Today in the park
new smells enrapture my dog
again and again

His mum was ever so pleased
he took care to be born
at half past seven,
after her last shift
on Friday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
that he refused her breast
and took to Auntie
and mum went to work
on Monday.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he walked to his school
the by-himself boy
and mum went to work
as usual.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left her life
the now-married man
and mum went to work
to live her life.
At the sweet factory

His mum was ever so pleased
when he left this life
to talk to his god
and mum went to work
for now and for ever.
At the sweet factory

She was always
always so cute.
She never stopped smiling,
she never stopped eating,
and she never,
ever was mute

She liked her baths cold
not to say frigid,
an ice cube or two was nice,
banana was good, strawberry was better,
but what really inspired her was rice.

Fascinated couples would look
from wherever they were,
as into her meal she would start,
a benison here, a benison there
for her moving rice was an art.

And so I leave you
a short tale of a child,
who took up a lot of our space.
She never was meek and
she never was mild,
A gift of a girl by God’s grace.

Morning.
My window open
the new days view
in front of me

So bright the birch,
fresh burnished by the sun
standing in front of
the lichened wall.

the hanging bird feeder,
full of grains,
waits for the birds that
rarely come.

the cats
who reign here
have exiled or
killed them all

Poems are an odd business:
an idea,
a concept,
it slips into your mind
and all of a sudden
there are words
that describe it,
it’s present,
it’s past,
sometimes it’s future.
these words have to have
rhythm and scansion,
the syllables must sound right,
the words must sound right,
the lines must be right,
the silences in between
must sound right,
just using words.

It is more than building with bricks and mortar;
these are fixed known things,
but poems
come into existence
like flashes of lightning
that light the sky,
they are there
and then they are not there,
you have to be quick
to catch them before they fade,
and leave you in the dark
with no words on paper.

Is it wrong to be serious
and somber of mien,
with downcast eyes
and a body so lean
that a ray of sunlight
making dark into day,
would find no impediment
on its straight made way.

So I live my life
not too-giggly much
but happy and content……………        
……………..my days lived as such,
that all who know me
cry “fellow well met”
and time will quiet spin on
while I live ……..no regret

As a child
I was born a catholic
and unknowing
and not yet averse to religion
my knees endured
the long pains
of high mass services
in my monastery school
where the old abbot
held up by god
eventually finished
and the sun still shining
outside the church door
we hormone confused bodies
were released
to boyhood