little ***** and rings
of metal move
as he talks

three studs,
on his eyebrow
wander like a slugish
overfull caterpillar

the bullring ring in his nose,
condenses with each breath
of the frigid  winter morn

and his earlobes swing and dangle
with blocks and spheres
of a dark wood like substance

I ask him, does that hurt,
he deigns not to answer.....

We get on with the matter
at hand, his idea for a thesis;
with regard to dramatic reflection
in Shakespearean adaptations

He speaks of Othello, Richard III
and Romeo and Juliet....
the use of water, sunglasses and mirrors

I ask if he believes there is 70000+ words
in his exploration of reflection....
all the time watching the metal caterpillar
try to escape the forest of his eyebrow....

He sighs, and the bullring mists over
the ears lobes waggle and waft around.
He states not really sure......but he likes the idea
I send him off to look for other plays
Shakespearean or not that he could include
in this work.....and to come back in a month
with a precis and chapter plan....

He leaves, shoulders slumped, muttering
and I think....I may have added  one more peircing
to his intellectual life

shadows fall
lengthen
and settle
into darkness

the only pool of light
one small window
glowing
golden amber

behind the glass
one woman
heavy
with child waits

looking out into
the darkness.

her name
HOPE

amid the disco beat
shots rang out
and stilled the dancing feet

and as the panic rose
heroes stepped up
and gathered those
scared and frightened
in the throes of despair instant
and acted despite america's
continuing  woe.

hate lashed out again and again
thinking the battle won
but whilst there was death
there is always more love
and love again to win
this infernal war

to those who have fallen
and to those who mourn
those inconsolable angry and forlorn
i give the love of not one but many hearts
and to america i pray for a new start

one of understanding and not hate
one in which love has the highest place

she stood
body at rest
loose of hips and arms
knees flexed slighlty
carrying her weight
with little regard

eyes toward the horizon
or at least the break of king tide waves
they call it reading the ocean

hair windswept
skin browned beyond bronze
by countless days spent
on the water,
under the argent sun

eyes a deep brown
like the skin of an acorn
and lips pursed,
as if just about to speak
or laugh at the joke
heard whispered,
on the zephyr wind

without age
this matriarch,  
of  sand and tide
she stands in the glory
of this days rising sun

as though she awaits to bless
a new world begun...

upon your skin
the tears fallen from brooding clouds
tastes of warm and wetness

upon your skin
the specks of sanded down mountains
tastes of salt and rust

upon your skin
flecked grass shaved from the meadows beard
tastes of goodness and hope

upon your skin
water rivuleted from the salted realm
tastes of iodine and mystery

upon your skin
timbers tamed, taken,
taste of cedarsap and history fallen


upon your skin
my tongue  tastes
these wonderous thing

i am but a beggar at a feast.......

weary soul
worn down
like sneakers
that have walked the line
far too long
the line far to thin
to make a difference
no delineation,
no real sides
to be taken
just a staging area
between the black  and grey
of a half life lived in half shadow
with the promise of
an hours sunshine
each day...

weary soul
wandering  along
to the end of this line
that peters out
in a morse code message
of mental and physical decline
a repatriation of lost time
a moments deviation defined
by years spent waiting for
a chance to rewind, declined
by a judgemental man,
signing on the dotted line

weary, wearied soul
worn out and now
just a faded memory
blown, dust to the wind
as the coffin winds down.
lines now terminated
ultimately, forever, segregated
from the life within
and on the topside,
a mourners line
thin and tired
throw soil
upon the lid

weary souls
crying for justice
but reaping sorrow
fearing for the break of morrow

marrow jelly and breaking bones
wend their way, back to broken homes
to sit on couches filled with dust
to watch television that peddle lust
and throwaway goods for throwaway lives

no call for effort,
no need to strive,
just be a drone!
live for the hive!
groan and moan,
give graft on loan
have your muttered say,
about the state of play
whilst, living lives, the deepest shade of grey
growing weary and more wearied evey day
waiting for the great big sleep
wading through beaucoup de petites morts
drowning in une petite vie


jamais las, éternellement usé
porter des clowns espadrilles
et un froncement de sourcils
*forever weary, eternally worn down
wearing clowns  sneakers and a frown

airs and graces
made up faces
hide weary bones
and holey souls

plastic smiles
haven't seen you in awhile
as internal insecurity riles
the faint heart murmurs
in these desolate piles
that have run,
far too many miles


pacemakers racing,
cracking casings,
death dicing,
panic rising,
polite ruses,
for the aged muses
pacing this,
social green mile

daily shuffle, kerfuffle
as dark winds ruffle
the blue rinse perms
and only partially muffle
comments snide
about bottoms wide,
perkless *******
and unholy rests,
of these none too
permanent guests
at this palace of
mortality and malice.

end of hours
visitors gone
wilting flowers
and dinner gong
release the  nurses
put away the purses
slump and sway
end of another day
keeping the old foe
death at bay

granny nightie,
thoughts now flighty
with pins in hair and vacant stare
fervently wishing to be anywhere
wishing for some one to be there
but knowing, life's just not fair
when you've grown this old
knowing that each day is a dare
each day a gem sometimes rare
but more often gravel  
yet, better living than stone cold.
tho stone cold.....but without a care


here I stand,  I sit, I lie,
thinking dark thoughts
on the protracted art of dying.