Thursday, June 6, 2019


as the days breathe chilled
air through the cracks of
hours, so do we settle
into the chest of Winter,

pulling close to its slow
beat, huddling to warm
moments, nestling into
hibernation of soul, and

frosted self; such is the
way of it when this
season calls and holds
us to its ancient breast. 

Sunday, May 12, 2019


Slow at first, hardly seen,
the creep and chew of
decay; inexorable break
down, entropic destiny,

from which there is no
escape, whether soul,
self, frail body, or some
abandoned timber, lying

forlorn at the uncaring
feet of weather, where
time toys with edges,
plays with substance,

demands change and
disarray, as if order
were some offence,
and rotting life's true

path, where what was
is slowly brought down,
transformed into other,
yet strangely familiar,

with its crusted kiss,
pouting patiently until
there is no choice but
to surrender. 

Tuesday, April 30, 2019


I trimmed my life
with small, pointed
scissors, cutting
tight to the edge

of reason - neatly
removing untidy
pieces, which had
frayed through

years of neglect,
as if, in the doing
I could restore
the illusion of

what I called
control, but which
had little power
to influence, let

alone dictate.
And so, the years
were neatened and
brought to order.

Or so I told myself.

Tuesday, April 9, 2019


Form shaped by years,
where place is known
and held, despite the
passage of time...

so do we recognise
and inform our spaces;
so do we create that
sense of familiarity

which breeds content,
and masquerades as
home, as something
stable and known. 

Monday, April 8, 2019


Pulled into small places,
held by time and circumstance,
required to be something
unexpected, if not unimagined,

Such is the way and weight
of the years, which rock in
slow, determined motion,
urging me into position. 

Thursday, February 28, 2019


Surrounded by upheaval,
no longer in their place,
the bits and pieces hover,
reveal in lack of grace.

This world was once so
ordered, reality defined,
and now it is in disarray;
a challenge to my mind.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019


Watching me. Did I see those eyes,
holding deep in bitter iris, the word
' yes,' as if they promised something
I did not deserve, forming only to

mock, as if betrayal were a badge
I wore, unseen only by me, marker
made invisible by denial; disguised
tattoo, carved, curled, stabbed ink

into flesh, waiting, desperate, for
a sign, a symbol that I existed,
even if only in the arms of pain,
even if only in shallow hurting;

slicing flesh as I had done myself,
so many times, nicking and then
cutting deep through bursting blood
and patient flesh, searching down,

down, down, hoping to find in
the roil of bleeding, a surge of
life which would tell me I was
real - made manifest in and of

material being, formed solid so
a hand could touch, hold and
know truth of Self, surely enough
for heart to whisper: 'This is me.'

And yet, in those times of sullen
sleep, those dark days and bright
nights, where all blurs in deadly
weeping, the voice calls ever

louder, that the heart too can lie,
that nothing can be believed in
any certain way; that I am only
real when I am watching me.

In that certain gaze I can no 
longer be, invisible, and so I
dare not blink, for in that act
I would no longer exist.....