l’art pour l’art

opened the curtains
what did I see?
a Henry Moore statue
looking back at me

but which was the back?
and which the front?
and how did it get here?
this bronzed art stunt

I closed the curtains
went back to bed
thought about Henry
dreamt of Braque instead

what shall I write you on this maudlin morning

what shall I write you on this maudlin morning
that peers between clouds over the hillside

what shall I tell you that you haven’t already heard
what truths and lies that hide behind my words

what shall I keep from you in future safe storage
those little white lies we disguise behind our eyes

what shall you take from me and what will I give
this moment or that or the past so recently forgot

what shall the day bring if nothing’s worth repeating
more clouds, more rain, more words, more sighs

what shall I write you on this maudlin morning
that pours between us like an ocean divide

me and indoor cat and the sun god smiling

on my last morning in that room I woke to find
two grey cats sitting upright on the lawn
resembling Egyptian Bastet statues hewn from stone
under parting clouds that cleared to say
your time is done now slink away

I dozed beneath my red wool blanket
the indoor cat curled tight against my chest
its purring conferring some inner soliloquy
that questioned the need for getting up at all
when dreams held greater sway

when next I woke the grey cats were gone
had they ever even been there or were they
(as I thought) just a figment of our imaginations
borne on the perfumed scent of morning
that bade us move from here and be gone

and though the boxes were packed and loaded
and no future would now bind us to this place
we left after breakfasting on dusty memories
through the front door and down the street
me and indoor cat and the sun god smiling

The Day After

we crowded round the party table
with neon halos in our hair
our bare feet on the kitchen floor
bread and wine to share
you said that one of us was bad
and in the morning we would see
how careless words cause chaos
our futures not so free

another poem

there’s a patch of sunlight on the hill
it’s not too far away
the white blades on the new windmill
are slicing up my day

every minute they go round and round
morning, noon and night
I stand in hope and wait spellbound
for a future shiny bright

a poem

the sea was romaine lettuce green
the sky a blueberry blue
the clouds were patterned coffee cream
the boats a lemony hue

the day was bleeding beetroot red
the night black liquorice glue
the moon was buttery brioche bread
the dough of mornings new

Woke up

Woke up, it was a Zappa morning
and the first thing that I heard
was a song inside my windows
from the mofo of inventions
he came a-steaming up like freight train bells
and sang these words to me

Oh, that’s alright folks
We’ll not touch this daylight dial
And we’ll curse it ’till the night comes

Woke up, it was a Mitchell morning
and the first thing that I heard
was the call through yellow curtains
of a taxi cab in the parking lot
that came a-stealing up like the molten sun
to take these words from me

Oh, look out, look out
I’m not the only soul to ever be
Accused of hit and run every second of the day

Woke up, it was a Hendrix morning
and the first thing that I heard
was the dreary sound of a sweeping broom
as it cleared the weeping cobwebs
that fell upon this daybreak like a broken dream
that spilt this cry from within me

Oh won’t you stay
Oh won’t you stay
now the petals of my night time words
have forever blown away


(with a little help from my friends:
Joni Mitchell, Frank Zappa and Jimi Hendrix)


a bloodbath of dreams

waking from a bloodbath of dreams
a machete stains red across the sky
how the mind does nightly wander
in silent screams and heinous crimes
the morning comes in pools of grief
a relief to be a survivor once more
but oh at what price we turn the leaf
of life’s weary pages we adore

Frosty Morning

white sparkling sugar sprinkles
like frosty breakfast cereals
or a sticky pastry treat

coat these hardy little leaves
like polar explorers’ beards
or a husky’s tiny whiskers

they wait for the sun to rise
like breaths of warm air
or a welcoming kiss