King Minos,
Spited by the God of Oceans,
Hesitated but a while
Before poor Pasiphae's bull-headed son
Was penned inside the labyrinth,
And then, as if to throw away the key,
Inventor Daedalus and his dear son
Were for their work a prison tower fee'd.
But they grew wings, for as we know,
An inventor's work is never done...
If only Icarus had listened
And kept a proper place below the sun,
Breugel's painting would have lost
Its distant splashy focal point;
The plowman and the shepherd would
Have stood alone above a perfect sea.

Old Minos never had a chance,
And though the cunning Hunter,
(He, who found the man who
Made a string crawl curving
Through a shell behind an ant),
Had won... decided to disrobe
And take a dip...a foolish act
To choose when Daedalus
Would serve a hot revenge.

Daedalus, who knew the score,
Burned wood to make the water soar;
In vengeance vented spiteful wrath,
And cooked old Minos in his bath.

I look at the future.
I look at the past.
I undo each suture.
I’m finished at last.
The scars are all healing.
The damage is done.
I have been left feeling.
That evil has won.

I grieve for the homeless
Who live in the street.
I feel their distress.
There are some you meet
In public heath clinics,
Or buying their dope.
I  hear all the cynics
Say there is no hope.

There are many out there
Relationships end.
There are some who don’t care
Although they pretend.
Your children reject you.
They don’t understand.
You need them but they too
Are there to demand

The gangs who are drinking
Stand outside the pubs.
Too drunk to be thinking
Their fists are mere clubs.
The young who are driving
Just seeking their thrills.
But never arriving.
Behaviour which kills.


The girls short of money,
Or merely seduced.
Sold for their honey.
Their lifespan reduced.
Some whose lives are shattered
Remain unfulfilled.
Their hopes may have mattered
Their voices are stilled.

I’m aware some succeed
Whilst others will fail.
Some are subject greed.
Some will go to jail.
I have witnessed sadness.
I have witnessed joys.
I have witnessed madness.
We are just God’s toys.

Life’s just a marathon
In which we compete.
Some try hard to go on.
Some do face defeat.
Life can be confusing.
I can’t see the point.
It is not amusing.
It’s all out of joint.

Colour has gone out of my life
I now live in shades of grey
I live on the edge of a knife
All the joy has gone away
I hoped that after eighty years
There would be much to enjoy
Yet I am overcome with tears
Sometimes trivial things will annoy
My world my life and my belief
Subject to review and grief

It is far from easy alone
I crave loving company
I have sinned I know I must atone
It is not enough for me
There is a life I want to share
Activities thoughts, ideals
I broadcast messages to air
An angler casting his reals
Hoping there is someone out there
Perhaps there is a life to share

Like Breugel's Icarus
my brother Michael
dropped into the depths of the sea
unnoticed

Born at the bottom
of a crater of the moon
the sweetest foundling
since creation

His swaddling clothes
were denim and the blues
his pillow
a bottle of rye

This sweet soul
lived half a life
in halfway houses
and cheap motels
reeking of cigarettes
reeling from the *****

When he punched his ticket
on the midnight train to eternity
no one was surprised

I arranged the cremation
a fire that burned
more than one life

I gathered his ashes
and set out
for the crest of the Sierra Nevada

Alone
with my memories,
his ashes
and the cold stone
of those adamant heights

and then east
through the wastes of Nevada
the endless expanse
of the basin and range

A pilgrimage, of sorts
dedicated to nothing
and no one

Just the upthrust range
the solemn and self-absorbed peaks
the dessicated pine
and a wind
that scoured the soul.