Irony is not believing your mirror
or alternatively
sensibility at its finest
(not my line but I will add it – it fits)
bald head, wrinkles, skeptical eyes
are just the outside.
quietly, privily, absolutely
the inner me still canters along
well, not canter really,
just a steady trot
with frequent pauses for
let’s call it reflection.
trouble is,
as some of us know
and ruefully acknowledge,
time speeds up,
birthdays come so quickly now
last year’s card is still on the shelf
and the envelope too
If someone makes a time machine
I will volunteer
to see if it works

There is a train in my head
that shunts from ear to ear
whistling at intervals,
sometimes the train diver
goes high to the top of my skull
and my ears pop.
I was thinking that there
should be clouds this high
I haven't seen any yet.
I haven't seen any eagles either.
Maybe my skull is in the back country
where nothing grows and nothing lives
I will get another train tomorrow
and will bring my own lunch

Bare feet on the sand in summer
running hard over the hot bits
to get to the water quickly
the freedom from concrete

climb over the fence after dark
stifled laughter private frissons
skinny dipping a rite of passage
the freedom to be naked

laughter and the camaraderie
of long time association
friends and confidantes
the freedom to be happy

divisions fixed by polarities
religious racial ethnic and economic
still absolute rights for all
the freedom of the first amendment

but still
not for a woman’s right  to her body
not for the terminally ill to die
not for political asylum
not for driving while black
not for gay and LBGT
not for equal rights to marry
but yet and still
the freedom to vote for change

"







"

numerology
eleven followers now
an awkward number

I will give poems a rest for a while
give myself a break and others too

just lie on my bed and propped high
with my big red day pillow

look at the tree close outside
where yesterday

a blackbird sang and sang and sang
I was enraptured

and wrote a poem about how
no one heard

all the deaf are  listening
to their own plugged in music

while all around the earth is
heaving with new life

the winter blanket thrown aside
so that spring air and spring sun

can midwife bear new leaves
snowdrops and jonquils

no church bells ring so they
come  in modest silence

harbingers in all colors
to say a new year is here

and warm enough that
our skins can feel it too

creativity
works in mysterious ways
found object sculpture

last night a blackbird
singing his heart out for Spring
none paused to listen

You should know
that death has
many hats
and no honor
and you,
believing yourself inviolate
are his target.

Death covets you
and shining bright
in your own belief system
envisaging unlimited days
memorable sunsets
and a forever future,
are a prize catch

He will approach
smiling
and tip his hat
and you respond cheerily
and too late know
you are marked
for no tomorrow

He wins again
and you go with him
as you have to.

It is so written

look in the mirror
balding dome still a temple
each hair a heritage

my followers come
three by three makes nine in all
a crowd starts with one

haiku fresh and hot
for you and for the lady
vinegar with that?

words click in my head
liars dice in a barroom cup
spill fact or fiction

one drop of water
an advance warning maybe
look up for rainclouds

Last night was scrub-sky time
lightning for light
thunder for admonition
rain to wash away all trace of the day
wind to dry off the wet branches

today is a bright day
clouds like spring lambs
chase and frolic with the wind
playing the trees and chimneys like harps
dusting all the corners

my dog
streets now cleaned
every pole a beacon of desire and remembrance
what’s a girl to do
with a multiple choice question

me the writer
observers of facts and fictions too
just feeling good
tree music in my ears
the warm sun promising Summer

My brain in a daze
like one thing follow another
I take it all back

moment of madness
SPT makes nice likes twice
gift of a goddess

it is nice to see
likes arriving in my email
thank you's are a must

No haiku today
my mind just says no way bro
just take the day off

forgiveness is all
to each other our benison
there is a tomorrow

on my street at night
sparrows quietly cheep and chuff
time to go to sleep

sharp green spikes stick up
telling us to be patient
spring is coming soon

in perfect order
the waves all with white fichus
die quietly on the beach

emma trending  now
her internet fame now real
sleep is the answer

my pet dog emma
giving and loving her all
too hard to resist

two eyes four paws tail
puppy wiggles end to end
happy to see you

The autumn harvest
rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for birds

It’s not all hearts and pretty flowers
you know,
sometimes the words won’t ****** well run
the synapses blink and stop
and the lines flow like maple syrup
cold from the fridge

Best then to wait and see
If harmony happens
and words flow again
in the right and only way;
if not stop and abandon
and save your thoughts for tomorrow

The autumn harvest
berries of rowan thorn elder and yew
winter food for the birds

my pet dog emma
a schnauzer from end to end
her barks shatter glass

whipped by the wind
the waves wash ashore
tidying the beach and
making smooth the sand
so that lovers
drawing hearts with sticks,
can make public their desire
for one tide at lest

Huginn and Muninn
fulfilling the augury
fly North at nightfall

Death gathers us up
In manageable packets
we know our sell-by dates
are strictly enforced and
unknown to each other
we line up to go
to that final place.

Now?? we ask.

We fervently avow
Our belief in god
hoping for a last minute reprieve.
when do we go?
how do we get there?
Is there a real difference
between destinations?
As dead do we have rights?
is it a democracy?
is it really a one way ticket?
can I be on standby?
what if I don’t like it?
can I come back
and have another go?


As yet I have
no answers to your questions.
I will keep you posted.

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

We are there
all of us,
poets, wannabe poets, others
in the shade waiting for the light
of the newly known,
to shine on us and give us function

at best
with a name,
or
in the circle of…………
an associate of………
mistress of……………..

this light will fade
and we’re gone
to live with our memories.

We were almost there.

I thought that if I took my writers block
And cut it into pieces
I could build a wall
And, being higher
I would see the Eastern Dawn sooner

That way I would have a leg-up
so to speak
on all the other writers and poets
and gain an advantage.

My words would be brighter, cleaner, newer
Ready to go
To fit into my line
And make a poem.


But clouds came,
the light dimmed
And the words stopped.
There will be a tomorrow the weatherman said