My Choice ?

So, at the green,

I choose the old road,

The slipped-from-habit road,

The little-travelled-these -days road,

The road the centuries marched

And different centuries marked –

When a thousand paces

Meant something so much more:

Straight along,

Going along,

Right along;

Built an empire,

Kept an empire supplied,

Kept an empire together;

Rolling out the limits,

Rolling out the possibilities.

The old road

That was the main road –

The only road –

That now takes a quieter turn

(Where no turn was before)

Beside a slicker, smoother

Supposedly-superior offspring.

My choice?

The old road …

Every time!

Tell Me You Knew Him …


Where went he then,

This big-hearted troubadour knight?

Where went he in the times he was away?

Away from us, our tribe, our ken?

Which astral, other-world spaces did he ride,

This minstrel warrior

Who wrote the starlight words,

Stories of elf and rainbow worlds; Continue reading

The Eyes of Night.

      What colour would I choose

For the eyes of my night?

That first-time, last-time,

Never-to-be-seen-again time light?

That appears only when the mighty

Winds and powerful wings

Of vacuum-space and eternal time

Throw dust-and-crystal shards

At the limits of my knowledge; those

That are the too-near boundaries

Of my massive ignorance. Lucky to be

One of many sometime-intelligent observers

I am, nonetheless, very alone in this crowd.

Feted, reluctantly, as master of phrase and

Meaning, I am unable find the appropriate word:

My brain too flooded with majestic dark skies

That sparkle, shimmer and shake without sound.




Time’s Treacle

Slow-falling rivers of bright faerie sparks

Light up the stages on the rough-rock road.

I stumble, in time to in-the-head tunes,

Trapped in time’s treacle trickery;

Struggling to avoid making the choices:

Between the castle and the pyramid;

The tattooed folk and the red haired fiddler;

The village lantern and adventure’s safari tents.

Looking to seek advice from the phoenix-sage:

Must I dare the

Buccaneer-black brazier

Of the fires of chance and change?




The lady at the coffee bar table

Is a sniper.

“Don’t act like

You’ve just swallowed a stick!”

She pouts.

“You asked;

I only replied.

Don’t be shy now:

But, fact is,

You either like

What’s on offer –

And we can

Do business …

Or you don’t …

And, sugar, I don’t

Have all day.”