Wanted:

a place to fit my craggy face
ornery corners
and slumpy chair

a windowless house
without stares
to embrace
my unbecoming

I watch
as life starts to leave
me behind

Each day
unfolds its neverending
glory, little by little
youth is another creature
ravenous its hunger
consumes everything

The minute joys
encapsulated in each day
should be savoured
taken in small bites
and rolled around your mouth

Life is passing me by
but I sit here holding
ribbons of life
stroking them through
my hands
each beautiful strand
Is a moment of joy ....

What was a joy,
'twas once a toy,
a clever tool used for amusement;

was but a lark,
but then the bark,
began falling on the pavement.

Vulnerable outside,
gave a glimpse inside,
what was a bag of tricks;

other methods used,
unbalanced, and confused;
now I've much more wax than wicks.

At times amazed,
sometimes unfazed,
tree's branches bend, and relax;

the roots are deep,
but the grades more steep,
the leaves on the ground hide the tracks.

I took the sweep of the weeping willow
To scatter your memory, as gently as I could
I failed, there was a sound from my soul,
that told the willow fronds not to brush so

I cried a storm, to wash away the tears of yesterday
Yet your Spirit built a sublime river with it.
Teach me to remember with grace your ways.
Whisper in my mind that you are there for always.

it is my
my philosophy

that one should
pound.
pound
their reader.

understanding that when they/the (reader) { U }
are/is reading your work
you are

pounding them
from within their/your brain, you are
pounding them

slowly hard
hardly fast
gent please
fasten your
gentlemen
gent gleee
hard more
soft roar
hard core.

that one should pound
one should pound
you should pound.
pound
philosophy.

pound is my
philosophy.

Opening up

falling

Trusting

fallen

Regretting

broken

This is one of my all time favourite poems. It stands the test of time despite references to events from the '70s and specifically Australian place names. It is very, very long, uses a lot of repetition and yet reads compulsively.

my friends.

The door to December
She hastens her breath

bringing popsicle cobwebs
that remind me of death;

and the fiddler, he plays by the tree,
Her breath an iced cold legacy.

This door to December
whistles a crepe hanging breeze

Her breath quickly killing
the branches off trees;

the fiddler sought street lamps to see,
perchancing a crowd's company.

That door to December
Solstice shuts in the end

She quickbolts both locks
locking out Her last friend;

suspension eve
the slow crawl of stars
like a sunset of flame

rising like ashes glowing

funeral lanterns
at midnight
shinning like brilliant
cascades turning

How we landed in our
simple craft
from the great cradle ship
rocked in slings
and sung to sleep
by the sighs of the canvas

the maiden winds
in the lines

At the frosted crossroads of my forest garden
I knelt in darkness after work
And thanked Her for my journey home,
Looking up into Her smiling face
Through the sleeping branches of the trees,

And as I gave my final thanks
With arms outstretched
I heard Her footsteps on the path,
Felt them in my grateful heart,