6 am
and my head feels like it was used
as a snare drum

or maybe

it throbs
because of that avocado
green refrigerator

that thing
I was chasing in my dream
dropped on me

from up high
on a towering cliff
as it blew a raspberry

and sped off

Red red wine, Malbec rich and caramel,
In your depths, a world unparalleled,
With hues so dark, and flavours so sweet,
A journey of senses, in every sip we meet.

From vineyards lush, where sunbeams dance,
Your essence captured in a glass, a chance,
To savour the richness, the soft embrace,
Of caramel notes, with each trace.

So, pour the Malbec, let the moments unwind,
In every drop, your story we find,
Red red wine, with your decadent charm,
You warm our hearts, keep us from harm.

Standing at the portal
Of the massive stone engender
Clenching as the sweat
Runs down the sinews of my arm,
Glaring at the enemy's
Rendition of surrender
And knowing, well within,
Why he means to do me harm.

Watching so acutely
For the sliding of his eyeball
Inching to the left
In a slithering advance,
Waiting for the quiver
Of deception's feint, so ribald,
Then lunging with the blade
At his severanced last dance.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

There, in the
tide pool, dappled by
the sun is birth and death,
and the spark that continues.
It leaves mankind in the wake of regret.
What have I to do with the albatross
Or sea lion?
I can but write, while they fly and roar.
I gaze upon the Pacific from this rock,
all its mysteries and grandeur.
I am inferior, while it forever reigns with
every wave and break of light.

The canvas stares back at me,
Blank, unforgiving—
A mirror of my mind,
Its emptiness a cruel reminder.
I pick up the brush with trembling hands,
But every stroke feels like betrayal,
Each color too loud, too bright,
Spilling out in chaotic bursts,
Nothing like the picture in my head.

I paint, I paint,
But nothing comes close.
The reds are too red,
The blues too cold.
Each line, each curve,
A mistake I can't undo.
And still, I push forward,
Hoping for something that feels right—
But nothing feels right.

The shadows of doubt creep in,
Dark, relentless—
They mock every attempt I make,
Every flick of the brush a ghost
That haunts the edge of the canvas.
I try to fix it,
But the more I try,
The more I destroy.

The paint smears,
A bloodied mess under my fingertips.
Each flaw is magnified,
Twisted in the light,
A grotesque reminder of my failure.
The work I once cherished
Now looks like a battlefield,
A war between my vision and reality,
Where nothing wins.

I tear the canvas in half,
The fabric screams in protest,
But I can’t stop.
I rip it apart—
Brutal, raw—
The fibers of my frustration
Fraying in the air.
Nothing feels like it's mine anymore.
The brush trembles in my hand,
A weight too heavy to carry.

I collapse into the mess,
The chaos I’ve made,
And the silence comes,
Not as a void, but as a truth—
The eerie quiet of an artist
Who’s found their shape in the ruins.
In the stillness,
I see the pieces of my soul
Scattered across the floor—
But they’re not broken.
They are just pieces.
I wonder—
Am I the painting,
Or is the painting me?
And perhaps…
We both need this destruction to be whole.

I stand, brush in hand,
Ready to start again—
With the same trembling hands,
The same uncertainty,
But this time with a quieter resolve.
I lay a fresh canvas before me,
The blankness no longer a threat,
But a promise.
A chance to begin anew,
To make something beautiful
From the mess of the past.
And so, I paint—
Not for perfection,
But for the beauty in the trying.

Take a tender moment, friend,
Pause a little while,
Ponder how the Masters wept
When fashion fought with style.
Imagine, how through history,
Those Artisans, galore,
Fought their creativity
Endeavoring for more.

Pause awhile, and ponder
The task that lies before,
Sip a drop of Irish
And ponder it some more.
A realization flooding
From the cortex of your brain
With a laughing pure simplicity,
Resolving the insane.

The hues upon the pallet
Decree the mood before,
Finessing with the paintbrush
Encourages amore,
The thrill of pure excitement
Creating in you now....
An inspiration's Miracle
From the running sweat of brow.

Go to it, Girl.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

Pursuing springtime walking sprees
beside our dog, beneath the trees,
I oft detected some unease
amongst the birds and buzzing bees
as echoed by flat monodies
of clicking, clacking, knocking knees
(forsooth, reversed parentheses)
resounding pained discordant keys,
confusing triplets’ twos and threes
as if the tunes were meant to tease
with awkward stilted harmonies.

I asked a doc with med degrees
if he could, somehow, kindly, please,
suggest intensive therapies
that maybe might perhaps just ease
strange syncopations such as these
(you know, those eerie  melodies
that echo from my noisy knees)
before my family finally flees.

At last my doctor said “oh geez,
this is the worst of maladies,
so I’ll replace those  knobby knees
(they look like half moons made of cheese)
with stainless steel or manganese
or other metals such as these
as used in all such surgeries.
I’m sure the outcome won’t displease
(you’ll stand on legs, isosceles)
although there are no guarantees”.

Now that I’m fixed, I stretch and squeeze
with exercise my coach decrees
to aid me flex my new born knees;
and should I suffer agonies
he soothes the strains with frozen peas
or cubes of ice that make me freeze
and says “I hope my expertise
has helped to heal your injuries
and if you must, feel free to sneeze”.

With chiseled legs on racing skis,
I now can sail as does a breeze
o’er  nearby alpine apogees
(and view those sites that no one sees,
alive in eagles reveries)
and when in Vail, win jamborees
upon my new non-knocking knees.