dunedin. friday, three, afternoon.
set from home under a blue sky
with full& prepared pack,
a somewhat empty stomach,
and a necessity to get away from the city.
hiking boots tread asphalt down to the depot,
where, in thirty-seven minutes punctuated
by plastic seats grafted to a wall
and a mildly disjunct group of small or
big-time travellers, the naked bus
pulled in, a hematite centipede
crawling into the lot. it was a bus,
no complaints. all others' bags
stowed, twenty seven bucks outta pocket
and swung into the front-right-window seat,
bid a farewell to the beat-down
pub across the road and onto the one-way
merging into a highway and outta
town the dark bug skittered, on
schedule or something resembling it.
behind the driver, the sun came through
around the beam in the window. warm patterns
laid on skin, the countryside's broad expanse:

cylindrical bales of hay scattered about
paddocks, dark late-autumn florets of flax
on roadsides, plumes of white smoke from
bonfires in townships as small as a thumbnail,
hedgelines of eucalyptus, pine; russet streaks
through bark of single gum trees stood
off-centre in fields. sticky-wooded hillsides
punctured by fire breaks roll almost forever
and back. the rushing sound of passing cars
through the 3/4-golden ratio of the driver's
ajar window; twenty-first century mansions
verging on out-of-place. saplings emerging,
bracketed, through verdant grass patches.
museum abbatoirs. toitoi like hen's plumage
lining drainage ditches. another Elizabeth st-
(how many could be counted out by now?) tidy
front yards and milton liquorland through this
small town. an everpresent tilting sun. fields
of flowered nettle. s-bends through pancake layers
of hills. a delapidated gravel quarry at stony
creek. deer farms, sheep farms, bovine farms, alpaca
farms (favourite); another bonfire seen down a
long gulley; a power substation, all organized
tangles. a two-four 300m before the bridge into

balclutha. 4.40pm.
across the road into the i-site
two friendly ladies circle locations
to make (got a car) or try to make (on foot),
offering a ride in half an hour,
leave it to chance.
across another road, drifter's emporium
(that's the name, no joke) got a knife
to open up cans- bought no cans, brought
no cans, still nice to have one anyway.
down the road, 200ml from unichem, waste
no time, turn ninety degrees, cross a
railway, then outta town in a sec. first
photo: half highway, half clutha river. fine
shot. sit down, watch the water couple mins,
head down the road. red-black ferns radiate
under willows down the riverbank. metal
bumper-bars keep legs on, the road rolls
gentle turns, diverges from the river. stick
to the former, faster that way. no intentions
of hitching. just wanna walk. and walk. and
walk. guy yells out a car window. envy,
likely. who cares. apple tree hangs over
a dry ditch. pick a small one, gone in
a minute. probably ain't sprayed. been
eating ice-cream dinners more often'n
not the last coupla weeks- isn't much
the stomach won't or can't handle anymore,
anyway.

odours of decay from the freezing works.
seagulls sound out nearby.
typical.

down the road, the reek of death fades
out. back to grass. sit in some of the
tall stuff, under a spindly tree. put down
some ink, a handful of asst. nuts. 'bout
thirteen fingers of daylight left. no idea
if the coast is further than that. little
care. down the road the land flattens out,
decent sign. the junction was a fair bit
past reckoned, though. flipped a chunk
of bark (too lazy to get a coin out) to
figure whether the coast was worth it. bark
said no, went out anyway. gotta see the sea,
keeps you sane. past a lush native
acre or two- some lucky ******'s front lawn-
changed mentality, slung out a thumb (first
time). beginner's luck, kid straight outta
seventh form pulls over in a mustard-yellow
*******' kinda beach-van. was headin' out
to the coast, funnily enough. had been up
in raglan (surf central, nz), back down with
the 'rents now, though. out kaka point, only
one of his age, he reckoned, no schoolhouse
there, just olds. was going to surf academy,
pretty apt. little envious.

the plains spread out and out, ocean just
rose up out of a field. there's nothing
more perfect. gentle waves stroke the sands,
houses stare intently out at the mingling of
blues. one cloud hovers so far away it doesn't
even exist. down the other end of kaka point,
back on solid ground, walking into a gorge, laments
about not choosing the coastal route. but owaka
is the new destination, bout 11ks, give or take
(5ks later, sign says another 15.. some give). nothing
coulda beat that sight anyway, stepping outta
a van onto that pristine beach.

entry: gorge route to owaka. seven.
late light painted the tops of hills absolute
gold. thought maybe this way ain't so bad. beside a
converging valley, phone got enough reception
for dad to get through. said in balclutha coulda
got a room with a colleague. too far out now. lost
him in the middle of a sentence about camera film.
surprised to have even got that far. road wound
troughlike through the bottom of the gorge, became
parallel to a cute little stream. climbed down chickenwire
holding the road in place, ****** in it (had to).
clambered back up, continued walking as the occasional
campervan rolled on by. took a photo of the sun perched
on a hilltop, sent it to mel. dunno why. anxieties
over the perfect sunrise picture came frequently,
a goal become turmoil. the gorge flattened out,
and soon in countryside my fears allayed. round
a corner in picturesque nowhere, found my shot.
sat in long grass. stole it. sighed. ate a handful
of nuts. moved on. {about eight}

dark consumed the surrounding gentle-rolling hills,
nowhere near owaka, which was probably the tiny bundle
of lights nestling a little below the foot of a
mountain in the distance (not too far off, in
reality). near the turnoff to surat bay (was heading
there, plans change) a ute honks. taken as friendly.
a right turn instead of a left, farmsteads lit
up in fireplace tones, the sound cows make at
dusk. it got colder. would one jersey be sufficient?
hoepfully. stars began pinpricking the royal blues of the
night sky in its opening hues. eight-fourty-ish slugged
back about 3/4 of the syrup, along with half of a box
of fruit medley (so **** delicious), in light of dull
calf aches becoming increasingly apparent. needed
to walk a helluva lot more. ain't one for lettin'
nothing get in the way of that. lights in the distance
became the entry sign for a camp-site. no interest,
head on. past another farmhouse, stars came out in
packs. three cows upon a slight hilltop. next junction
pulled left a good eighty degrees and was on the
straight to owaka. less than two minutes later,
a dog-ute pulled to a halt and offers up a ride down
most of the stretch. didn't say no.

still stable, as two pig-hunters tell
of their drive back from picking up a couple
pig-dogs somewhere north. they were heading
out bush to shoot, thought they'd seen
another guy they'd picked up a couple weeks
ago, who'd taken 'em out somewhere they
couldn't remember. paranoia grips, but
the lads are fairly innocuous. they say it's
dangerous out here, gotta be ballsy walking
middle of the night, no gun, no dog,
all by yourself. wasn't worried, got nothing
to lose anyway (still, this sets helluva
mood). by a turnoff a k outta owaka, dropped
off. said probably all that'll be open there
is a pub, if that. bid luck and set their way.
above, the whole sky is covered with shining
glitter. down a dip and turn, **** in the
middle of the road. an ominous sign indicating
the outskirts of

owaka. approximately 9.40pm

my head loosens as i approach. the lights
form across a small valley i can't verify
exists or not between dog barks i mistake
for the yells of drunkards and lights
pirouetting from cars behind me. i slow
down i don't want to do this.

owaka is terrifying. plastic.

the street corners thud like cardboard. i
walk past a garden of teapots, a computer
screen inside the house glares through the
window pane bending breathing outward. there
is nobody here, still there is a feeling
like there's people everywhere, flocking
in shadows. a silhouette moving in a
distant cafe doorway. the sound of teeth,
of darkness fallen. thick russian tones
sound from a shelf of a motel. eyes
everywhere, mostly mine. i stop only round
a bend and down near a police station, yet
feeling no more safe, sitting in a gutter to
send mel my plans, to tell myself my plans.
i want to be nowhere again. i am soon nowhere.

out of breath, out the other end of owaka,
the sick streetlights fade into comforting
dark nestled between bunches of indistinct
treelines. the feeling of safety lasts but
twenty minutes, where another dip in the
road leads through a patch of bush, in which
gunshots ring periodically and laughter and
barking rings through. breaking down, it takes
five minutes to resolve and keep going. ain't
got nothing to lose, anyway. boots squeak like
diseased hinges all down the road. hadn't
noticed beforehand, the only thing noticed
now. an impending doom hangs thick like fog,
the thought of being strung up like an
underweight hog. walking faster and
not much quieter, the other side of the
bush couldn't have come sooner. the fear
lasts until the gunshots are distant nothing.
still alive, still out of breath, still
fairly ****** up, there's no comfort like the
sound of nothing but the occasional insect's
chirp. vestiges of still water came around
a corner and just kept coming as the golden
moon sung serenity all over. finally, a peace
came to rest over the landscape. sitting by
the road with a clear view of the moon's light
sheathed in the waters, the stars above wreath
a cirrus eye to watch over the marshland
plants leading into the placid waters of

catlins lake, west. ten fifty-one.
crossing a one-way bridge over a river winding
its way into the lake, another turning point
decision arose: continue down the highway
along the river, or head straight out and
toward the coast again. having resolved to
make it to a waterfall by dawn, and the latter
offering a possibility of this, the decision
made itself. turning back around the other side
of the lake, the road wound a couple times
up a gentle ***** out and up from the valley
at the tail of the lake, and into a slightly
more elevated valley. the country roads ran
easily and smooth, paved roughly but solid.
not a car came by for kilometers at a time.
lay on the road past a turnoff for quarter
of an hour letting serenity wash over, the
hills miniscule in comparison to home, the
sky motionless, massive thin halo about the
moon. walking on, night-birds called from
time to time (no moreporks, though. not until
dawn), figuring out how to whistle them back.
a turnoff to purakaunui bay strongly
considered and ultimately ignored; retrospectively
a great call, considering the size of the detour.
hedgerows of macrocarpa, limbs clearly cut
haphazard where once they'd hung over the
road. occasional 4wd passing, always a 4wd,
be it flash new or trusty old. you'd need
one out here. have no fun, otherwise.
monolithic pine-ish hedge bushes, squatting
giants. once, a glimmering in the sky, a
plane from queenstown (assumedly) almost
way too far to make out. the colossus of
the one human-shaped shadow cast down
from the moon to my boots. how small
a thing in this place. swamped out by
the beauty of this neverending valley.
breathless.

the road turned, not quite a hairpin,
but not entirely bluntly, a welcome
break from the straight or gentle
sway, and five minutes turned to dirt.
had to lay down again- legs screaming
by this point for rest. still, they
had nothing against pressing on. dad
taught me to just keep going. that's
the thing about walking. stop for a
little bit and you're good to go
again. pushing for the fall was probably
overkill, but no worry now. dirt road
felt so right after a good 20+ks of
asphalt, only infrequently punctuated
by roadside moss or thin grass. it
was as if beginning again (well,
kinda, if only with as much energy).
having downed only a litre of water
(leaving only half a litre more), a
litre of fruit juice and about 100
grams of assorted nuts since more
than twelve hours ago by this point,
it should have been a shock to
still be going by this point. don't
really need that much anyway, though.
gone on less for longer. hydration,
anyway, was the least of all worries,
the air being thick with water, ground
fog having been laid down hours ago.

up the dirt track, more cows. they make strange
sounds at night. didn't know anything yet,
though. that's still to come. a ute swang past
going the other way, indiscriminate hollers
from the passenger-side window. waved back
cheerily. so far from anything to be anything
but upbeat now. not even the heavy shroud of
tiredness could touch that, yet. the track wound
on forever. was stopping every half-kilometer
to stand and stretch, warding off the oncoming
aches. the onset was unwieldy, though. didn't
have long. past a B&B;, wondered whether anyone
actually ever stayed there (surely would, who'd
not revisit this place over and over once they'd
discovered it?)- certainly would've, having the
cash (apparently parts of "lion, witch and the
wardrobe" were filmed here. huh). further on, the
road turned back to seal, unfortunately, but
with small promise- surely, at least fairly
close by this point. turning a corner, a small
and infinitely beautiful indent against the bush,
a small paddock bunched up against it, stream
wound against the bases of trees, all lit by
the clear tones of a now unswathed moon, sat
aside the road. it was distilled perfection.
it was too much, just had to keep goin' or
risk shattering that image. next turn was
a set of DOC toilets, an excellent sign. must be
basically sitting on the path entry now. searched
all 'round the back for it, up the road, nothing.
not entirely despondent but bewildered, moved
forward and found a signpost. the falls were now
behind? turned around and searched even more
thoroughly, quiet hope turning to desperation
by the silent light of the moon. finally,
straight across the road from the toilets,
was the green and gold sign, cloaked in
darkness under clustering trees, professing
a ten-minute bushwalk to the

purakaunui falls. saturday. 1.32 am.**
venturing into the bush by the dull light
of a screen of a dying phone, the breeze
made small movements through the canopy. it
couldn't have been any more tranquil. edging
way through the winding cliffish track through
dense brush, the sound of a trickling stream
engorged into a lush symphony of water. crossing
a single-sided bridge across an unseeable chasm,
twinkling from the ferns behind became apparent.
turning off the dull light, the tiny neon bulbs of
glow-worms littered the dirt wall risen up about
half a metre, where the track had been cut out.
my heart soared. all heights of beauty come
together. continuing down the path, glow-worms
litter the surroundings and the rushing of
water comes to a roar. at a look-out platform
above the falls, nothing can be seen save a
slight glisten. down perilous steps (wouldn't
be too bad if you could actually see 'em) the
final viewing platform lay at level with the
bottom of the falls. they stood like a statue
in the dark, winding trails of thin white wash
through the shadows hung under trees. left
speechless from something hardly made out, turned
around and back up the stairs to where the
glowing dots seemed their most concentrated.
into the ferns above, clambered through and
around moss-painted tree trunks and came to rest
a couple hundred metres from the trail, under
a fern, under a rata. packed everything but
a blanket from nan into the bag, laid it out
on curled leaf litter and folded up into it,
feet too sore to remove 'em from boots, curling
knees up into the blanket and tucking a hand
between 'em to keep it warm. only face and
ankles exposed, watched the moon's light trickle
through canopy layers for a few hours, readjusting
tendons in legs as they came to ache. sleep (or
something resembling it) set in, somewhere
around four.

some time slightly before six, the realisation
that my legs had extended and become so cold that
they'd started cramping all the way through hit,
coupled with the sounds coming through the bush.

I wait for you to come closer,
To draw closer and tell me
That you can't deal with me
Any more. Not with my
Insane, bordering on
Psychotic, behavior, and
My bipolar mood swings.
But, you draw closer
And you smile right at me,
And draw me into a hug
For a second, that little voice,
Which I am always aware of,
Which tells me I'm never
Going to be good enough
For anyone to accept or like,
Let alone love,
Fades to the back of my mind.
I let myself relax
Into your warm embrace and
I let myself be and believe.
I turn to smile at you...
Before I can see your face,
Your features, I am woken up
From my daydream
By the bell signalling the
End of school. I pack my bag
And head towards my carpool,
My movements sluggish-
Even cheerily wave goodbye to
A few stragglers.
I reach home and eat lunch alone.  
I go for tuition, let myself
Become numb to everything
But learning and understanding.
It becomes darker and it's almost 8,
I come back home again.
I had been out from 7 in the morning.
This time, my family's there and
We eat dinner together, though,
I am barely there with them.
They're discussing important
Things like business and will
Talk to me later.  I finish eating
And go sleep. Tomorrow's going to
Be the exact robotic same.

In the day spa pool
                     a ******* girl,
              floats half submerged;
two placid white lotus buds,
identical twins,
     cheerily face upwards,
   gleaming, wet.

Leaves
Murmuring by miriads in the shimmering trees.
Lives
Wakening with wonder in the Pyrenees.
Birds
Cheerily chirping in the early day.
Bards
Singing of summer, scything thro' the hay.
Bees
Shaking the heavy dews from bloom and frond.
Boys
Bursting the surface of the ebony pond.
Flashes
Of swimmers carving thro' the sparkling cold.
Fleshes
Gleaming with wetness to the morning gold.
A mead
Bordered about with warbling water brooks.
A maid
Laughing the love-laugh with me; proud of looks.
The heat
Throbbing between the upland and the peak.
Her heart
Quivering with passion to my pressed cheek.
Braiding
Of floating flames across the mountain brow.
Brooding
Of stillness; and a sighing of the bough.
Stirs
Of leaflets in the gloom; soft petal-showers;
Stars
Expanding with the starr'd nocturnal flowers.

You were always
an early bird, and I wasn't,
but my favorite thing was
to stumble out of my slumber
and hungrily look at my phone for a text saying
wake up
to which I would hurriedly respond,
though three hours later,
and you knew I would,
so as soon as I did as you predicted
you would command me to
drive the less-than-ten-minutes to your apartment
so you could cook me some
breakfast,
and we could get lost in each other.

You made me eggs and bacon
and always a biscuit with my choice of topping,
and you'd put on whatever CD we
currently found relevant,
that one time I know it was Ne-Yo,
and I chomped on my plate full of yummies
so cheerily
as you made me listen so closely to
lyrics you knew I would
just
get.

10 AM and I was somehow
thrilled to be out of bed,
enjoying the way the sun peeked behind the clouds
and stroked my cheek
as we shared a smoke on your porch.

You were the kinda guy that
made me like mornings,
that made me
feel the weight of the words in songs,
that made me appreciate art
and notice how pink
the sunset was,
that made me want to read the newspaper
so I could pick your brain and
pay attention in class so I could
tell you what I learned,
that made my world brighter
and my burdens lighter.

You were you and
you made me a certain kinda me and
**** do I sometimes still wanna
wake up
and eat some eggs while you
tell me your dreams and
your stereo plays.

the magpie stole my pen

then flapped its wings
to hide it fast
so i couldn't see it again.

i ran up the staircase

so i could see
how far could flee
in blue's cool embrace.

the day had a golden hue

up the roof
wind blew aloof
the sky said i need you.

birds were dazzled white

made pleasured cry
soared to high
stole my all eyelight.

cheerily swayed the tree

cute green leaf
in disbelief
saw me carefree.

the magpie called me then

now i bet
you don't regret
my stealing away your pain.

A voracious beast devours my Husband
Distraught and upset I must put on a strong face for him
Every day I watch him grow paler and more thin
At night my dreams are consumed with needles, prescriptions
IV tubing and bad food swirl in the mix
In his eyes I see an exhausted spirit on the edge
The need to protect is a driving force within me
Hospitals should be more sterile
HE HAS A ******* FAILURE OF THE BONE MARROW PEOPLE
The next school of medicine reject who doesn't wash their hands
Will have them cheerily  burned off...by me
On the inside I seeth and cry, throw a child's tantrum on the floor
Unfair does not even begin to describe the pain he has endured
Some would say to let him go, *******
They just do not know us
For my exterior is made up of stone
Supported by a frame of steel
I will never give up
We have a will of iron
A malignancy has no control over our strength
Into the coming war of medical procedures we are defiant
Strong and Worthy
We will never give up

Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily “Hit them hard!”
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose to my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You’re one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you’re two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn’t blue,
But he wouldn’t advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut’s now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don’t forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You’d think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay

And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man’s work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right—agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future’s sakes.

" It ought to be solemnized with Pomp and Parade, with Shews,
            Games, Sports, Guns, Bells, Bonfires and  
                Illuminations from one End of this Continent
                      to the other from this Time forward forever more.”
      John Adams – July 3, 1776.

Webster Groves - 2016

The Townhall fountain dances
cheerily in the morning sun.
The red-white-blue shirted crowd
rises as one for the colors.
Laughing children scramble for
tootsie rolls and sweet tarts
tossed by a strolling  clown.

         Philadelphia, July 3, 1776

        Carriages sped toward Philadelphia
        where resolute patriots
        would turn the pages of history
        and tell an unsuspecting world
        that a new nation had given birth to itself.

Sousa strains peal from the marching Statesmen,
Girl Scouts guide their well-groomed mounts -
hooves echoing through concrete caverns.
Vintage firetrucks and autos
sound their horns and sirens
as candidates work the crowd, pressing the flesh.

        Each crass insult from the British crown
        had tightened the noose on the colonial neck.
        The middle ground was soaked with patriot blood
        and revolution was the only course left.

Barbecue clouds drift over Pat and Lee’s farm
Horseshoes spin and clang and frisbees fly.
A ***-luck feast with beans and franks
interrupts the pop and glare of bottle rockets.

        One by one, each patriot quilled the parchment
        resolved to endure the costs of liberty -
        knowing to the marrow that defeat
        would spell certain ******* and death.

We reach the lakeshore at dusk -
unfolding chairs - spreading out blankets -
strains of Americana drift over the lake.
then a pyro-technic extravaganza
blazes across the summer sky.  

        Washingon’s tattered and bloodied men
        cornered Cornwallis at Yorktown.
        Then surrender - all British claims
        to American soil banished to the tomes of history.

The grand finale pummels the darkened sky
raising cheers and whistles from the crowd
Toddlers collapse in parental arms,
car doors slam, engines ignite
and head-lighted caravans, turn for home,
spiraling off in every compass degree.

“Happy birthday,” America and endless happy returns
"from this time forward forever more!”  

Robert Charles Howard

(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon,
sky and stars; God’s two heirs
dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but
small maya birds - transfixed
mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding
might their status affords them.

as His children their world and its light is for their taking,
of which they can feed - or not:
they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising
(sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps
in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud
and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling
their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes,
those yearning to feel its bleakness

in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats:
the soft choke of exhaust smoke
and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate:
that of snatching from death
a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and
Janus we choose.” They shuttlling
commuters obscure and without fuss and without end
to and fro, where they come

they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts

The rarest orchid bloomed in my garden, to you I cheerily gifted,
it's fragrance you heartily inhaled, making me smile,at my poetic best
a rose, deep red, a representation of your heart,I suppose, you presented,
but, did you pause,see how was I transformed, when I deeply kissed it?

May morning cacophonies never quiet.
Doves coos, repetitive sharp whistles
rising and falling sounded by robins,
who seem to say, "cheer up, cheer up,
cheerily, cheer up." Jays shrieking
whatever warnings they shriek. Chirps,
tweets, titterings of so many more, combine
in crazy compilations of some
orchestra without their conductor
forever warming up days. I do not own
feathers but all my body hairs do stand
on end, flitting as if they were. Then,
woodpecker taps against hollow
termite ridden tree sounding like
the strike of a conductor's baton.

Nothing comes together. A symphony
never starts, at least not one of any
great composer's. Just the greatest.
I spring from my nest. I do not know music.
I hear it and am it. These mornings move
me to ditter about, find my way,
peck my morning niblings, feel dawn
dress me in sun, make me lust
life adorned with feathers. How
possibility wings bring.

From flock to flock, I dare to fit in.
Learn new mating dances.

Gently lengthening the last rays of the sun
Casting sombre shadows on the lawn
Reminiscent of days long ago when we’d run
Rising cheerily with the heavenly dawn.
Now in my grey and twilight days
A flood of memories bring comfort to my heart
Speaking of a happiness, a golden haze
Soothing my soul, how that we are apart.
Regrets and sorrows fill my heart with woe
Friends and loved ones call their names
Reminding me of a joy from long ago
Sadly we’ll never play out old games.
Form though I am now at the close of day
My long, happy life I would gladly replay.

He sneaks a bold finger into her navel.
She squirms in sudden protest.
He quickly lifts the damp hair from her neck
and kisses little apologies.
Her sigh forgives the intrusion, she rolls to her side
suddenly all hip and pale inner thigh.
He follows swiftly down the valley,
a little boy running home for dinner-
He hums a nothing song.
She quietly hums along.
He waits.
She says it first and means it.
His heart pulses twice at these prophetic murmurs.
Her mood quickly changes, leaps to her feet, flexing naked muscles
and pouting in comic exaggeration.
He laughs and softly adores her unselfconsciousness, this is new.
She bends to kiss him.
He remembers the oven is on.
She remembers the time.
He whistles Last Stand cheerily to the scorched vegetables.
All because she touched him inappropriately in the kitchen
in lieu of uncorking the wine.

A misplaced youth*

My first original rhyme –
take a “truck” drop the head and add an eff –
was hand-me-down crude,
not clever,
but how clever can you be
at four years old?

The chilly blush of it still brings
out a ringing
sound of one hand clapping
against my cheek;
then comes the deflating bawl
from pouchy flesh instantly un-stuffed
of its squirrely giggles and glee.

It put me off cheap sing-song thrills
for decades.

Same age, different flaws:
Can you be too young to develop
a finely tuned sense of entitlement
and the firmest conviction
for redistributing misbegotten wealth?

If anyone deserved a raggedy toy –
don’t call it a doll –
mouse-eared and with cherry-red shorts
cheerily poking out
of a tinsel-topped Christmas stocking,
it was me, not her.

Maybe Santa was suffering
from dementia,
or forgot his reading glasses.

I wasn’t smart enough yet
to cover my tracks,
and I didn't know any fences;
it’s hard to deny a crime
when you’re hugging the goods.

Skip ahead a few years,
and after the regular Sunday
indoctrinations of an uncharitably
faith-based brand of hero-worship,
there are all the tell-tale signs
of a sleep-sick heart
with an over-simplified world view
married to a messiah complex.

Is it normal to dream
of oneself, small but magnificently armored,
supplanting Michael
as the head of that goodly Host
driving out the evil legions?

At least I knew how to side with a winner
back then.

I also dreamed Gulliver-like,
I had been roped down to my bed
by a clutch of creepy-crawly bugs,
and in a tiny voice I could barely make out,
their spokes-beetle cried up to me:
“There will come a time
when the time finally comes,
and when it does
you’ll smack its self-satisfied face
for keeping you
waiting so long.”

My hand's always poised above the clock.

Sitting here
And pondering
Wondering
Why?

Merrily
Or cheerily
Yet I still want to die

My face is smiles
Happy
And misleading

My heart is fractured
Lacerated
And bleeding

My mind is buzzing
And words are whirling
Swirling
Twirling my thoughts
To delusions of grandeur

I sit
Detached
Maybe confused
Not sure what to do

Does anyone else feel this way?
Do you ever just
Wish it would end?

Do you ever look at your life
And think.
What have i done?

For me
At least
I have these
To ease
Those thoughts of nothingness

Though i am not famous
Or rich
Or even that well known

My words are profound
My thoughts are now focused
My poetry
And notoriety
Rising

My heart
My soul
My drive
My will
This day
I feel
And deal
This wheel
Of life
Or strife
A mighty blow
Although
My heart

Is screaming.

On this first day of September
as I look up at the rainwashed sky
with cheerily flying grey white storks
I grow fonder of belonging.

This is the place I call mine
where in the autumnal shine
open all doors
and the wind whispers

All is yours
yours

this is your place
forever and no less

all of today
and tomorrow

for you made
yours in essence.

This September day
insignificant becomes transience!

Prologue:

Good ol’ Phillip Riley. The reason I am restrained in handcuffs, struggling but not able to put up much of a fight, being carried away from my beautiful -was to be- home. The red and blue lights are splashing back from the wet asphalt onto my cold face. I can assume it will only get worse from here, but it was worth it. She should have never crossed our paths and I have now made sure she will forever regret her decision. The only thing to do now is try and convince the jury this was an innocent act of passion. We will see who’s side they are on, after they hear all of the gruesome facts. All in all, the punishment fits the crime, and I accept.

Chapter 1: Mayville

My name is Mayville Houston. I am a single woman in my early 30s, nothing special. I am a licensed market coordinator at a real estate firm. For those of you who do not know what that is, I handle all of the appointments and paperwork that has to do with putting a home on the market as well as taking the home through escrow when we find a buyer. I love my job and there is always something new every day, but there are parts of it that can be repetitive and difficult. All and all, it is an amazing job and it pays the bills, I am grateful.

I am a coordinator to two amazing agents who are top producers, and hit the ground running every year. Needless to say I have my hands full coordinating these two. It is a blessing and a curse. I am a top performer with the top performers, but a lot of the time my personal life is sacrificed for the customer. Give and take. I start work at 8, make my lunch at 12, finish the day, work out, meditate, journal, paint, and do the activities that keep me sane throughout the day. I love my little life and how hard i have worked to get here.

Although every day is different and interesting things arise, nothing was as interesting as the day Phillip Riley and his wife Amber Riley walked through our office doors. It was a Tuesday like any other, all of us, heads down in our cubicles focusing on our work. I was on my second Redbull of the day, kind of a fanatic for them at the time, i felt that they got me through the day. Of course it was just sugary carbs, but I would be the last person to admit that.

Philip and Amber Riley bursted through our doors around 3:30pm. They had an appointment with my agents regarding some gorgeous houses in the area of Orange County that had caught their eye. I heard them come in, and being my agent’s coordinator, I got up and greeted them kindly, welcoming them to our office and introducing myself as Mayville Houston, my agent’s coordinator who will be assisting with all appointments and paperwork as we take them through escrow. I explained to them how excited I was that my agent Mariela would be taking them to see potential future homes. Amber asked if I would be joining them. I respectfully said I had to stay here at the office and take care of other clients. I could have sworn I saw a flash of sadness in Phillip’s face when I said that, but i have always been one to imagine things. There is no way.

Mariela comes out of her office and introduces herself to Phillip and Amber. Everyone is excited to start phillip and amber’s journey of purchasing a home. I wish them luck and hurry back to my cubicle, but before doing so I hand them a business card, letting them know they can call, text or email me with any questions they had regarding their appointments and paperwork. Mariela, Phillip and Amber were on their way out of the door, and I scurried back to my cubicle, trying to ignore what just happened. I swear I felt electricity between myself and Phillip Riley, but I think all of this time spent in this cubicle has me imagining things that just are not true.

Chapter 2: Phillip

*******, did I just witness an angel walk into the same room as me? She is going to help my wife and I purchase a home in the suburbs?

This is crazy. I am 35, settling down with my gorgeous wife Amber. She has strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, skin as fair as a cherub angel, and a smile that could knock you dead. We are newly weds, so happy to be too. We recently married last August, and when we started discussing a more permanent place, neither of us could be happier about the idea.

But that was before I saw her. Mayville Houston. Apparently Mayville is what they call a “coordinator” in the real estate world. She deals with all of our paperwork, appointments, and assisting us through escrow. I did not know what that job entailed until she told me. Until her soft, plump lips and perfect smile explained her role as her luscious, brown curls bounced off of her shoulder. She was wearing a navy pencil skirt with a matching blazer. I tried to imagine what ******* were wrapping her perfect bottom. Tight waist, fat ***, *******, gorgeous face, hair and smile. Needless to say, Mayville took my breath away. Our first meeting was with Mariela only, Mayville did not attend. I was a bit saddened to hear she wouldn’t be joining, but i understood. I am a good man, a hard worker, a loyal husband… well, I was, completely, before i saw her, before i knew i had to have her, before i would stop at nothing to get her.

I think Mayville is my true soulmate. That is what my heart is telling me, right now…


Chapter 3: Mayville

A chip, Wednesday afternoon in February. For some reason, winter in California starts late. I am digging away at work for my deals when our office door opens. Usually i wouldn’t spare a second glance, but I realize right away who it is.

Phillip Riley stands, waiting for a greeting by our door. I stand up and straighten my outfit. I wear the same pencil skirt matching blazer combo, but today’s color is black. I walk up to him and chirp a quiet “Hello, Mr. Riley.” He smiles and says “why hello Miss Houston”. My knees want to buckle at his voice. It is like caramel dripping down a sundae on a hot day. His pressed, white shirt with a bright blue tie to compliment his perfectly chiseled jawline with just the right amount of stubble. He is about 6’5”, and has grey pants and very shiny dress shoes to compliment his white shirt and jawline. His hair is ***** blonde, but starting to grey. There is just something about this ******* man.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Riley?” I say, putting more confidence in my voice. “Please, call me Phillip”, he says warmly. He then explains to me he is meeting my agent Mariela, they have an inspection today, an appointment to ensure the property is in good condition, and his wife couldn’t make it due to being stuck at work. I get a little excited when he mentions Amber is not here. “Wait right here”, I say cheerily. “I will get Mariela for you right away.” I rush down the hall to let Mariela know that Phillip is here. She gets up and walks toward her door. Right before she walks out of it, she looks me dead in the eye and says “I see the way you look at him. Just be careful. Marriages are nothing to get involved in.” She gives my shoulder a squeeze and walks out. I love Mariela. She has always been like a mother figure to me. But something about the way she says that makes me shudder. I follow behind her quickly, heading back to my cubicle but hopelessly wanting to see Phillip one more time.

I watch them walk out the door. Phillip thanks me again, flashes me a smile, and walks out the door.

I can’t be imagining this electricity I feel between us. But Mariela is right, marriages are nothing to get involved in…

Chapter 4: Phillip

Another appointment that does not include Mayville. I am starting to get irritated. But I understand, she has to stay in her office and tend to other clients, like me. Each one’s needs different than the last. But I am not sure any of them have the needs i have…

I need her. I need to feel her on me, pressed against me, i need to feel what it is like to be inside of her, to release myself inside of her. God, what is wrong with me? I am married to Amber! We were talking about kids the other day! What is this feeling that has come over me recently? I cannot be feeling this way about another woman when we are searching for a house together. Am i completely insane? I need to nip these feelings in the bud before anything can get out of control. They are completely out of nowhere anyway. So I can make them go away out of nowhere too.

Mariela and I finish up the inspection, and she takes me back to her office since i left my car there. I notice there are lights still on in the building, and there is a silver honda civic still in the parking lot. I do not know, but i am hoping this is Mayville's car. I just want to see her one more time, her perfect body, in that tight matching professional outfit. Her pencil skirts drive me absolutely insane. ****, my train of thought got too crazy again. I. Am. A. Married. Man.

Mariella says goodnight to me. I say goodnight back and start to get in my car, and that is when I start to see her thick curls, flowing in the wind. I know I shouldn’t, but ****, I get back out of my car and walk towards her, while she is walking to her car.

“Hi Mr. Riley, er, I mean Phillip.” God, she is so ******* cute in addition to being so ******* ****.
“Hi, Mayville.” I say back. “You can call me May..” she says shyly. Why is she so cute?
“Okay, May. So what are your plans for this evening?” Innocent, but poking. “I was just going to head home… maybe have a glass of whiskey and binge some shows..” she says. “How about coming with me to the bar down the street?” I say, a bit more excited than I meant to.
I can see in her eyes she is unsure, but she nods silently. I motion for her to get in my car, and we ride together in silence to the bar about 5 minutes from her office. We get out of my car and I notice both of us fixing our attire. Curious, how both of us care how we look to one another tonight. I motion for her to walk in front of me as we walk to the front door of the bar. I open the door for her and tell the waitress we would like a table for 2. As we wiggle into our booth, our hands touch and it is hotter than a burning star. I know we both feel this, we have to. It is only a matter of time before I get my confirmation.

Chapter 5: Mayville

Oh my god. I cannot believe i am at a bar with a client. A client who I am assisting him and his wife in buying a home, mind you. He asks me what I would like. I shyly say “an old fashioned.” He grins from ear to ear and tells me that is his drink of choice as well. Am I imagining all of this? I already feel dizzy and we haven’t even gotten our drinks yet. The golden liquid with a slice of an orange peel arrives in front of us. We do a gentle cheers and I **** down half of my drink. Not only am I nervous but this week has been particularly tough and an old fashioned sounded like the best thing on earth at the moment. He says “eager, are we?” with that buttery voice that could melt a thousand candles at the same time. I smile nervously and just say “sorry, stressful week.” He knocks back half of his drink as well and just smiles at me. As if this man could get any sexier, *******. I smile and take another sip of my drink. I can’t help myself, I let myself melt in front of this man. I know he is married and nothing can happen between us, but something about him makes me feel safe enough to let my guard down. A warm home, in a winter storm,

We both have 3 drinks each. Cheeks burning red, I start to regret my decision a bit. I should not be out with a married man on a weekday. Truly, I can’t help myself at this point. We are both giggling about things each other has said. I smile, he smiles back. My hazel eyes glimmer with interest, hope, lust.

He pays the bill and we start walking out of the bar. I stumble once and he catches me. Even his touch is as soft as an angel. He leads me into his car, but instead of helping me into the front, he helps me into the back. I slowly ask “what are you doing?” He just shushes me and gets in the back too, on the opposite side of me. Once we are both inside of his car, he clicks the lock button, and puts up his front window shade.

I start to panic. What is happening? I cannot be doing this with a married man. What am I doing? What is he doing? What is going on?

As if he senses my panic, he grabs my face gently with both of his hands. He asks me gently to look at him, and i have no other choice, so I do. “It’s okay, I want this”, is all he says, before I see him lean forward to me and lets his lips touch mine. I feel his tongue part my lips and my eyes roll to the back of my head. He tastes like heaven and I can’t believe this is happening. Suddenly I am more confident than I have ever been. I am pulling up my skirt and I am unbuckling his belt and undoing the button on his pants at the same time. I feel the warm bulge in his boxers and I moan. I rub up against him once, showing him how much I want this too. He removes himself from his boxers and drags himself across my ****. I let out a wimper and he plunges his **** into my ***** full force. I let out a sharp gasp and he cups my mouth. I can’t believe this is happening. He feels so good, I could cry. I start to grind my hips down onto him. I see him release his arms and throw his head back, letting me know my movements are providing him what he wants. He places his hands on my hips as he thrusts into me as well. Each ****** and pull of his hands is harder than the last. I look into his glossy eyes and exhale deeply. He grabs my face, says “I’m..” and before he is finished, his tongue is back down my throat and I feel his hot liquid pumping inside of me. I bite his lip as I feel each pump inside of me. He grabs and ***** my ******* as we both finish climaxing together. His car windows are steamy, and we are both breathing hard. He looks up at me as I am still straddling him, and kisses me hard. He looks deep inside my eyes and says “now that i have had you, I won’t be able to stop.”

He drops me off at my car, and drives away. Leaving me shivering a bit in the night cold. But I don’t care. What I do care about is I just had crazy, beautiful *** with a man who i believe is my soulmate. I know he is married, but he is not married to the right woman…

At a funeral recently, a cremation along with my young niece
Whose a Vegan and very environmentally conscious
I was telling her "I wouldn't like to be cremated, it's too much like 'going to hell' to me"
Then she says she'd like to be cremated herself, that it'd be her preferred choice, that it'd be the most environmentally friendly way to go
I said to her "Would you not like to be buried in one of those nice wicker basket type coffins that the environmental people like
I thought that's the kind of thing you'd be into"
She said No! I wouldn't like them, the thought of worms and other creepy crawlies crawling in on top of me, all over me Ugh! I couldn't bear that.

Oh I said, No! just give me a nice quiet church graveyard, lovely and peaceful
With the yew trees nice and shady and the birds singing softly, somewhere lovely and quiet way out in the country
It'd be so relaxing
"Well", she said,"you won't know, sure you'll be dead".
"My soul it'll be reposing", I corrected her cheerily.

Then I said "Y'know I think I saw this TV programme  once where you could have music playing in your coffin
Something over in America, could only be in America LoL
I went on dreamily, "Y'know I think I'm getting younger as I grow older
I've put away all my old Black Sabbath records
Now I've started listening to Taylor Swift instead, she has some great songs that girl, great videos too
I think I'll have Taylor Swift singing to me in my coffin
I'll go boppin' into the next world, the next life with Taylor, hand in hand
I could even put some posters of her up on the inside of my coffin.

Look! I said to my niece pointing to a few hairs on the front of my head
I think my quiff it's starting to grow back again. Elvis here I come!!!

I like to rub her righteous
Rubber baby buggy bumpers
While her Sister Susie
Sells seashells by the sea shore.
Susie works in a shoeshine shop,
She sits, and she shines all day long.
She confesses with too many esses
It lispers up her whispered song.

Peter Piper picking peppers
Putting pickled peppers in a ***.
Woodchuck chucked wood,
Chuckling, chucked the wood he got.
Susie’s sister Betty Botter
Bought a pound of bitter butter.
Betty was a bit of a ******.
She said her butter was better bitter.

I thought of a thought, thinking
It was a very difficult thing to occur.
Thinking, busily thinking;
Blinking, and winking, thinking of her
We made a date at a quarter to eight
Said, “I’ll see you at the gate, don’t be late.”
Lucky and plucky, my ducky doo,
It was a heavy date, and a heavy gate.

Leary of a really weary *****
We wandered in our wandering leathers
Wondered if whether wetter
Weather were better to weather together.
We celebrate our late date
We didn’t skate, or deliberate our fate
Suffice is to further elucidate
And cheerily chewed the churros we ate.

On New Year’s Eve, 2015,
I cheerily wrote you,
From the other side of the world:

“’Tomorrow is –
The first blank page
Of a 365-page book.’
Let’s make it meaningful!”

On New Year’s Eve, 2016,
I wholeheartedly write you,
From the same state:

“Thank you for joining –
The same cast,
In the same reality,
On the same paper;

Thank you for living –
The same words,
On the same page,
In the same chapter;

Thank you for wanting –
The same things,
With the same pace,
In the same manner;

Thank you for sharing –
The same story,
With the same close,
In the same series.”

Taste of freshly picked
honeysuckle melting on my tongue,
diving head first into the
smells and sounds of spring,
croaking of insects as they
happily hum on blossomed branches,
I bite into ripe fruits and
frolick under a sun who fights
slumber till late,
my arms tickling against the fresh
green grass as I lay
in the park with my notebook,
dogs barking cheerily as they
run in the open space,
dusting me with pollen and
peacefulness,
the earth
soaking in a warmth about which
I've been dreaming for
months.

Loving you was the emergence of spring,
and thus without you I remain
frozen in a winter that
seems it will never thaw.

Mr Warrington lived up the hill
He was very big and very round
With a big round wobbling face
Guiness loomed large in his legend
When he used to come home from the pub
He'd say to us cheerily
"Give us a push up th'ill kids!"
So we'd gather round
Pushing him and pulling him up the hill
Like a tiny fleet of tugs
Nudging a liner into position
"Yer good kids!" he'd say "Ere y'are!"
And he dug into his pocket for small change
He threw it on the ground and
We scrabbled merrily
With every penny a blessing

                                        By Phil Roberts

The pan is bubbling merrily, the kettle's whistling cheerily,
I hear the clinking of the cutlery and only wish that I could be
that flamin' happy.

The world is just waking up
And I finish the dishes
Ceremonially sweeping the floor.
Clearing the energy of last night
Making room for a new day to
Waft in
Over the fire escape.

Last night I was part
Of a Mini Passover Seder
Complete with Yam Shank
“The Vegetarian form of lamb shank!”
My quarter Jewish friend says cheerily.
When the Jew and the half Jew stare at her--
“Jewnet.com told me I could do it.”

I’m the Catholic girl in the room
But I’ve been that way since I was three
Attending my neighbor’s Passover Seder’s
Enjoying parsley with salt
And frequently finding the motzah
Lamenting that the body of Christ
Never tasted this good.

Our meal is on an old sewing table
Surrounding by books of Audrey Hepburn’s
Bambi eyed face forever staring,
While we laugh about a hairless kitten named
Pimple.
Or the fish named
Turkey and Pumpkin Pie,
Who once upon a time
Lived in a Salad Bowl.
“They were thanksgiving themed!”
“Did you get them on thanksgiving?”
“No, on my birthday in May”
Giggles erupt again.

The lesbian couple coos and
Lovingly congratulate each other on a great meal.
The roommate alternately sulks and
Makes a boisterous scene.
A character from Friends come to life.
I’m watching mostly, couch surfing for the evening.
“How do you know No-No again?”
“We went to high school together”
“Ooo- you grew up together!”
Yeah- sort of.

We’re about to have dessert when
The roommate grows quiet and grabs a cigarette.
Noelia interrupts:
“You’ll throw up Anna”
After a scuffle of youllregretthat’s
Noiwontleavemealone’s
“Fine, you’re an adult”
“Yes I am”.
Noelia exits with girlfriend.

Anna stares at me, smoke wafting out the window.
“You’re interesting”
The third time that’s been said to me in my life.
Each one as memorable as the last.
When I ask what she means--
“You seem full of secrets.”
“I’m shy at first” I explain
Wondering why it is that quiet
Is meant to be interesting.

I’m intrigued by the giggles, and the laughter
Zoe’s subtle jokes
Noelia’s loud need for things to be just so
How Anna says exactly what she wants.
…I am quiet.

It always happens,
When I’m staring at people
A little too closely
Or mulling things
In the distance.

I am not honest Anna
QuirkyClassy Noelia
Witty Zoe.

Interesting Sarah.
Implying there is oh so much they,
The audience of the world,
Do not know.
Interesting.
Unknown.
Sarah.

i am the pile of dishes that keep piling up,
a stack people are discouraged to clean by the mere glance of;

i am the smile that fades soon after
a passing acquaintance greets cheerily;

i am the tears that refuse to be shed,
the salty droplets indicating weakness;

i am the small wound,
too thin to cause scars but still enough to bleed;

i am the song to listen to,
when feeling sad and alone:
not a remedy, only an aid

I look out the window at my green backyard,
With thriving plants and blossoming flower.
I'm thankful that it hasn't been scarred,
By billowing fumes, and machines with power.
What has nature done to us,
To make us destroy it with rabid lust?

Birds sing cheerily in the branch of a tree,
I sit and watch with eager eye.
Til all at once they fly up free,
Into the air with a whistling cry.
And stark against the background blue,
A sickening streak of blackish hue.

The world today has lost so much,
What more is gonna have to die?
We humans are so out of touch,
Yet I'm never going to say goodbye.
Nature helps us everyday,
To help it back is the smartest way.

Step outside your door
Every once in a while
Do not be held prison
In your house with guile

To live is to feel
And experience what is real
Go ahead and open the door
Be ready to meet more
Than you think there is to life

Meet the yellow glowing sun
With its glory now shines
See the creatures hanging aloft
The sky so blue and endless
Have a taste of color of life
That's  limitless

Feel the breeze that's blowing
Whispering secrets into you ear
Let yourself be carried
And in a voice that's loud and clear
Shout to the world that you are there
With no fear to live and feel
Enjoy as the wind caresses you with love

Let your feet be bare
Feel the ticklish grass beneath
Feel the sand and dust that stick
Feel the hot pavements of the street
Let your feet rejoice so cheerily
Now out of the shoes
that cover joy

Hear the sounds around you
Close your eyes and listen
To the birds of morning that chirp
With their nests on sides of mountains
Hear the dancing of the trees
Hear them clapping their green leaves
Hear the swaying of bamboo
Listen carefully to what's around you

Hear the laugh of the children
The roaring sounds of cars
The endless talk of people
On the roads as they walk home

And as the sun goes down
Twilight comes to town
Though the day's ending
Wear no frown
Watch the stars above and see
The moon and figures present

No it's not the end
There is more to life tomorrow
Once you step outside again
Free

He whisked
                  me
                  up
           to the sinking sun,
and we cheerily
                called in
                the
                night.

loading ideas onto a railing which proves slippery beyond the sea shore’s mercy
when all the flares have exhausted their capacity for withholding harm
when a ship comes ready to carry away any hardy souls

that’s the day I hope I have your hand in mine
when you shake in your convulsions of pain and need, I want to hold you close
and when you think I can no longer bear to witness your vulnerabilities, I pull you in and hold you
with enough space between our madness to make up for the losses that life pours



you’re the one who has seen all my masks crumble and fall
cheerily, we slip in and out of visages of today
and memory rests on those things which swim in an osseous bowl
and yesterday is an old mirror while tomorrow is an overblown expletive of the hopeful


when the world has blown its axis to damnation and beyond its realm of corridors
there’s absolutely little to overturn the leverage
the full capacity of brilliance is never reached
until we let go to enter the steady tides of the moment

Mr Warrington lived up the hill
He was very big and very round
With a big round wobbling face
Guiness loomed large in his legend
When he used to come home from the pub
He'd say to us cheerily
"Give us a push up th'ill kids!"
So we'd gather round
Pushing him and pulling him up the hill
Like a tiny fleet of tugs
Nudging a liner into position
"Yer good kids!" he'd say "Ere y'are!"
And he dug into his pocket for small change
He threw it on the ground and
We scrabbled merrily
With every penny a blessing

                                        By Phil Roberts

I was strolling around the cemetery
On a Sunday afternoon,
When the crumbling earth had opened up
And I fell in a werewolf’s tomb,
I wouldn’t have thought it possible
Were it not for the werewolf’s teeth,
That grazed my arm, and cut my hand,
It was way beyond belief.

But there it was with a canine head
And a slack and open jaw,
Just half a man and half a beast
With a mouth like the devil’s maw,
Its teeth were sharp, serrated as
The blood ran down my arm,
Went mingling with the ancient fur
That had kept the creature warm.

I must have shrieked in the ancient grave
For they came to pull me out,
But once they noticed the wooden stake
Leapt back, with many a shout,
They all shrank back away from me
As if I was unclean,
And left me shivering by the grave
Like a ***** in a dream.

And so I slunk back home again
Bent over in my shame,
I padded swiftly through the weeds
Like a dog that’s going lame,
The blood had clotted along my arm
Had soaked right through my shirt,
So I thought that I’d better hide it then
By rolling in the dirt.

My spectacles were cracked by then
So I cast them off, aside,
I couldn’t believe my vision, with
My eyes, so open wide,
I saw with pin-point clarity,
Not like I’d seen before,
When everything, both near and far
Was seen through a hazy blur.

My wife was sitting and waiting in
Her old and comfy chair,
And though she greeted me cheerily
I could only smell her hair,
But just one thing had startled me
And it’s worthy now to note,
My eyes had sought out her jugular
Soft pulsing at her throat.

It didn’t take me long to tell her
Why I felt unclean,
She bathed and smeared my hand and arm
With some white unguent cream,
Then in the kitchen, later on
Just as the Moon would rise,
She waved a jar of bright red blood
Right before my eyes.

‘Now drink,’ she said, ‘drink every drop,
I know this ancient cure,
And I don’t want to see you stop
Before I have you pure,’
And so I did, this cloying drink,
A foul and horrid taste,
And later on I found she’d made it
From tomato paste.

‘There’s lots of other condiments
I mixed into this crud,
I had to make you think that you
Were drinking human blood.’
‘I’m cured of drinking blood for life
I said, ‘how did you know?’
‘My father was a werewolf too,
Some many years ago.’

David Lewis Paget

They bear the brunt of the heat,
Yet in the scorching sun
Without the respite of a shed,
They don’t complain
But protect what lie below them,
The leaves far down,
The creatures on the ground,
Quietly waiting for the rain!
And when it pours,
They dance in joy
As they get the first drops,
Forgetting all sadness of life!
Can’t we be like them?
I mean the leaves atop the trees
With nothing on their head
Mutely bearing the sun’s wrath
Dancing through all pain
Protecting whatever is down below
Cheerily waiting for rain!

She walks down the hall in silence. The chirping of birds cheerily taunting from views of closed windows. Locked inside a placewhere naivety is not only taught, but spoon fed. Bangs in her eyes as she hums a tune, focusing only on the tapping of her steady feet, clothed in black Converse on the tiled school floor, dreaming of a day where anything could be better. At least that's the start of hope. The blooming of something new. When alone and stuck in the flow, one tends to try and break free.

mum always breaks my heart
she always knows how to tear me apart

she can very cheerily be so nice
the wrong word can make her turn to ice

most of the time she's distant
solid, fortified, distinctly resistant

but intent on my every word choice
note the changing of tone in her voice

sometimes she's odd, accepting;
after two days she's bored and back to neglecting

searching out 'wrongs', use to ream me
she knows the exact strings to pull and unseam me

and it hurts even worse when I see that she tries
she always gets my hopes up & dashes them in front of my eyes

   then she goes into her fantasy land
   we're Lori&Ror;; Gilmore, talking men

I try to play along; it's hilarious to see
that as hip as she likes to think she is, she's as bad at this as me