When we were kids, you liked to torment me, go to the park and climb the highest tree.
Run across gullies at high speed, leave me on the other side with shaking knees.
But then there were days by the TV watching Banana splits and Christopher Lee.
Going to the fields to hide in long grass then run round the streets and fall on our ****.
We moved like gypsies from place to place, new schools, new people, we accepted our fate.
The boy with the golden hair was by my side and I wasn’t lonely cause we were best mates.
Then came the day we no longer roamed, found schools with good teachers, at last we were home.
We got on our bikes to explore the estate; cautious and wary we sped round the place.
To our surprise the kids were friendly and fun, not hostile or tough, or in your face.
Young ones, older ones, boys and girls, down by the brook all summer long.
Through escapades, bonfires, occasional tiffs, the Steppingstone gang stayed strong.
Remember when we’d run across the park,
chasing a paper kite in the summer wind?
We were young, light on our feet,
and so eager to light up the dark.
Our love felt light as sugar,
aimless, easy, full of wild ideas.
We’d make promises on the fly
and build big futures out of thin air.
Three years have gone by now.
We’re not just bending with every breeze anymore.
We’re not chasing shadows or running wild—
we’re walking the path together, steady and sure.
The kite finally came down to earth,
but what we have now has real roots.
It’s quiet, deep, and grounded—
so much stronger than the shallow thrill of where we started.
The quintessential
spring bird, the robin
with a cherry song
of lilting musical whistles
orange breast
and quick movements
they run across the grass
seeking earth worms
they also like berries and fruit
they roam forests, graveyards
parks, and our lawns
they do not mate for life
but find a new mate yearly
the females stay on the nest
while the males seek out food
if you put out a water fountain
they will come . . .
She was here the other day
She’s still here with her wooden cart, devoid of paint
She believed posies and periwinkle could feed her children
For a while, it was good
Not until the leaves fell off by the street
The cart was too heavy to push
And the newspaper used to wrap a bouquet had soaked
The lines on her face grew visible
And her hair lost its vibrant ebony hue
Her back against the ruined
Where big crabbed letters run across the dilapidated walls
The passersby in the city had become unfamiliar
Her head down,
Her arid eyes watching the parched petal
Of her sunflower
Till late evening, the flowers sit cold
Summer came, a young lad pushed the same cart
With the same sight of decorative flowers
And I never saw her again
Tucked away in an old worn wooden dresser drawer, lays notes, cards once were friends who crossed my path.,
Time when we had something in common, a Catholic retreat, when life was simpler, when we lived our life like a candle in the wind.
As my hands run across the old worn envelope, the date not so important, memories come flooding back, where has life taken you now? Do you ever think of me…
Relics, kinda like this old fashioned dresser drawer, it’s worn with scratches in the wood, its contents covered with dust.. I guess we all must go our separate ways in this road called Life..
As I close the drawer I can’t help but wonder, am I too becoming an old card tattered, worn, tucked away waiting for someone to read me..
This feels too much like deja vu,
the days and nights of a biblioklept.
It’s what the book-bosomed must do,
taking in every chapter as you slept.
Being such an omnilegent person
it’s hard to run across something fresh.
Reading’s such pure introverted fun,
with each word I want gooseflesh.
I wander to each town bouquiniste
on the lookout for a page turner.
I’m hungry for a clever plot twist,
that story that’s an acid burner.
There is no place I would rather be
then inhaling the scent of this paper.
Serene and content in a lectory
escaping into a wild fictional caper.
I love to go running through my head
inside a space where I have no phobia.
While in reality I am filled with dread
suffering from debilitating abibliophobia.
She speaks of a white horse,
Its rider clad in majesty, riding toward her,
He suddenly disappears as he approaches,
Her face glows whenever she talks about it.
She describes a bright light,
Claiming it comes to her room in the tranquil midnight,
Suddenly, white birds fly out of the light,
And in an instant, everything is gone.
She talks about walking through a beautiful, colourful, and lush garden,
She says she hears birds singing, yet none are around.
Suddenly, beautiful young maidens run across in front of her,
One of them stops waves at her, and joins the others.
She describes standing by a stream,
Its water is pure and radiant,
She leans down to take a drink,
And suddenly, she feels strengthened and well.
She mentions standing in a shrivelled meadow,
Claiming she sees walking shadows,
She is frightened to the core,
But suddenly, she transcends.
She reflects on the mystery of ageing,
Saying it has turned her into an enigma,
A vessel of changing lights,
My mama is a gem of inspiration.
March 8, 2025.
The path is thin, the land high,
tree lines and rocky outcrops
lean into each other.
My dog bounces away,
she's found some dappled deer; spooked
they run across my trace.
It’s another Smoky Mountain moment,
a dance-stepping poem
framed by shafts of sunlight.
A dog, and a bunch of white tails,
their softly pixelated images,
filtering across my eyed,
I sense an angel looking over my shoulder
she also is holding a camera.
Yesterday, I saw you on the street with the one you chose over me. I hid my face. I didn’t know if I was scared or embarrassed. You smiled at her, the same smile that you gave me when you used it. I couldn’t breathe. I was flying, but you were lying.
How could you tell me that you loved me if it wasn’t true at all? Does she make you feel brand new? Like you said that I used to, Would she be there if you were to fall? I would’ve given you my all.
Today, I’m going to have to clear my mind find things to do with my time. I run across the picture from that day so I tell myself I’m OK as I’m crying, but I was lying.
How could you tell me that you loved me if it wasn’t true at all? Does she make you feel brand new? Like you said that I used to. would she be there if you were to fall? I would have given you my all.
I'm promised to your finger tips
The ones that run through my hair and run across my skin
When there's space between that skin and the cloth that hangs off me
My shirts aren't tucked into my pants you can enter and exit as you please
Your fingerprints left over the seats of our parents cars
People we forget we know
People that are nearly the blood we rub off our skin and let drain into sinks and bathtubs
I promise you my nights
When no one can hear us and no and can recall what exactly we've done
Asleep or unaware
Passed out or might as well be
Your the drug I take
The one that makes me forget
Making me numb
Your lips the cure for the problems I can’t solve
You the reverse to the sins committed that night
I smile for you
And for the numbness you bring
For the morning may come and your name may be gone
Ripples run across the lake
Racing to the shore,
The unmistakable call of a Loon
Echoes across the water
When the echoes fade, silence reigns again,
Marshmallow clouds floating by
Cast their reflection on the water;
A cormorant dives beneath the surface
To nibble on the clouds...
2-28-2024
deer season's over
spooked deer run across roadway
light covers broken
Today I walked under January’s full moon…it’s called the Wolf Moon…
and I’m grateful to the Sioux..
who, many years before me, walked under this same moon too!
Who, during this time of year, in the colder, snowy winter weather…
would hear the wolves howl at night…and see them run across the moon together.
So they named this moon the Wolf Moon…for the brilliance of it’s light
and for the wolves that it illuminates as they travel through the night.
Taking their cue from nature…from what they would hear and see…
the Sioux, just like the wolves, would seek out the warmth and love of their family.
The Wolf Moon was a time of togetherness…a time to stay indoors
and reflect on and remember…what a family is for.
I often wonder how much more magical our world would be…
how more enchanting too…
if we had taken the time to listen to the wisdom of the Sioux.
Perhaps it’s not too late:
May I suggest we take our cues from the Sioux…
who took theirs from the wolves…
a creature they thought blessed.
Let’s get together with our families…
and let the Wolf Moon do the rest.
forget wearing shoes
young kids run across fresh lawn
barefoot and carefree
They run across the world in flight
Floating away without will
Dreamers flying in the night
Until the morning birds trill
The Invisible playing hide and seek
Till mind finds and chains
Once chained ideas leak
Flooding the mind as it rains
They spell the passer by to find
As they search hither and thither
Addiction placed upon the mind
Until so bound that it shall wither
Angering the waiting mind
By escaping the locks and keys
Leaving the despairing one behind
Shunning the minds pleas
The annoying game repeats again
In the Mind’s growing factory
Till then the thoughts mind shall retain
Till then the thoughts hide provokingly
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