Down with the lockdown.  Cross with a panoramic view.  All seeing, all knowing.  But what is there to know?  Now, and then, before and after - we remember them as they were...  history beguiles!

Water drips. A phone rings.  The baby has arrived.  Tomo calls.  Grab a taxi. The visit is on. Yellow toys bobbing.  Well that's the aim.  Fingers are crossed.  Get your money ready.  It's cold outside. The rain is here.

A clown's rebounding.  Traced on paper. Her life-line laughing.  Yellow stained tobacco teeth, white-washed into make-believe.  One colorful vision in a carnival scene.  Welcome in, and start to sing... this mirror respects your long-lost dream.

March 21st 2017 -

Early to rise... breakfast served.  We face one another.  Hazel eyes meeting blue.  Idle chit-chat accompanies the Nescafe. The morning post sits unopened. Tomorrow everything will change. But for now we remain innocent.

Raindrops splash
lightning strikes -
a giant oak appears.

A tin can rattles along the road.  Blown by the lungs of the world.  Hospitals call for the injured.  Sirens ring out.  Screaming so loud.  The wheels spin.  A coffee is spilt.  Across the table it flows.

This morning passes
as clouds come and go

I watch the washing
machine as it spins

listening to rumbles
from the sky

the table is cluttered,
with newspaper print

four legs in contact with
the kitchen floor

The page is yellowed
and torn.

Tomorrow we'll dream
like ripples on a pond.

Watching the butterfly
as she beats her wings.

When the curtains are
closed,

your shadow becomes
the setting sun.

Rebounding raindrops
sparkle like diamonds:
relaxing in the garden.

In her hand I ride the tracks. Time stamped with no use-by
date.  An bus ticket torn in two, it's impossible to forget you.

The empty coke bottle spins inside, the apple-pie's half eaten.

Your shoes all scuffed. Your hat still crushed. The wall from which you fell.  The orange peel hidden in your bag.

This picture frame is soon to be trashed.

Moving in circles,
a second hand

is ticking...

Time is on a mission

and the watch-strap
is slipping.

Before the dawn, that was how it began.  Trumpets sounded and my name was called.  Henceforth you shall become a story worth sharing.  She smiled immediately.  Her curves were the seasons. Images of a valentines heart and Cupid's arrow.  We danced upon the fresh grass.

Eventually cloud obscured our vision - to return, renewed, to remain consumed, grateful for the gift of life.

In long grass
we hear

whispers of
the winds

a rain cloud
is near

wishing for a
rainbow.

Green-eyed wanderings.  Taken by surprise as the rain soaks us to the bone.  We sit surrounded by foxgloves and nettles.  A collection of magic and green medicine, her knowledge of folklore soothes.

The fallen oak offers shelter.  We strike a match, the fire warms.  Huddled together once more.  Another moment to share.  Outside the crows caw.  Flames flicker, smoke rises.  Our clothes begin to dry.

Blue sky breaks through the clouds.  Like the sun we rise.  The homeward path is long.

Tonight I will sleep with the black cat - tonight I will dream of the Jinx.  Tonight I will dance with the mad ones.  Tonight I will relish all that I see.

To be jinxed is a sprinkle of gold-dust, to be jinxed is a blessing disguised.

Her melody  
rides the
breeze.

Hands turn. Earth spins. Ants march. Snakeskin.  

Green leaves. Orange glow. Paint-splash. Legs bow.

In my mind a record spins.  Always on repeat.  Your lyrics are kaleidoscopic. Twisted images merge.  Mirror, mirror upon the wall, please awaken me before I fall.

A lone motorcycle rusts.  Wild flowers grow.  The sun burns like Picasso's.  An eagle glides.  Blue is the sky. Yellow is the afterglow.

“It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society" - Jiddu Krishnamurti

Sitting upon the mountaintop, watching the wind ripple the
leaves, looking to the uppermost peaks, recognizing snow-capped dreams.

Mystic musician, zero to nine,
dead and buried, never more
alive.

I am a broken window,
lit by the beam of the
moon.

Night after night I cry,
for tomorrow is the
end of time.

Pure white
paperclip.

Bent outta
shape.

Prepare to
be waste.

There is no
escape.

Simmering on a Sunday,
anecdotal evidence on tap.

Greens merge with orange
hues, victories are served.

Detonated mystery - hiding
inside, these walls may fall.

One more deal upon this table,
wishing for a white flag.

Coriander mixed alone,
a yellow-footed woman
smiles with raindrops.

As the coin falls
my wish remains.

The yellow of the sun soaks into the walls, as zebra stripes disguise.  I am a psychedelic paint-*** lost in a living room.

Into the wind where her voice rides, the sound of my heartbeat lost.

On the grass I paint,

my heart bleeds for
a rainbow dream.

Kentucky funk hides
beside gaudy tones,

afterwards we read
in wellington boots,

two little wrens hop
into view.

Your voice, nothing
but a dusty anecdote.

Science,

a

white

umbrella

with

flickering

flames

and blue

green

names:

she

painted

my

life

insane.

This face obscured
green eyes hide

clouds shift, smoke
rises

underneath autumn
leaves

reading white lines
torn at the seams

Lulled by a sense of security I sit alone.  The dusty window obscures my view. 

Pictures hang within my mind.  Memories of faded days.  A peek into my rearview mirror.

Inside of these walls there are many faces on display.  A wine-glass is fractured yet remains intact.  The mirror reflects a multitude of emotions.  Daily life throws us many a vacation.

Words switch places.  Green is red-tinged envy.  The light upon the screen is dimmed.  Tiny feet are planting footsteps in the garden.

Outside of these thoughts much is happening.  Cars are racing against time to overtake their neighbours.  The wind carries a plastic bag to a new destination as the train remains stranded at the station.

Rust comes slowly.  Beside the seaside is where I lie.  Blue skies are fading.

To become the arrow in flight,
I must first take aim.

You take aim
and paint.

I am a mighty oak
hiding in an acorn.

Many words swirl
inside.

In motion this poet
seeks devotion.

As the winds blow
my poetry grows.

Tomorrow I dream,
slowly becoming...

New spurts shoot
forth

reaching toward the
sunlight.

Each day I rise like
the truth,

I am the poem!

Magazine Bulletin:
reclaiming space
within my mind.

Yellow is the wave,
old scissors cut - in
art circles return.

He sits alone
lost his smile.

No face today
he's disfigured.

Lost in the moon,
I hide my intent.