in our interactions
we inevitably arrive
at a fun question:
cat person or dog?
and for once it's
good to be versatile

Tendril wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.

Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.

Foetid droppings
of some wastrel desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.

Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's gut.

Love is in the horizon, 
it sits upon the sand; 
the whispers in the hallway, 
revealing secrets grand. 

It's dancing in the rain 
and in the blazing sun; 
the mighty flowing river, 
the voice of a long lost son. 

Love is in the desert, 
in the oasis' leafy fronds; 
the racing tiny tadpoles 
in lazy summer ponds. 

It's teary airport farewells 
and walks on a moonlit night; 
the gentle flowing breezes 
that stills the frightened heart.*



●○
°

The reason for my articulation
is simple and utilitarian-
I seek not perfection,
But I seek ablution.

Perfection is reserved for those
with time to spend and money to burn.
My soul requires release,
its ransom necessitates recompense:

Expiated expeditiously, in a flurry
of words that scathe my every thought.

if every drop of rain fell
to cancel out each tear
then let every petal tell
who'll love not or have you near

rock-people
marking-pen smiles
open stone-faces

rolled down
the escarpment
onto back garden

afternoons;
we are counted,
no longer alone*




●○
°

In a darkened chamber
shadows twist and writhe
Pale light spills through cracked panes
illuminating dust motes
The air, thick with the scent of age and decay
A raven, black as a void,
perches on the windowsill
Its eyes, piercing, stare into the soul
Murmurs of lost hopes and unfulfilled
dreams linger in the corners
Quill in hand, he writes feverishly
Ink, like blood, stains the parchment
with thoughts
Driven by an insatiable
hunger for the macabre
Loneliness clings to him,
a relentless spectre
Tormented by visions of the departed
He seeks consolation in the written word,
an eternal struggle
Haunted by silence, he listens
To groanings of the ******
and reverberating sorrows
He captures their essence,
binding them in prose
His heart, a labyrinth of grief and longing
Beats with a melancholy cadence
He exists in liminal spaces
between life and death
In the end,
he remains
A solitary figure,
surrounded by the phantoms of his creation
Eternally bound to the darkness,
a poet of the night.

bleak and blistered
tundraic whispers howl
with deft tendrils of
liquid nitrogen, then
in a flurry of dust devils
this landscape's void of
voices once more

Take that bold step up to my words
and don't walk away until they have had their fill;
each party imbuing the other,
brimming over with the permeate of life.
Read to your satisfaction; but read!
Free your mind upon these winged lines.

° 

*It's never easy to step out into the sunlight 
away from the safety of your walls - indoors. 
Sometimes you forget just how hard it can get, 
Until a door slams shut in your face in midstep- 
knowing that you threw out the key to yours. 

It's never fair when you give your heart away, 
only to find out their forever ended yesterday- 
That you will from here on forward love on, 
caring for both your heart and theirs forever 
while the unrequitedness would be for sure. 

It's never too late to hope and dream of good; 
all will be well if we trust in the heart we love- 
that what has brought us together upholds, 
until a window opens up and lets light in again: 
darkness has no place - forever eternally bright.

Ribald footprints
of a silent, brooding zitar    
rendezvous with an ebbing tide:
recalcitrant thoughts wash away
along this sandy shoal.

in its purest form
the simplest of
possible affirmations
is to be loved in return

in similar manner
the most complex of
probable affirmations
is reciprocating like affection

in conclusion, then,
it seems most apparent
to appreciate with reckless
abandon the air we breathe

for we build tomorrows
on these simplest, most
basic of molecules, our
humble bricks of being

30 December 2016:
Happy New Year?
Goodbye 2-0-1-6,
Farewell PF
Parting is such crushing sorrow- - -

We walk along magenta paths,
Where twilight coolness gently bathes our steps,
The laden vines, in clusters, hang low,
Teasing with a promise, sweet, yet sharp to taste,
In another’s golden field,
Silken amber honey flows.

In memory’s reverie, we trace the lines
Of Thomas Chatterton, whose fate entwines
With fleeting years and early twilight’s end,
A poet's heart the shadows would transcend.

Born in Bristol’s lanes, beneath grey skies' embrace,
Thomas wandered, with a poet’s fragile grace.
Enamoured by old scripts in oak confined,
A spirit haunted by a fevered mind.

He fashioned verses in medieval guise,
A ploy that led to murmurs and surmise.
Rowley’s name adorned his vibrant scrolls,
Yet youth and hunger carved unwelcome tolls.

Yet life unkind, in shadows, cast him low,
Amidst the sorrow, where dreams lay fallow.
Magenta paths now lead us through his plight,
Beyond despair, in fleeting twilight.

Cool seeps into the waning light,
A melancholic beauty, soft, yet bright.
In London’s streets, where dreams turned sour,
Destitution’s grip, tightened every hour.

A tender boy who sought acclaim through quill,
Found solace in the silence, shadows still.
Beneath the boughs, where sorrows intertwine,
Chatterton sought solace, brief respite.

His words, ripe for picking, turned bitter, dry,
Amidst neglect, where hope was left to die.
August winds whispered as his spirit broke,
A bottle of arsenic, despair's harsh yoke.

The world looked on, not knowing what they’d lost,
A poet’s voice, now tethered to the cost.
In memory’s shadow, we find the truth,
Of a young poet’s bitter, fleeting youth.

In another’s field, beyond despair,
Where life's harsh trials start to repair.
Silken amber honey flows so pure,
A testament to dreams that must endure.

Walk with him through twilight’s bitter chill,
Where poets’ hopes, in silence, linger still.
Magenta paths reveal the truth of strife,
Homeless youth with dreams of a better life.

Through words and whispers in the evening's glow,
Let Chatterton’s lost voice gently show,
The way from destitution’s dark embrace,
To fields of hope, where dreams find grace.

For every year, each moment’s gentle beat,
Is a testament that life, though bittersweet,
Holds promise in the face of dire despair,
A gift to cherish, nurture, and repair.

Though Chatterton’s young life met early dusk,
His legacy remains, beyond the husk.
A poignant reminder, stark and true,
Of lives unlived, and dreams that break anew.

From destitution’s harsh and bitter trials,
We learn to walk with hope, through life’s aisles,
Magenta paths where silken honey flows,
In fields of grace, where every dream still grows.

Minuscule ants make a flightless
beeline along a sandbox perimeter.
In their wake, a few grains of sand

Fall out of their confining place.  
One day, perhaps, they shall be free,
back to a convivial reunion by the sea.

One could traverse the length and depth
and breadth of this and back and still
have more to ponder on and discover!

But as the grains within that pit
outnumber the billions alive today;
only stars of night can reflect their gaze.

when it's been so long
now being woken up
from protracted stupor
and glance at a mirror
only to be let down, again

internet interests
laundry hanging on the web
lines sweet as honey


ludicrous statements
without hindsight's benefit
fish out of water


selfie-important
others, reflective mirror
monkey copies you


amused by postings;
remind me one boring day
to write on the sand*



●○
°

hard as we try to remember
grinding up mindless banter

green grass, yellow slander

what good is hay to a dead horse,
or a spring dried at its source?*




_ _ __✒
●○
°

Stars will only shine crisply
in the darkest of nights

Tendril-wafted dunes
of barren sands waffle,
swirl across mile
upon mile in every direction-
your face appears a horizon away,
there is little comfort found
in accompanying echoes.


Drifting sticks
wail in the pitched wind,
stretched on distant recollection-
stylus of the scribe named Regret;
each flurrying breeze
turns a new page,
taking with it freshly shed tears.


Foetid droppings
of some wastrel, desert vagabond
provide a vivid reminder
of how it can never be again,
to kick it away
would only contaminate
these well-worn wandering shoes.


Head facing forward
wherever the nose points
except in the back of the mind
where the oasis burbles-
each leafy frond conceals
intimate moments now buried
within the unmindful desert's belly.

fresh and clean

to smell and feel

my favourite jeans

like second skin




but as i zip

i feel a lump

a *** of fluff

a foreign feel




i pulled and fished

but there remained

fibres and particles

in the pocket deep




i pinch the deep end

and pull it inside

'til it's fully out

a white-washed tongue




letting the wind

take up in its wings

the remaining fluff

of what once was




my marks and grades

of a school year done

obliterated, disintegrated

into lumps of pocket fluff

you can hear the flipping
of calendar pages, and the
clink of champagne glasses
the roar of flashing fireworks
and rustling of fabric under
randomly launched hugs&kisses;
what old acquaintance is there
where forgotten woes blend
into hopes of a soul resolved



●○
°
btw, welcome 2016* :-))

it has finally arrived;
the belly of night
no longer offers
dark mysteries
or mortal fright

and these million
scurrying thoughts
scour grappling mind
with a deafening march
leaving caution behind

We have in general, as a society
Gone into an evolutionary stupor
Waiting for things to “happen to us;”
And having thus become reactionary
Instead of pioneering proactivity
(Which has been a hallmark and
A badge or merit we have carried
Through the centuries until now)
Slumber until we begin to live again
Lift our gaze from our lint-free navels
And look around; walk and be a part
Of this existence, this is no dream...
This is no nightmare... never has...
We can rouse ourselves & each other
Raise a bugle sound for one and all!

on a campaign trail
that won't lead to a
white house or to a

spiralling ivory tower

each word, each line
each stanza and rhyme
seeks to clothe the

belligerent reason

bare and raw that
won't lead to paradise
or to shangri la; but

in their perfect season

perhaps find its way
to a friendly soul that
makes all this, whole*




●○
°

The lindens are lining the promenade
how we wish we were seventeen again
their branches arching ever skyward
framing Vincent's starry manifold
swallowing every thought and sound
each caveat, each dolce far niente
now fading and then pulsing with the
rising and ebbing of rhythmic tides
how serious this business of life is;
our limbs intertwine as we scramble
shaking sand from between our toes
we sit on wicker recliners and imbibe
beverages that splash down so loudly
with the crashing of frolicking waves

see epic scene rhymes
note seamless-fit crimes
history ever repeated
inner resolve depleted
raiment marred by grime
stripped of every last dime

In Tarbolton's hall, steps were taught,  
Burns learned with grace, his heart yearning.  
Gregg's skilled hands urged him to soar,  
The fiddle's song guiding each move.


The Bachelor's Club became a place of cheer,  
Burns and Gregg dedicated their time,  
Refining steps and thoughts together,  
In dance and music, their spirits intertwined.


From Alloway to Glasgow's stage,  
The baroque fiddle carried timeless tales.  
In New York's hall, its notes would soar,  
Bringing an ageless dance to life again.


Burns' love for dance and music blossomed,  
His world expanded with poetic views,  
Each tune and step invigorated his spirit,  
Enriching his soul with every verse he wrote.


Gregg's fiddle, a treasure from the past,  
Held stories of history waiting to be told.  
Played now in grand and bright venues,  
It continues the legacy of those early days.

why are you so easy
to walk passed
but then so difficult
to forget?

a cattle brand
sears waking memory
scathe dreams of night
what remains of you

are rumpled bed-
clothes at sun up
and crumpled sheets 
on a litter-strewn desk*




●○
°

why are you so easy
to walk passed
but then so difficult
to forget?

a cattle brand
sears waking memory
scathes dreams of night;
what remains of you

are rumpled bed-
clothes at sun up
and crumpled sheets
on litter-strewn desk*



●○
°

Feet throb, pulsing thru well-worn shoes; 
after a brisk walk to central station,
we keep our ears plugged with our beats 
to finally find seated, at furtherest point; 

Backs of heads, napes, and collars 
mushroom away; stare blankly ahead - 
polarised sunnies paint them bright; 
choked only by an assumption of gain.

And all that's seen is a tiny reflection of self;
here in our world another day begins: 
a mourning of suited, tired paramours;
in this bustling cosmos of peopled isolation.*



_ _ __ ✒
●○
°

Unsaddled, a rider gone astray.
Unhitched, thoughts are out today.
Unbridled, elation on hyper drive.
Unpleasant memories, emotions dive.
Undefined hope, embers weakly glow.
Undetermined outcomes ever slow.
Out from under yet not over,
Back on the saddle but not forever.

even after season upon season
of changing jobs and habitations
in different states and even nations

we can look at objects that trigger
a sense of connective familiarity;
but on any other given day they're

just stuff, things that fill our lives;
for instance that bottle of clairol
or bar of dove, that tube of colgate

exact same products at granny's house;
shapes, smells, and sounds surround us,
a nest, perfectly built: dry, warm & sturdy*




●○
•

Once,
so long ago now, it seems;
Every thing touched
& everywhere
that I turned,
her scent permeated
both air & skin.

nothing held sacred;
make our heads churn,
no one deemed holy
save our only concern

value of waning life
drowned by strife's urn
no elegance of phrase;
wordless grace return*





●○
°

The reason for our articulation
is simple and utilitarian-
we do not seek perfection,
But we seek an ablution.

Perfection is reserved for those
with time to spend and money to burn.
Our soul require absolute release,
its ransom necessitates recompense:

Expiated expeditiously, in a flurry
of words that scathe our every thought.