I know it’s a bit lame, but here I stay,  

Hoping for a nod, a word, some say.  

Responses to my poems, thin but kind,  

They bring a warmth, a solace to my mind.



In every comment, human touch I find,  

A thread that weaves me closer to mankind.  

It's not much, yet it keeps my spirit bright,  

My daily dose of human touch each night.

staring down these last few
scoops of laundry powder
and pouring out from these
last few caps of softener
looking back a couple of
months when it was tough
deciding to unseal these
products in case word
came from that latest job
prospect now seems suspect
-- guess that new box of
detergent will be opened
next wash and a trip to
obtain fabric conditioner
is all there is left of this
agenda of personal improv!

' 

shadowed 
in early evening's 
darkened corner 

his smile 
responds to your 
gruff remark 

and you 
do not see 
the tear 

rolling 
from his cheek 
he turns 

the faintest hint 
of sadness 
cloaks his eye






____✒
○●
°

Is it not a foe who taunts —
that in itself could be borne
Is it not an enemy's tirades—
from them one could hide
Instead, an arrogant intimacy—
life's equal, companion & friend.

What close companionship
now scattered in the chill
of uncaring autumn winds
from familiar paths once  
walked together in gardens
of fond affection and glee.*


●○
°

on fedora hat
getting very fat
cat did sit

everyone here

getting very fit
or gloating with
green-eyed leer*




●○
°

Spectre of once ago celebration
Shadows slither on pages, marked
Silence syncopated fonts mêlée
Scream for a song now similarly lost
Where within these words will
Soul's centre be again found?

a solitary avian
fork tailed violet
happened upon
a sylphid sprite
the one gave song

the other gave a
sentinel's vow
back to back
through eons
secrets keep

There is now a dull,
unidentifiable fondness
that sometimes surfaces --
a phantom itch
that when scratched
returns into the depths.

What have you done:
Given voice to silence,
Wings to unspoken thoughts,
Face to emotions deeply masked;
Solid darkness now made bright
When words unutterable take flight
Making them no longer alone.

psychological warfare 101
oldest trick in the book
throw it back in their faces
without remorse or afterthought




●○
°

What's so black about Saturday?
our world was dark and sombre
a stone blocked the entrance
and all humanity went on
about its recalcitrant way.
Panic in the streets of
Birmingham,  NY & LA
Nietzsche most solemnly declares
God is dead, we're beyond repair!
Lost in the dark of sabbath
We fade in dimned* light
Pleading with this buried saviour
'Help us make it through the night.'
But the blood's bled dry
And so has the wine
All that's left is a sigh
And part of a loaf, crusted and dry.
If God's truly dead and buried
then why is it we're still alive?
What's so black about Saturday?
The continuance of inner fears
of hidden insecurities and
projected uncertainties.
What if that stone won't roll away?
What if a rotting corpse, its
inescapable stench meets our face?
rivers of evil running, through our veins
cruising the Styx with zombiec glee.
All hail, rejoice this dark melody
we're going to hell by self decree.
Join the punishment of the undead,
in a pit roast for all of eternity.
But then again all that's required
is the tiniest drop of faith to find
the blackness of Saturday darkness
bequeaths its grasp at break of day.
Even fairy tales provide an escape
and this inescapable reality has no hold
over faith and resurrection power.
For all the trouble we go through in life
I'd rather believe the good book's promise
than Satan's ruse to raise a zomboid army.
And these riddles circle in my head
of possibilities that God most
certainly is not dead!

Masks are real, masks are useful
But they aren't the issue
to be perfectly truthful.
It's more beneficial to pursue
The trajectory of a shoe;
And before we've lost our teeth;
What's truly important, you see,
Isn't what covers but what lies beneath!

a dollop of selsun blue
brought back memories of you
as did the last drops of clairol essence
bring back herbal scents on nanna's hair
water washes clean stray thoughts
and even with its ebbing, fading moon
late night, this year is still new

my child runs
into the room,
looks and yells
honey badger!
then, lets rip

the "Valley of Vision"
has caught my eye
lay captive my heart
captured my wandering mind

your cup sends me reeling
a haughty tower trembling
never again to be rebuilt

two men once hung from a tree
the one cursed his life upon himself
the other condemned eternally

neither the valley nor in the plain
did the eye cast its mark
felled by projectile true
a day no one can rue

from adverse direness
is revealed a humble key:
in letting go, we are set free!*




●○
°

cease turning my green to grey
with wilful acts of nature
your heart is found in theirs
providing for the urgency
to lose love's indifference,
redeem that part of self
that once felt only for you*






____✒
○●

is always a poem after this one;
an understudy to today's centre stage:

this poem however, is never unimportant,
as individual as the poem that follows;
many poems have unwritten forbears-
each is breathed and lived; rarely spoken.

this poem's panorama is found in one place –
a window of its reader's imagination;
so each poem is just a beginning point
of new journeys that we join with the poet.

another is birthing at the end of this one;
there may be several, in fact, awaiting their turn.*




_ _ __ ✒
●○
°

in its purest form
the simplest of
possible affirmations
is to be loved in return

in similar manner
the most complex of
probable affirmations
is reciprocating like affection

in conclusion, then,
it seems most apparent
to appreciate with reckless
abandon the air we breathe

for we build tomorrows
on these simplest, most
basic of molecules, our
humble bricks of being

▪



today's a gift, wrapped; 

            yesterday, now peeled open, 

                                tomorrow reveals





_ _ __ ✒
●○
°

Here, at my desk
I find myself,
pen in hand, again.
But now, bereft of faith,
no longer knowing why I write:
a moth returning to naked flame.

The reason for our articulation
is simple and utilitarian-
we do not seek perfection,
But we seek an ablution.

Perfection is reserved for those
with time to spend and money to burn.
Our soul require absolute release,
its ransom necessitates recompense:

Expiated expeditiously, in a flurry
of words that scathe our every thought.

perhaps you hung
around him a
little more than

what made for
awkwardness

call it hero
worship - infantile
idolatry; or just

a deep-seated
longing for an
older brother

that you never had

tall, smiling
confident;
nobody's fool

your rescuer when
you released the handbrake
sending dad's cadillac flying

downhill-
lumbering projectile
ravaging through

his mum's front hedge
over their pool,  onto
bar stools and wine bottles

Stevie hopped in, grabbed
and steered and braked
but nothing was never

ever the same again

seek to be bold,
extend kindness,
on the other side
of whatever this

may be; out there
someone loves you
it's soppier than
honey or gloop

but yours alone
and you flick the
switch at night
every lights-out

to firmly believe there is
always opportunity for
a horse-carriage ride
through Central Park
despite chaotic impediment
amid the throng and buzz;
that is where living begins

here on my knees
surrounded again
by familiar emptiness

and here You are
facing me square
amid my barrenness

all I have had, now have
and all I'll ever have
is You and You alone

where else can I turn
what else can I say,
'show me what's next'*


●○
°

A final click breaks through dense
silence :                                       after
whining spin cycle de crescendo.
From inside womb-like metal tub
emerges a once bright red garment,
its fabric faded, worn, and frayed.

breathe:

      all else

      is
        do
          wn
            wa
                rd
                     spin*


○●
°

'

He sometimes feels he may be blind, 
or just afraid of what others see. 
And what he speaks or sees or thinks 
is never what they reckon it should be. 
He is careful, vigilant, and repressed 
'coz in their light he is forever undressed. 






____✒
○●
°

we no longer burn bridges
and though we'd never need to
cross back over them again

we build new ones, upstream,
up closer, so much closer
to the heart of our dreams*


●○
°

Feet throb through well worn shoes
after a brisk walk to central station.
We keep our ears plugged with our beats
to finally find seated, at furtherest point;

Backs of heads, napes, and collars
mushroom away, stare blankly ahead -
polarised sunnies paint them bright;
choked only by an assumption of gain.

And all we see is a tiny reflection of we.
Here in our world another day begins:
a mourning of suited, tired paramours;
in this cosmos of peopled isolation.

Etched in my heart, patterned chiselling emotion

Under foot the mossy down through forgotten paths

jolted by breath, your air reminds me of that time

now you have gone away into the sun and shade

playing and wandering in another clime and place

among countless souls all tucked neatly away

behind numerous stone markers, row upon row

like counting bits of sand too numerous to hold

whose gravelly grains have scattered in my mind

reflecting serenely what once was yours and mine*




_ _ __ ✏
○●
°

~

a single drop
however large this pond might be

shall ripple
until its furthest bounds
for all the whole, wide world to see

each drop
a poem's clarion ever sounds



_ _ __ ✒
○●
°

your varied one-nighters
are a psychedelic journey
heavy on the shutter release
but leaving the lens cap on -
a self-guided tour for two
is far more appealing

no experience is quite as sobering
and equally devastating as when
it clicks that your happy place is
in fact not happy at all but delusion;
it's galloping into the sunset on an
overcast and sloshing, muddy day

it is needful and kind
● to stay at a distance ○
for just a moment, still
while these words come
○ forward to the front ●
and be duly  recognised*




●○
°

it has been said that poetry
is the straight and narrow road
to a woman's heart;
for me, alas, it has been the escape pod
from that woman who once
but no longer has regard for me

beauty, they say,
is in the eye of the beholder.
ergo, if feet smell like cheese
or cheese stink like feet
all depends on the nose
of the smeller....*



●○
°

bursting forth on any
given typical day, we
delve into mysteries
of bath bomb bubbles;
while here in a corner,
ever-vigilant keeper
of ember-like ghostlight,
sentinel of our night,
scribe of thought and
companion of heart:
connects green room
to footlit centre stage