Work-a-day sun high burnin’

Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;

Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’

Becoming familiar, restful, old.

Harvest hopes answered

Ripening to warm-honey gold:

English: The Ironbridge

Friends will always know each other –

If their stories be honestly told –

That  distance and language matter not

When time and hearts be weighed and sold.


Blue Passion’s Clock

In hot-collision darkness

Different manners rule the

Blue-passion’s clock.

Cliffhawk-pirate’s daughter

Has the look of sinful-fire

And warm honey-danger romancer,

Bubble rim and flute-scream dancer.

Who says we can’t be

Snake and heart,

Rock and roll fools

For the night hours –

Bruised lips,

Trembling, burning hips –

And innocent-clean souls

For tomorrow’s changed light ?




No Tomorrow-Chains.

So much sun-on-butterfly-wing colour here;

Princess on the table.

“No strings,” she begs, “let there be

No tomorrow-chains.

I’m asking for nothing more

Than one night’s freedom skies;

Perhaps a whole lot more

Than you dare promise …

But, before you shake your head,

Hear this: I am willing

To accept your lies

But you have to be convincing.”

Distances and Depths.


How easily, lazily, deliciously languorously

the surface-basking leviathan exhales

This skybridge to isolation futures

In the low-swell tropics to doldrums

Dreamtime sea.

I’m stranded, every which way,

Whatever I do, on this island’s

Desolation rainbow waters;

Cut loose, cast adrift:

Tranced, mazed and drawn by fascinations

Beyond the comfortable, familiar shallows …

But dreadful feared of the

Tides, depths and distances that are coming.




Listening to the Stones

Hearing things now

I jus’ ain’t  never heard before;

Hearing so clearly a groove from

A different engine room –

A little to the right of the melody, a

Moonshine young-hat guy with

A tote sack full o’

Sun-warm laburnum honey,

Midnight bone soup ‘n’

Lou’siana-swamp soul

Is blowin’ horn so cat -cool ‘n’

Chain maker heavy that it

Must be jerkin the fallen angel’s strings.

How did I never hear it before:

This rollin’ sugar-brown smoothness?

The tune that’s bringin’ it all

Back home to me now:

Across the missin’ years.


The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes


Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.





Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.