A hush of gray descends, the world outside a blur
Of weeping glass and dancing leaves, a gentle stir.
The scent of wet earth and cooled pavement climbs the air,
As warmth from a steaming cup soothes away all care.
In her hands, a porcelain hug, the tea's floral grace,
Sweet steam whispers against the skin of her face.
The book on her knees, a weight of stories untold,
Its paper scent, a comfort, a history to hold.
The rhythmic drum of rain against the pane,
A soft, percussive melody to wash away the pain.
Each drop a tiny echo of a memory long past,
A life unfolding, too beautiful to ever last.
A sip of warmth, a bitter-sweet and soothing brew,
A taste of all the moments she has ever been through.
The cool ceramic on her palms, a solid, gentle feel,
The world outside is fading, but this moment is so real.
She closes her eyes and listens to the low hum,
The quiet symphony of the world she's come from.
The taste of tea, the smell of rain, the warmth within her soul,
The past and future merge to make her present whole.
The actor I knew
Mikael Elphick, a talented actor
I admired
he liked to read my poems and said they were like stories
and therefore, easy to read
He understood I was trying to find a space between
poetry and prose, that is why I dislike calling
what I write poetry, vignettes seem in order
Mikael was a kind man who liked that I was not
hanger faking friendship and being agreeable to his
political opinions, which I found eccentric
The last time I spoke to him was outside a café, he
was struggling to walk home, I gave him a lift
a reporter from the Sun newspaper sat in a tree
it might have been Pierce Morgan, as we know
has bullied his way on X
a few weeks later, Mickael was dead, killed by
his alcoholism
No Flag on the Hill
He woke to the hiss of burning plastic
a child's shoe, half-melted in the road.
Something like singing came from the mosque,
but it was only wind
through broken glass.
The birds left weeks ago.
Even the dogs are quiet now.
A rusted swing creaks in a schoolyard
where no one plays anymore.
A mother once painted the front gate blue.
Now it’s ash and wire.
Someone drew a border
right through our kitchen tiles.
They boil rice with rainwater and clove,
eat in silence.
Outside, a drone's red eye
blinks, blinks, blinks
and does not blink away.
For Aunt Carolyn, in memory of Uncle Dennis
They were just teens outside a gift shop door,
He said, "Come on, Darling, let’s go explore."
With a wink and a grin, and her hand in his,
They stepped into life, not knowing how rare love like this is.
From navy bases to state lines they flew,
Boxes unpacked and smiles that grew.
Never a house—always a home,
Because love made each place their own.
He’d kiss her forehead, she'd fix his tie,
Even their bickering made cupids sigh.
Like teenagers dancing in a kitchen floor war,
Even their "fights" left you loving them more.
They held hands through hospital halls,
Through birthday cake crumbs and late-night calls.
And even when life was painfully tough,
They reminded us all—true love is enough.
Now she stands where he once stood near,
A bit more quiet, but holding him dear.
Because the thing about love that’s truly true—
Is it doesn’t end. It just waits for you.
So Aunt Carolyn, brave heart, please know this is true:
He’s just ahead now, saving a seat for you.
Still saying with that boyish grin so clever:
"Come on, Darling... let’s do forever."
I may have missed the glittering prize,
The fleeting gold that dims the skies.
But deep within, a stillness grows,
A garden where the true light flows.
The noise outside, a restless sea,
Where storms of envy seek to be.
Yet in my heart, a quiet spring,
Where hope and healing softly sing.
The workday’s battlefield of spite,
Where shadows lurk to steal the light.
Their words like arrows, sharp and cold,
But I’ve learned wisdom can’t be sold.
To walk away is strength unseen,
A guardian of the soul serene.
No coin or crown can outweigh peace,
The sacred gift that grants release.
For riches fade and glory dies,
But calm remains beneath the skies.
I choose the path where silence reigns,
Beyond the reach of selfish chains.
It wasn’t amber.
It was light pretending
to be amber because
the leafless purple branches
said so—
their shadows crosshatched the window,
twenty-four panes of silence.
Distant shoes whispered down a hallway.
I turned my head,
but the glow stayed where it was.
The walls were shadow—
blue, absorbing everything.
A cart rattled past my door,
metal on tile,
a music I didn’t understand.
Somewhere, a voice laughed
and then quieted.
The air smelled clean,
like alcohol and cotton,
and the ghost of a gesture
that had been wiped away.
I had no words for color,
or luminescence,
or even myself—
or the warm bars of the crib,
the press of the sheet,
and the ache of something missing
I couldn’t name.
I watched the window’s dimming burn
like a promise made to someone else
and already being forgotten.
Outside, a branch moved,
but I didn’t know it meant wind.
Together with or within proximity to people or a person. Community, unity. The invisible thread that attaches from you to me. Wherever you may be, recently I’m manifesting that place is next to me. Where our forever dialogue exchanged releases a type of ecstasy. Our bodies attach like magnets whose attraction unapologetically fuses our souls together into one spirits sleeve. Forever sewing a line of cosmic communication between soul notes, that play tunes of elevation on a bar everlasting. A connection of love chords created outside a wish or prayer. No human power can birth this communion; soul-traction love affair. Joyful flutes sound off when one another draws near. Ten strings play hypnotic music. A melodic heavenly tune our bond conceives when the holy unity of two flesh bodies connecting destined to meet. Pulled from his rib I am his missing connecting piece. Designed to link all of his dis to my connection creating our Unity.
TV news broadcasts the motel dark,
she lies flat, belly soft with rabbit tattoos,
ash smudged into the sheets.
My boots drip clay and pesticide,
fingers stained from counting nickels.
Outside, a pumpjack bows to the ground,
over and over,
like it’s praying.
She whispers something about escape.
I kiss the scar beneath her jaw,
taste motel soap and Marlboro light.
The window rattles
an oil train snakes past in the distance,
headlights stitching the prairie shut.
Somewhere under the bed,
a cockroach drags a matchstick.
We don’t speak again.
Just listen
to the fridge counting seconds
between the thunder.
A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.
The town fathers
are long neglected by scavenging vultures,
locked up as they are,
in the wood cabin, we call the town museum.
Inside the shack, there are old tintypes, sepia
photographs and the usual rural relics.
Outside, a small patch of lawn
divides the past from a main road,
one that bridges our hamlet
between two swelling and brawling cities.
Those cities also have their metropolitan relics,
grand achievements forever displayed
for groups of bored schoolchildren.
Outside, vultures are shood away
by men in HazMat suits.
Our community fathers are black-suited
grim featured farmers and church dignitaries,
even the mayors that are still alive
look out from their portraits
as if wishing for the odd vulture or two.
Nothing else around here bothers
enough to matter much.
Fields are pushed back beyond backyards.
We killed off all the rattlesnakes years ago.
Your eyes a dark archipelago
Mysterious then exotic drifting across
my shore;
I perceive their warmth inviting
While those lips blow a tangy flavour-
Irresistible, poised to reach for a kiss
Brewed by the kiln of summer’s
ember…
Carefully, my logic examines the
prospects
Between reason and wantonness,
As the fluid air spins amorously
And the evening grows too blind,
naked--
The waves within my navel dilate,
fluid as current's unknown motion...
I forget what happens next except, I
was
Drunk with the body- rhythm of something
untenably spontaneous;
Coasting on a body outside a bend
ebbing flowing through a belly and
tendon
Of a conniving sea.
My first recollection of life was "Hey Jude" on the car radio
I thought that was the coolest thing I'd ever heard
But at three years of age how much living have you really done
And from experiences what have I learned?
Looking through electric blue
Then I was ushered through The Seventies
Outside a world in turmoil, inside me a battle raged
As this introvert digested all that he's seen and heard
And at decade's end was coming of age
Still looking through electric blue
So came The Eighties and poser's dues were due
This dilettante joined an air band every Saturday night
Loved'em and left'em
Does that light have to be so bright?
Still looking through electric blue
Through the Nineties and as the Millennium approached
things seemed out of place
Kids seeing things through a kaleidoscope
A change of guard I suppose but I don't leave my post
willingly, but I do leave a legacy in my poem tome
Still looking through electric blue
I forgot to mention the most important event
And before I close it must be said
That even though one day I will die
I will not be dead
Now looking (with a new perspective) though electric blue
We saw a decorative scarecrow.
He was outside a grocery store.
We are feeling friendly as him.
This fall,
We choose candy corn.
Along with pumpkin pie.
We normally don’t care about those things.
We are sitting on the wooden bench that is covered in raindrops.
We eat donuts.
Fall remembers how to have fun.
By letting its leave die.
It’s foggy in the morning.
We subconsciously pull on sweaters and scarfs.
We become dull and the lights come on earlier at night.
We saw him.
The scarecrow.
He is out in the fields, this time.
Doing a job,
Smiling.
It will get dark early.
This fall.
The world outside, a cacophony of sound,
A constant hum, a ceaseless, restless beat.
But here within, a quiet space is found,
Where peace resides, and solace makes its seat.
A hush descends, a gentle, calming veil,
That wraps around and stills the inner strife.
No need for words, no need for tales to tell,
Just stillness deep, the rhythm of my life.
The gentle breath, a soft and measured sigh,
A whisper on the air, so light and free.
No clamoring thoughts, no worries to deny,
Just quietude, a silent reverie.
In this serene embrace, my soul takes flight,
And finds its peace, within the silent night.
A silent world, a watery space,
Where shadows dance and light takes chase.
A soft, warm home, a cosy nest,
Where tiny limbs find gentle rest.
The world outside, a distant hum,
A muffled beat, a muffled drum.
But here, it's quiet, calm and deep,
A peaceful slumber, secrets to keep.
The baby floats a weightless dream,
In amniotic fluid, a silver stream.
No need for worries, no need for strife,
Just gentle rocking, a blissful life.
A tiny hand, a tiny foot,
Exploring space, a gentle loot.
The umbilical cord, a lifeline strong,
Connecting to the world, where it belongs.
The mother's heartbeat, a steady beat,
A lullaby, a comforting treat.
The baby listens, knows no fear,
Just love and warmth, oh so near.
The world outside is a distant call,
But here, it's safe, within this wall.
Awaiting the day, the time to come,
When the baby's journey has begun.
So, chill, little one, in your watery bliss,
Let the world outside, just kiss
Your dreams with whispers, soft and low,
For now, it's just you, and the gentle flow.
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