some stories are meant to be written . . .

in a darkened room I caress my skull
a weight of words is bound in books there
some unread, some read, some read twice
some lost, some rediscovered, some . . .
my thoughts lie hidden upon these shelves
drifting between ancients and moderns
not knowing the origins of their species . . .
am I to disturb them in their sleep?
or should I leave sleeping letters lie?
some stories are meant to be written
like the one about the cat in the cemetery
the cat that appears only once a year
but goes unnoticed when the sisters come
to pray for the father they never loved . . .

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Spy Story II

I woke in a strange bed
in a strange room.
Beyond the grimed window
a street I never knew.
I turned and met your eyes
a stranger from another time.
Beyond your gaze a fathom
of bottomless ocean blue.

You spoke to me of love
from your ravenous heart.
Beyond the papered walls
a beat was heard in echo.
Your finger placed upon me
sealed my lips from speaking.
Beyond your warm touch
of fathomless origin.

I stood in  a strange room
with four walls and a bed.
Beyond the gilt edged mirror
a reflection quite unknown.
I turned and met your eyes
a glance from another time.
Beyond the motes of dust
a motionless tide crept in.

You moved between space
from here to there to here.
Beyond your moonlight skin
a glimmer of something pure.
You spoke to me of the past
when time had just begun.
Beyond your years of living
a restless soul was sleeping.

I woke in a strange bed
in a strange room.
Beyond the grimed window
a street I never knew.
I turned and met your eyes
a stranger from another time.
Beyond your gaze a fathom
of bottomless ocean blue.

(after ‘Spy Story’ by Vernon Scannell)

selfportrait

I
look out
and try to find
blue and crimson skies
where birds fly from the corners of my eyes
and a copse of trees on a wilderness road
is a little piece of England in Wyoming
where the shadows breathe life into the rocks
and the wolf within me sniffs the summer air

I am
alone and I am
a traveller and I am here and now
in no other time or dimension or space
there are pieces of broken seashells in my pocket
the sharp edges a reminder of sand between my toes
my burnt shoulders a reminder of childhood
when I walked these shores without a care
doing what children ought to do in silence

I understand
the importance of being alive
although I cannot comprehend the meaning of it
the days are numbered with my personal DNA sequence
another unfathomable equation that directs me
and sends me spinning through these landscapes
like an out of control meteorite on a collision course
that urges me to bend down and pick at the desert gravel
to find the piece that fits snugly in my mind

I
of course I can
it’s as easy as buying a ticket and jumping on a plane
there’s no glue to bind me like gravity to this planet
I can come and go as I please and take my leave
wave to you from afar or hold you near
my reason is to journey and never arrive
the call of the wild lulls me to sleep
and in your arms I slumber peacefully

IMG_20160826_125124a

Go Daddy Go!

daddy do
what daddy must
and daddy must do
what daddy must
because if daddy doesn’t do
what daddy must do
there’s a chance that daddy
will never do what daddy must do
and daddy doesn’t want to be
a bad daddy that doesn’t do
what’s right for his son
and for his family
so go daddy go!
do what you must

(someone go wake daddy up . . .)