from misty stupor

faceless sentinels are roused

absinthian rev’ries

A barely audible creak greeted me
As I entered this still unfamiliar place.
His figure approached, step by step, slowly,
Aged and wizened, his steps marked with grace.

But for his slouch, he could be any man,
Now so much smaller than my childhood fear.
Not the monstrous terror of long ago,
A different presence, yet so close, so near.

There I stood, a deer caught in the light,
Shaking off the shadows of my fright,
In the haze of ill-served remembrance,
Realizing that I loved him all along,

A bond transformed by time’s gentle embrace,
From phantom fears to love's enduring song.

.











In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle-aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?







.

a lonely light
shall be the only
one to shine upon
a poorly lit spot
until its image
reveals a well
hidden spark

I may not be

your cup of tea

but I am your

bottle of *** --

most definitely...

so ease up that grip:

Stop strangling my neck.



Let My liquid conflagration

scorch your lying condescension

again and again and again.... without fail.



If you but remember to be true

to what lurks deep within you

I will assail your doubts

And numb their fight,

Send insanity to flight.

No, I am not your cup of tea!

And more's the better for me!

some time, somewhere out there


someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world


What then does this say of a poet?


it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears


are tears morphed in pressed ink

In Kilmarnock's print, a treasure lies,
A first edition, where history sighs,
From eighteen eighty-six, its verses flow,
Robert Burns’ heart, in dialect aglow.

Poems Chiefly In The Scottish Dialect,
Whispers of love, and nature’s effect,
Expected to fetch a princely sum,
Fifty to sixty thousand—oh, how it’ll hum!

Once just six hundred, a modest start,
Three shillings it cost, a work of pure art,
Yet within a month, the copies all gone,
Burns' voice, like a lark, sung sweet at dawn.

“To A Mouse” and “The Twa Dogs” share,
Stories of life, in the Scottish air,
At twenty-seven, with passion he wrote,
A legacy penned in each heartfelt note.

Now just eighty-eight copies remain,
A glimpse of the past, a poet’s refrain,
As the auction approaches, the whispers grow loud,
For the magic of Burns, we all stand so proud.

flush that goo away and open the windows wide,
allow those smells no place to hide!

Of the many things
that have been a regret
"putting down the pen"
has been most rude.

in the finality of this hour
as all of this shall disappear
while these broken words become clear
our dearest thoughts bloom like a flower
having been watered by many a tear
fear is but momentary, please don’t cower
spare a thought, plant seeds of good cheer
peer at what still may be for us here
so through ensuing years our hearts steer

Right in front of the koban
Star-B’s cramp and crammed
Not for the presently starving
Perhaps not or the Summer
With its heat reflecting tiles
Where else is boxed contentment?
But where it’s found in a moment.

With disdain they looked upon one Billy McGee
a boy that promised never to be;
a rep that’s scarred and scratched,
for sure his name’s mismatched
as darker skin ya’ever did see
on blackish hair with reddish flecks of Billy McGee.

A red haired aboriginal boy
matches were only a toy
and he was caught red handed
and always branded
the troublesome fire starter.
Poor boy had no farda
he was stolen in a generation;
trouble, his one destination
for any of his wild-sown seed.
Never had a chance, Billy McGee.

droplets of honey--
your words varnish
my waking mind,
coaxing me to
leave all, behind

gone, but ever remaining
never learning
held, ever close but
never belonging
cradled light - metaphed demise

on a spring morning
melting, paraffin wax;
now a shadow of a
hand, held tight
in the deep of night

behind each poem
behind each rhyme
is more than a story
more than a parody

under each layer of verse
there is a beating heart
under each line we find
a poet, a person, a mind

behind each poem
past each non-rhyme
in a varied place and clime
there a person wrote in time

Yesterday’s spoken word

Today’s unvoiced silence

Tomorrow’s welcomed regret

press Play and tap Mute

Flickering screen brings slumber.

being an unlit candle
an unlit match stick
will surely not suffice
neither the twain shall meet
unless you strike one
the other remains and
unless the lit shall kiss it
the other still abides

fictionalising that pain
only in writer’s quill remain
inkwell daily welling over
one that never need run dry
on pristine sheets shall ever cry
there a field blanketed in clover
under pregnant sky contain
descends yon seasonal rain

It might the flying Dutchman be
Or the fame of those fishermen three
How it, planks of our own fashioning, walk we!

The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest,
and those alive muse the touch of soil:

Where commemorating stones are monumental;
a reminder to all creatures that waste away
in vessels that perish beneath a hundred years.

Where manicured gardens court Repose
whose silence disturbed by a lazy breeze
interrupts one's meditation.

Child of the outside
on the inside
one foot out
one foot in
never belonging
never apart

Child of the inside
on the outside
one foot in
one foot out
never apart
never belonging

Child of both sides
on neither side
both feet out
both feet in
never apart
never a part

Heart & soul divided
Mind & hands confused
Ears & nose demanding
Eyes & tongue confiding
Child of both
Child of none

__________
an older piece retrieved from the 'attic'

'

As pumpkins rolled off from the scene,  
And Diwali lights snuffed out clean,  
Christmas came early,  
In a fashion so gnarly,  
Don't blame me, 'twasn't I that set up the tree!

once nimble fingers
grasp at lithe reeds
as they slip and dance
in a breeze’s lullaby
ever present companions
as days turn into nights

tragic queen Elyssa, foundress
of Carthage. Her brother, Pygmalion
slew her husband, the chief priest
Acharbas and in the uproar fled
with Tyrian nobles, bearing gold 
on a fleet of Phoenician ships.

Then on Mauritanian coastline
she bought some land to build 
a new city-state, from the vantage
of Byrsa on which her citadel stands
'circumfenced' by strips of ox-hide
strung along the perimeter of the hill

The Berber chieftain rather stingily
offered as much land as an ox-hide
could cover and later on sought her 
hand in marriage as the city grew
in wealth and regional importance
but she threw herself into flames

of a priestly funeral pyre to Tanit,
in self-immolation for the dead
god of vegetation, Adonis-Eshmun;
Dido, as she was known, hence was
elevated to goddess and patroness
of that great Punic realm of Carthage

as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard
words   e v a  p  o  r   a   t   e
words depreciate
so we try to keep them frozen
and chisel them onto poems
with a hope, come melt-time
a fossilised facsimile resides

flaw bearing retinue
fore bearing revenue
insolent foreboding

load-bearing attitude
unyielding fortitude
latitudinal aspirations

Going on in unblemished grace
Onward with a freshness true
Its fullness eternally perfected
Newness spouting varied hues
Growing all the while giving chase

flaw-bearing retinue
fore-bearing revenue
insolent foreboding

load-bearing attitude
unyielding fortitude
latitudinal aspirations

Going on in unblemished grace
Onward with a freshness true
Its fullness eternally perfected
Newness spouting varied hues
Growing, all the while, giving chase

shadowy sheets cover,
dark shining lips purse;
pointy ears ***** skyward
as corn stalks pondered
chanting scarecrows curse
in a sea of belly-up bream

Valens, you are esteemed worthy,
at the Via Flaminia you lay:
Valentinus offered up in faith.
Your deeds aren't known in our day.

In this life you wed young couples;
an act the Emperor would not permit.
And though your grace the monarch received,
your execution he did transmit.

Alas, with clubs and stones they came,
challenged by your fortitude great;
whose blows did not complete the deed -
your head severed at Flaminian's Gate.

These days we celebrate Valentine,
dedicate and plan for those we love;
oblivious to how it all began-
the depth of love known only Above.

from this moment onward,
you will be my eyes, abroad:
so be on time and even earlier

Belatedly, towing a rust-worn Saab, where
many dreams and adventures are wrenched
from a youngster's brooding petulance ...

Gravel crunches under a pair of balding tires
guttural screaming to a downbeat of debt
spewing silently from a tattered billfold.

What a present: timely to an empty fridge,
in the hallway, a growing pile of washing
impatiently reeking of malodorous intent.

Broken trust lingers,
keloids bloom on tender skin—
time’s sharp hand caresses.

Only mem’ries remain,
etched deep like ancient rivers—
heart learns forgiveness.

Light seeps through the cracks,
wounds become a part of me—
scars, my final strength.

imagine your surprise

as you irrevocably realise

everything can be bought

and everyone has a price

what exquisite shock ensues

when you take off $ signs

unveil powers of exchange

and begin to live accordingly

witnessed a Sarasota sunrise today
at 20:21 PM via live feed, on screen
to tidal songs that sounded like pounding
wavelets folding into the shore while
gulls milled about on a wooden jetty

clouds hovering in a lazy breeze that
didn't care either way for its entrance
peeking past the horizon between gaps
piercing through the distant haze
with an orangey sparkle in its wake

A number's just a simple sign,
Yet deeper meanings intertwine.
Like scars that tell a tale,
Each figure's more than pale—
A life lived in each line, so divine!

Three years, three months and three days
Perhaps it’s a random amount of time
But in three hours this flight will take off
Gotta take three minutes to freshen up
And look away for for three seconds
No worrying now about free pushbacks
Let’s put up memories with thumbtacks
All adds up in life’s measured advances

The mailbox is usually empty
What with the P.O. Box and
social media, emails, SMS
all so many differing ways
to keep ourselves in touch.
But this day’s walk down the
drive had changed the day!
A notice arrived, in paper
from hospital’s renal unit.
This path may lead clear
or perhaps to dialysis or
even a kidney transplant.
So look out, Tomorrow
quite surely here we come.

leeward of a lean-to hill
iambic cadence thrill
amber flecked lemonade
morsels don pleated frill
bring on tend’rest brocade
while at windward dale
wizened cheeks go pale

it's quite sad, so sad

when afterthoughts don't count

lopsided in the mind



where fore thoughts do abound

it's like gazing intently

at those flat rainbow lollipops



what spins you round and round

emptying memories we've had

and new thoughts find

his tears used to wake him
from an unduly prolonged delay

her smiles used to hurt him for
their beauty his heart, dismay:

their love had locked them up
and threw away the only key

and mile upon mile of wishful thinking
pushed them further away, though free

he looked into a well-used mirror to find
the devil he danced with was himself

and the fireflies that once lit their canopy
have also lost their former glee

In London’s solemn Poets’ Corner stands,
A stone of memories, carved by gentle hands.
Eighty-five years since its first debut,
Yet names were incomplete, a hidden rue.

Amidst the shadows of a war-torn night,
Charlotte, Emily, and Anne lost their light,
The dots above their names—a simple grace—
Forgotten in the haste, in that troubled space.

Sharon Wright, with keen and watchful eye,
Spotted the error, wondered why.
“Have they not earned this small tribute,
To mark their legacy, resolute?”

With a stonemason’s tap, the dots took form,
A celebration of sisters, in art reborn.
Painted with care, the correction shines,
Echoing the strength of their woven lines.

From Bradford’s heart, where their stories bloom,
Wright sought to banish the lingering gloom.
For every tale of love, loss, and strife,
Deserves to be honoured, enriched with life.

Now near Dickens and Austen, their names align,
In the warmth of remembrance, their spirits entwine.
Eighty-five years later, at last they belong,
A tribute to brilliance, a sweet, timeless song.

an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye
its skin glowed invitingly
reflected table top sheen
only to bring a belated sigh
when all at once it rolled
and rushed and crashed
on a cold polished marble floor

Here again, there again;
Staring at an empty page
Like a wait for a balloon 🎈
To pop 💥 as it rises high
Up it goes into the sky ☁️
In the end we won’t find
Out, nor shall we ever -
Never been that clever.

quarter turn of a century
can't relieve this quandary;
what run across our puerile minds,
raising up these woollen blinds?
perhaps another season; two
to find for us a useful clue
we stand upon a smouldered wreck
in this our unenviable trek
from these ashes phoenixes arise

Here sat on a kerb looking every which way
catching proverbial breath and recalibrating
my bearings from a longish journey - still
no longer longing for a telltale day now
pining away atop a window sill

Hello
PeOple of the once
EThereal metamoRph
Your moment has now
arrived; PERiwinkle
adornments on your
china on display,
SPecific to table placements
ICarian silhouettes on
placemats, UnIcorn-lined
doilies in conTrast Yell
out: 'perspicacity.'
Your aid and companionability
see us through it all.

frost laced teeth of cracked leather
course through bare back thighs
frigid sheen of yellowed ivory
caress tentative fingertips
nose, cheek and ear
incline then enquire
old smell, old sound
ancient piano sing