the white blur
like an albino dream
black satin filled with crystal wishs
star fallen in the faded well

I soared in the wind
Rose above the trees
I could have gone farther
Into space far up
To the stars and the sun
But the cord won’t let me go
It was only a wish
I am bound to it
With a little boy at the end
The boy understood my desires
Helpless though
He let go the string
But that which I thought
Tied me down
Was in truth
Holding me up

words pop into my head:
"Cambodia",
why on earth would I take
a ship through the pillars of Hercules?
I'm not an oarsman or an oracle
nor am I in favour of mutiny

words don't hop off the page with
regrets, pink-eyed and ready to fuck
at the drop of a hat

you just give a poem your best shot, write the
words down before life skins you alive
and you are carried away, still mouthing words that
would have been poems.

I am a plain man
simple in wants and needs
slight of stature and vision

small pieces
seamlessly woven together
a creature
unique
individual
me

sometimes happy
with many attending joys
at times sad
oh! so sad
of which nothing will be said here

all of me
experienced
in parts
at different times

Passion is the tides
Surge, ebb and flow
The roar of an approaching storm
Fires of hell burning
Bright

A lion’s hunger
When on the prowl
To the ocean’s depth
It is felt

Lust never fulfilled

Love is a comfort zone
An unconditional giving
Where no boundary lines are drawn
A knowing without a whisper
A reading of the signs

Love always fulfilled

Passion without love
Is empty
Love lacking passion
Leaves a void

Why can they not co exist
In one

what if i wanted to write poetry
and offered alms to the poet?

give me a few words or give me
poetic death,
stasis is not a state of mind
nor the gist of things
like stingers on a scorpion
shaken from swaggering boots
in the morning,
or a bumble bee,
neither too
too yellow or too black
to carry its full weight,

I go now to repair a bridge.
It serves the road which runs the ridge.
Just a few boards need replacing
on the floor and in the bracing.

I'll do it while the branch is shallow,
now when the far side field is fallow.
My old truck will take me there.
I won't get stuck if I take care.

The land is rugged on this side,
on the other, flat and wide
where crops grow in deep dark soil
which makes this bridge worth all the toil.

the west side of the gatehouse crumbled
and fell,

(did anyone hear it?)

now eight or nine planks of board hold it in place
and the stately entrance
is closed and cordoned off,
I'm the new kid on the block and
while we were picking artifacts such as names
and dates,
toppled headstones and sunken graves
spoke to me asked me
who they were,
did I think these
progenitors of
wealth, these boat people of
Europe
live a good life?

On the tripod
A candle burns
In symbolic marriage
Of wax and wick
The flame is the baby
A spark of the essence
Known to the ancient
So the vestals tended
To preserve the light
Constance was the glow

The flame, a hidden trinity
The child’s earthly sojourn
Of consciousness in nuptials
Of soul and spirit body
Dancing in the wind
Liquefied wax smoulders
Rising amber with blue base
Wrapped around the wick
Revealing, life enfolding
In the flare of spirit being

you said you were coming back
after the day of odds at the track
and the slate green dodge

every time I hear the weather girl
when she says
"there's a promise of rain"

seventy per cent

a nice even count
I think about you

they say even a dog has its day
with this humidty it may rain cats

thirty per cent says it might not
might not rain
might just be a promiz