagged edges,
Of today's unwelcome certainties.

As the twilight contracts
And outstretching sleep escapes me,
The darkness offers me its small hand to hold,
Sighing gratefully for the flame I place in the window
To pass the night through.