a storm in stilettos.
her eyes once burned as brightly
as the neon signs above
shuttered stores.

night is standing in front of Walmart
selling dead flowers.
there are 2 young children with her.
the children are her sister's kids.

(the children are an asset
when you're trying to sell dead roses.)

night has a soul with no address
somewhere in the concrete prison.

she lives with the echo
of every fool
cradling their broken promises
cupped like the wilted roses
held in her hands.

she dances with shadows
and the night bends through her.

the silent witness to the center unraveling.

Harry chased the shadows
around rooms without windows,
straw up his nose,
a bottle of Jack Daniels
on the moveable food tray,

the eye of the storm,
fierce, beautiful,
and like a hurricane
he came and went without meaning.

all he owned was time,
walked the days
like old newspapers
blowing down a deserted street.

Harry wandered the neon sky

on fire with wounded women
wrapped in night,
caught by the song
of mermaids and sirens
who sweetly sang Odysseus
onto the rocks.

so he chose to fly, soar
above the high wire trapeze
into cloudy silence,
grasping for tranquility
in the heartland where serenity
always slipped like water
through his cupped fingers.


the sky is a fickled lover
always just out of reach.

reckless grace,
the sky leaned closer
and Harry kissed the clouds.

I fought to belong,
But no bond grew.
I walk away …..
Freed from a war
Never mine to win,
Ready for paths
That will welcome me.

Drifting in the shade
of Hello Poetry's long lost grave
In archive (a kingdom's history)
the past that has been made

Stepping on the bleached out bones
The pale parade of long dead dreams

Crunching fragments of sentenced themes
burning books , poems stuffed inside the reams

Epitaphs to their honor
2010 comments to poets
Vickey , Fix , and O'Connor

Poems to praise lost in time
I hold in hand the words that bind

Great poems whose eyes
were never shed
In a broken aspiration
now lay dead

Cruch , crunch ,
the landscape littered in 2012
Oh what sacred feelings
not forthwith

Here ! lay my poems
to rest here
In 2014 my poems
of yesteryear

If our concious ruled our minds we would have no crime in this world.

They say the eyes are the windows of our souls. It's only the devil in us that makes us evil fools. Now my grandparents Frank and Eileen were a loving couple that cared more about people's hearts and minds than money and gold. It just shows you not every one's callous and cold. Every Sunday at church they listened to Brian's hymns and sang songs. Then told stories of old. No matter how bad or good the weather was at Christmas time. He would be dressed as Santa Claus
trying to make every boy and girl feel fine. When there were summer fates they ate and made beautiful cakes. While my mum Ruth and my dad John would be late. So they would wait for their wonderful family arriving from Southgate.