Les mots que j’emploie
Ne sont pas meilleurs
Que ceux de n’importe autre poète.
Mais les espaces entre les mots
Les espaces alors!
C’est là où demeure ma vraie poésie.

There they lie;
spread around me
a myriad shining fragments
of the gift she had brought me.
Shards of glass
each a reflection of a broken promise;
a gift procured but withheld.

And all that I can do
is to survey those shattered remnants
of unrequited dreams,
and replay them on an endless
reel of soundless, aimless,
misbegotten promises
that ***** my heart
as those metaphorical shards
might have pricked my fingers.

What is left to me now
but to weep?

If you can see within yourself,
to discover the nature of your being,
dislodge the shackles of slavery,
and know what hides the truth,
perhaps the way to freedom
unto you may be revealed.

And yet are there not those
who may enjoy their fetters?
Those to whom liberty
is nothing more than loss?
Those for whom freedom
may exist only in *******?

For such sad creatures
liberty implies responsibility
and if prepared to pay the price,
those others who would curtail freedom
may find the shackles not enough,
whilst being free is being lost.

The liberty in an instant gained,
may be abandoned in an hour.
A state achieved too easily,
inevitably is poorly prized.
Those who claim to favour freedom
must be prepared to give it up.

Freedom can, like power, corrupt.
The liberty to live one’s life
oblivious to temptation,
implies a generosity of love:
to say that “I will give to you
what I would willingly deny myself.”

Freedom is as freedom does,
the tree of liberty must be refreshed
as Jefferson informed us
with blood of patriots and tyrants.
Freedom has to be, it must be said
and must remain, unfinished business.

I choose to stay at home.

Wherever I go,
I'm still there.

So why bother?

Vandalism should be unfulfilled.
What a fool may destroy in an instant
Ten wise men may need a lifetime to rebuild.

I love a poem.
One that rhymes.
But must admit that
there are times
When I go a bit too far
From the sublime to the bizarre.

I love a poem.
One that scans.
But must confess
That I may over-stress
in metric heat
the use of feet.

I love a poem
and feel better for
the use of
subtle metaphor.
But egoism’s
not the same as symbolism.

I love a poem
but cannot agree
that I delight
in imagery.
While rhythm I’m afraid
leaves me in the shade.

I have found so much joy and peace
since I first learned how best
to embrace my inner self.

And of all the several rules
that I have decided to follow,
the most enduring and secure
are those that involve
self-belief, love and
gratification.

These may be summarized
in three simple maxims
and one simple word:
the word is “nice”.

Rule number one is to say
nice things about myself.
Rule number two is to do
nice things for myself.

Rule number three is
the most important of all
and if I obey the dictates
of this final rule, I may safely
disregard all the others.

Rule number three is simply
to have someone else
say and do nice things to me
and, above all, to
buy nice things for me.

I awoke this morning and thought that I was dead.
Not a sound could be heard; not a breath of air
Could be felt.  “So this is how it ends” I thought
“Not with a bang, not with a whimper,
But with a dreadful solemn silence;
With a ghastly breathless stillness”.

And then I replaced the devices in my ears,
And conducted my matutinal ablutions,
And was restored to life.  Prepared to face
Another dull, disturbing, Covid-driven day.

Not to cause concern,
She moves stealthily through life.
But purr-posefully.

I am so weary of the constant repetition
By the shallow and disreputable folk
Who claim to be our leaders,
Yet unremittingly by tactless talk
Betray the very principles
With which they sought to gain
Our credulous support,
And treat with reprehensible disdain
And superficial jargon
And empty-headed vows
Those principles that leaders of a bygone age
Did fervently espouse.
Where are they now?
Where have they gone?
Please reappear! Come back!
Those rare folk that we could depend upon.

Every moment spent
Feeling so annoyed
At anything I may have lost
Might better be employed
In celebrating all those wondrous moments
That I have enjoyed.

When a fish swims,
what is its destination?
When a bird flies,
to whom is it flying?
And when you leave me . . .
when you leave . . .
Where?
Who?
Why?

I would exchange the
Entire output of my life
For one perfect word

What does the mirror show
When I move away?
How can I be sure that my
Reflection moves away with me?
If not, then the next viewer
Will see my face
And not their own.
How terrifying!

The lies of Boris born
Were sent to mock us.
They fed us milk of Capricorn
And not the lactococcus.

Always keep in mind that
your love for each other
should be greater than
your need for each other

You burned
Like the brightest of bright flames
And,
as is always the case
with bright flames,
you were snuffed out.
Early.
Far, far too early.

We have our exits and our entrances.
It has been said before.
But in the lifelong scheme of things
The next farewell will likely be our last.
The Earth itself will one day die
And return unto its frozen, lifeless state.
A finality that is perhaps not too far off.
Without a sigh, without a whimper
Even without an ultimate warning blast.
We made our entrance, enjoyed our stay,
Played our part in the performance.
And soon it will be time to say goodbye.
Farewell, adieu, exit left or right.
But leave the stage.  Just go!

You ask me if I still remember what you meant to me
in those brightly golden days
that filled tumultuous lives with wondrous hopes,
undaunted by the death and dark destruction
that existed far removed from
our immediate ken.

And now, and now in these benighted
topsy-turvy times when love lies bleeding
in the urban battlefields
that are our personal birthright,
and our inheritance of that early
insouciant disdain.

Will we still remember fantasies and dreams
transmogrified into harsh reality,
or hopes that never were fulfilled.
With nothing left but fading scraps
of paper or a tape or two
and no instrument to play them on.

Of all our fellow creatures
We really have to say
That the best are not the preachers
But those who light the way.

It’s an acid test
If life hands me a lemon
I must **** it up


Trust integrity.
Failure to do what is right
is the greater wrong.


Don’t hide your feelings.
Yelling is much less painful
than biting your tongue


Present facts fairly.
Refrain from embellishment.
The truth should suffice.

Sometimes, surrendering  has nothing to do with weakness, and everything to do with strength.

We give up and walk away not because we want others to acknowledge our value, but because we finally appreciate our own worth.

Please keep it at bay.
It creeps up on you.
Relentlessly, imperceptibly.
Until you feel trapped;
Held in a sticky
Gossamer web.

That’s for older folk, I think,
That’s for those who have passed
the point of no return.
It’s not for me.
I’m barely into my nineties.

I’m not ready for old age.

It chills my heart; it pains my mind
To learn that one young soul
Has perished in that short sea stretch
From fear to freedom.

“Keep them out” is the hate-filled cry.
“Send them back across the sea,
Or to some equally unsafe nation.”
And, in the meantime, one young soul

Has perished.  He who wanted nothing
But to live a life free from fear.
Who can say?  Perhaps the fates have given him
A better rest than had been promised.