Eyes Wetted In Poignant Beauty


We are born continuously,
from the womb of night
into day. Shall every shape
and sound secure your welcome?

Yes, it will. The building hums
its ventilation, monitors
and roof lights can show
enough to know enough.

Delight and Disappointment,
equally important,
shall satisfy emotional security.


The skin!, these bodies!, tight and loose,
the new in swimming nappies, the old
with youth, the truth of the progression
through the stages, evolution in filtration
systems, the lighting by the window
and the roof!, the magnificence of standing
unassisted, and eventually the hydroslide
alone, woosh! into the water pooled below,
the ginger, blonde, the black, the Indian,
the fat bulge out front in swimming gear
wet and contoured, the efficient mind
that cares not how it looks, concentrated
effort unselfconsciously perfecting its employment
as immersion tool for spirit, Essence, life
at the beauty of enjoyment, with the fullness
of a child learning walking; the herculean patience
as you recognise disorder in the pattern, the
schedule, as the child who adores you refuses to exit the pool.


No, I love the movies, they are like poetry:
so many made, so many awful movies
and occasionally an offering arises
so genuine and unified— from location
-scouts to all of postproduction,
that will lift me shifting something in the uplift.
Less work in a Poem, certainly, the Economy
won’t register the brilliance— Bukowski
and Billy Collins: there’s an odd grouping
of poetry sales Economics hardcovers
with international shipping. My
movie today: it is morning, Friday;
Mingus asleep in the van, his mother talking
through the movie, takes— tries— takes
my hand as three, then six Spoon Bills
move amongst gulls and swifts & pipi’s,
wading the draining estuary.
Mingus awake now, lays at the open van door,
his tight skin is white below his underwear,
then croissant-brown to his toes.
He looks at me, baby freckles and man eyes,
at the scene on the bright mirror of wet mud
appearing in this summer hour after high tide
with what I expect is the same wonder
and peace of existence inside the calm
of free time warmed with beauty and grace;
only four days Holidays remain; Primary
School years finished, my Dear what a beautiful
…excuse me, I’m cry-leaking Well-being.




Unemployed artist

I’m redundant

Woman can reproduced themselves, with a few simple tools
found in any supermarket.
Or just made up, there’s no stopping this, it can happen
Men are seed carriers, we have become biological slaves,
the way woman were, the way we helped to keep them
for so long, woman now rise like the seas
and just take over,
being superior in all the things that are needed.

We don’t need to work anymore,
we have machines now, why are we still working?
Machine to lift, build and break.
Our asset, spent on a decorative
choice. Men the decorative dressing
interior cladding of a feminine public.
Man the extra, lost, x factor out there under the stars
will wana leave, is trying to leave,
burn up all the fuel on planet earth space ship
woman gonna shut him down soon
See the pipe lines in Dakota
play beautiful music.
we all going to play along.

Some men will stay, try negotiate a deal
for limited freedoms, a crack for light
seems only fair, ying yanged it
spent the father penny
at the market
now home to mother to watch her watch
you be beaten
another time.
Who’s home?

Unemployed artist

My Poetic Hat

My Poetic Hat

The Muse who once oiled my poetic way
and with her seditious match lit my fuse,
who graced my couch, and pressed beside me lay
licking my mind with words of florid hues,
has with one flick of her Medusa hair
cast to perdition my most urgent needs.
I grope for her flesh but find chill despair
and shrug, smiling, while my jilted heart bleeds.
No phrases sage and clever come to mind,
nor philosophies to impress my peers,
no triptych or villanelle do I find
and I weep dry and bitter hopeless tears.
Without my Muse, my poetic bonnet,
all I can do is write a damned sonnet.

Cowboy Days

Flecks of foam

In the threshing dust;

Blazing eyes rolled


This calf will not hear

The wild cheer.

All it knows, now

Is that it is caught

In its writhing;

That its neck is gone;

That its last sight

Is a cow-hide boot

A Poem for Jamie

We are women

We are strong

We are survivors

Like Warrior Goddesses

we carry our shields

and wield our swords

No-one can penetrate us

We are soul sisters

We are together

We are true blood

Like mythic mermaids

we shake our tails

and lure our sailors

No-one can break us

We are soul sisters

We are forever friends

We are real blood….

A Postcard from the edge

I sent you a message today

from the inside of my heart

I hope you could read it

cos it came from the edge

Like a postcard

not posted

not printed

nor said

It came from my heart

so simply

it read….

I miss you

I love you

I wish you were here

No-one can replace you

in my thoughts

you are near !!




Jack’s Hit

I sleep in the lounge/kitchen
because the bedroom is storeroom for paintings,
frames partitioning emptiness, and
primed surfaces waiting spectral scratches of art.

Forty years upright, unused
of it dual purpose, my bed is a fold out couch.
It stays open in the lounge, incompletely flat.

It is like sleeping on an open book
in the Giant’s castle, Jack, falling asleep
reading histories not found in the libraries.

The storm hits the south wall, grounding
earthy and real. Good anything thrills, pulls
from lethargy; and the beans lie flat in the gale.
A howling Antarctic resume´.

When Beauty appears in the Peasantry
or Genius walks among the Palestinians
don’t run to your king or president
with your clever Bean, you will lose them.

There are those who reach out and take
what they want, and those who wait
do triage. They are the ministers.
Added after; they administer;
they manage in a role which ages men,
they are the Man Agers.

Neither on the farm nor in the wilds,
random, like a stray dog, well bred,
but bored, I ran off, happy till it rained
and no one let me in.
Either in the forest or the field
I wonder of resistance, wonder of the log,
cut into a cord, delivered to your lawn,
but mostly of the flame, where it is, before
the match is struck. And the storm
and the acetylene
managed into atmospheres.

I’m going to say it
is how you consider your greens
in your garden do they consider Theirs
the population.

And Why Is It That
Roun Dup™
Is In the Legume,

Proper? For what
they Giants’ got
w/out us

refer to Title.



13th floor elevator

…she’s there – in some form,


up on the high deck of a bus I never saw

til now the Redness how intense the flavour


of it is,


gardens! weave

between the jasmine and the flower;


shade, white shadow waive wave

air-thin nothingness, the spider


strings of Shostakovich –


climb my walls!

course the cracks of heavenly ceilings,


I’m in!                                   too  s-low …


to get the door.



Up The Valley

You do not see the cold in the clear typed print,

Hear its crack underfoot or see the flared nostrils of sheep frozen to the ground.

It is there in a neat slip: wages, for month, seven pound a week and found in cottage.

A photo, too: a thin man with a stick and a dog with his chin pressed to the ground.

Up the gorge – deep, where the valley rises to trap the still air.

Where the hill folds over to stop the sun and the pasture scant.

Where hooves make the ground ring and a whistle floats in the air.

Where a stream too fast for standing cuts through the earth.

How odd, now, that a little photo and a pay slip disclose

The reason for the bent back and hands that would not close;

Why, even later, he could not go back.

Nervum Tibulum

Diabolical twitch

in the darkness;

singer in the light.


I’ve come to


winking at the fly,

its odd caress

and back of a turbulent sea;


and whistling

over wings

of a wet gnat.


At day

I load my beanbag

with the cat


and another three yak


of what they

kiss and kill

at their backs.


At night

I shake the moon

as I fit fit fit


and FALL,

like death over lark.




Nocturnal Tenants


Nocturnal tenants,
Discovery without facts,


All roads lead to Rome. Nocturnal tenants inhabit the glass ceilings underneath we follow the paths mapped for us at birth. Sometimes discovery without facts, our lives manifest it’s direction it takes us on. Go forth, go ahead, never look back.