"Cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right",
The boy exhales deeply,twirling dust motes in the light.
His pencil moves laboriously as his notes limp to the end,
And he shifts back from his studies and grimaces at a friend.
The girl gazing along the row admires his boyish face,
The frown lines from thinking have left a shallow trace,
So she whispers across to him that he needs to smile,
And he grins at her and stretches, adds annotations to the pile.
I observe him from the whiteboard,
Feel a rush of maternal pride. Young, strong and full of hope,
The world is open wide.
Then emotion clutches at my throat, sins forefathers have done,
A hundred years ago he'd have been,
In the trenches with my son.

He sat in his chair with his back to the fire,
He deliberately sought to make the air chill,
His hand on the paper lover's pink with desire,
But his method of savagery not lust but the quill.
His starchy stiff collar was tightly ill-fitting,
His shoes chafed his ankles but he did not care,
His breathing was hot in the cool of the evening,
His fingers streaked ink through his long wavy hair.
He scowled at the pen and he frowned at the paper,
The writer accursed his impotent art,
He wrote with great ease those magnificent ballads,
But useless he felt at affairs of the heart.
He rose and he cast all the sheets of fine paper,
Into the fire and he winced at the heat,
He lit up his pipe, eyes smarting at the vapour,
And bitterly cursed this impossible feat.
For who but a fool smitten for a princess,
An admirer for now but soon to be queen,
When he just a poet and a poor one nonetheless,
And dandy Prince Albert just arrived on the scene.
He slouched at his desk and once more made a scribble,
Decided to write the biggest lie he could call,
For who but a fool would believe in such drivel,
“Better to have loved and lost than not loved at all.”

I wish I lived in Wayne’s World,
where Wayne and Garth are real.
I wish I had Cassandra’s curls,
and her *** appeal.

I wish I dated Jason Dean,
and coloured him impressed.
I wish I had the killer gene,
but never ever confess.

I wish I went to Ashfield Hospital,
and looked a little on edge.
Explored shutter island in the spittle,
and made the Marshall pledge.

I wish I lived with Yeats,
or in the lonely moated grange,
I wish I danced on table tops,
my body for money,  fair exchange.

I wish reality didn’t exist,
or better yet just me,
all those opportunities would be missed,
and at peace I’d finally be.

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
No—
That bard Will has beaten me to it.
Half a league, half a league—
But the Light Brigade gives its thanks
to my Lord Alfred.
I know why the caged bird sings!
Oh wait—
That’s what Maya knows.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.
I’ll take the road less traveled,
but only cause that’s what Robert said.
What’s left for me to write?
Thoughts swirl in my head,
and out through my pen.
Art has taken written form.
I know what I’ll write.
The world will love it.
I will love it.
And I’ll keep writing,
I’ll keep writing till the sidewalk ends—
Really, Shel?
You had to take that one too?
But no matter…
I’ll show you,
someday.

“Half sick of shadows,” cried the Lady of Shalott,
half sick of darkness growing, doorways
twisting, with faces grotesque on yellow wallpaper

and speaking woe in whispers passed
dream-thin through limbs and veins and minds
because a window is a stop sign until

opened, and locks are stitches sewing chapped lips
tense as the web woven, intricate designs
layered vibrant color on a lonely loom in a tower

otherwise lightless, heavy with pressure,
bearing down on the Lady of Shalott and her art--
made up in the image of Camelot.

Up on Church Hill
I think of my love
& Tennyson, long gone
Up on Church Hill

Up on Church Hill
I look out at Steep Holm
and then at Clevedon pier
Up on Church hill

Up on Church Hill
the last swallows are soaring,
last summer days calling
Up on Church Hill

Up on Church Hill
by the poets’ walk
I sit as it gets dark
Up on Church Hill

Up on Church Hill
I shall leave my heart
& then depart
Old Church Hill

Break break break
On the sand that still waits, O sea.
And I wish that time could erode
the past that unravels me.

O well for the barefoot boy that
passes the length of the shore.
O well for the fisher without a net
who forgot what the struggle was for.

And the weathered ship moves on
to the place where its cargo must rest.
But, O that I could disembark
or unload this unconquerable mess.

Break Break Break
At thy faithful cliffs, O sea.
But I fear that a day I can never repeat
will forever come back to me.

To You;

To you; possessed of such a tempting grace,
moving so sublimely through star-struck space;
Can I ask of you this quiet question-
Why do those sad tears frame that flawless face?

What’s the reason for that careless lesson
that laces your well-controlled complexion?
Have you, through some finally-found fancy
been shown the harsh meaning of rejection?

Maybe, you dreamt of a light romancing
Under the moons bright, fatal faerie-fire
Its sight telling tales of your desire,
Your sad love ethereal- Transient?

No? I didn’t think that the murky mire
That we call “Love” would have you trapped today-
To make such stories of these fallen fae,
As an excuse to perform worn word-play---

Or! Maybe, it’s some other telling tale
That put you into this unjust travail-
And left you with those mislaid streaks
Across a face falling pallid and pale.

Had your plans reached the goal- that high peak,
Then plunged; wasted - leaving you worn and weak
With no way out, no truly clear choices,
No way to gain the happiness you seek?

Did you want a house with joyful voices,
A backyard echoing lilting laughter?
Has some callous event foreclosed that chapter
Filling your soul with some private poison?

No, I don’t think that’s what I‘m after.
You’re not being held by some coarse constraint-
Nor your body filled with some tragic taint
that would leave you so faltering and faint.


Do you long for adventuresome release,
Your daily work having no such surcease-
And staring entranced-so at the stratus,
You dream of those mighty in name and deed?

Those stories, the ones that you always read-
Do they make you long for that single pleasure,
Proof of beauty and things unseen, proof of need-
Proof of some fantasy beyond measure?

The sacrosanct is in those clouds so rare.
Don’t lose faith in finding the forever,
And magic is there, suspended in air
As long as you don’t consider never.

Maybe, I could help in your endeavor,
Together, a meeting of star-bright minds-
Rhyme after rhyme, perhaps we will find
A path that will meld fantasy and time.

So Lady, giving thought where it’s due then,
I can only tell you this plight of Men
And be it my damning declaration,
I will never let you be hurt again!

You will never want for stone or station,
Nor need to seek some other relation.
If the dreary dusk deigned to mar your mood,
To make a Sun, I’d master creation!

To your beauty I would always allude,
(The runic tint to those even-ether eyes)
Only to the lay does the truth not soothe –
No comparison would bespeak of lies;

So Lady, let my love for you give rise,
To the dawning of our sublunary Sun!
For you; My suitors pledge that come what come,
On my honor, my life; Thy will be done!