Sands And Ships

We are like foams upon the sand, bereft

of ocean and intent, and what is left

is lost beyond the reach of time or hope,

and soon, we vanish: bubbles blown of soap.


We’re carried on the vagrant winds, careen

and rend ourselves among the flower greens –

we decorate the blossoms by our road

and then, we die upon the blossom’s goad.


Between the Wind and Flowers lies our bliss –

our Infamy was not so strong as this,

when flames were set among our hearts at play,

and coupling kept our frozen ghosts at bay.



Now, songs we knew are drifting from our grasp,

and memory bites as deeply as the asp,

and wine grows musty on our bitter tongues,

and aromatic incense burns our lungs.


The tasks in which we joined have reached an end,

and golden morning light has ceased to bend

its rays around the edges of our names,

and we are distant from rewards and fames,


but still, we’re bound to ceaseless striving night

that sees no dawn, knows only fear and fright,

and frees us not (nor ever will) from grief

to any form of ease, or to relief.



I am a foam – upon a desert tossed,

bereft of any sea, to oceans lost,

and twining in the mist about my neck

are glowing words, all tangled in my wreck,


and written there – in hand so like my hand:


there is no wonder in the drier land,

no lessons learned by contemplating time –

at furthest grasp, no truth is trapped in rhyme.


We’re fragile as a rainbow’s rippling arc,

and transitory, as are light and dark,

and stricken with the endless mortal grief

of bubbles, or of Autumn’s faded leaf…


Oh for fuck’s sake what the hell is this? Heroic couplets? Really? Who do we think we are, Dryden? Pope? For the luvva sweet bebbe Jeebus, what gets into me?

Three twelve line sections, three four line stanzas per section, in rhymed iambic pentameter – look out, people, I’m building a time machine to the 17th century – out of words…


Just Forty Seconds, Now

Just forty seconds now, and steps between.

(I saw her from the window, in the street.)

In forty seconds, doors and steps behind,

two faces, pairs of hands, and lips will meet.


"I’m here," she’ll smile, looking up at me.

"And I," I’ll say, and laugh, and wonder why.

"Refreshment?" She will ask, with thoughts of tea.

"I’ll get you some," I’ll tell her as I rise.


From out the room, "A long time gone," I’ll call.

"I never talk about the past, do you?"

"I’ve often wondered why you went at all…"

And talk about the past is all we’ll do.


Two minds will grope as conversation lags.

We’ve had our talks for years without success.

And lastly, as she’s reaching for her bag,

two pair of eyes, aglimmer with distress.


Not forty seconds after she is gone

I’ll spot her in the street with moistened face.

The pain we take is never dwelt upon –

each time we see each other, it’s the case.


In less than forty seconds she’ll be here.

I know exactly how our friendship runs.

I know we’ll always leave ourselves in tears.

I don’t know why this thing is always done.


A gentle step I notice on the stair…

a spiral in a cycle of despair.


Appears in my 1980 journal. Reminds me
strongly of Soop, although it wasn’t written about her.

Formal little ditty, isn’t it.


Heart’s Content

no one will ever

catalog the people I have

loved there is no index only

a table of my heart’s content

uncountable nothings of meaningless

perfection each entry

burned into the translucent


of parchment

of my human skin


inscribed with acid

with white hot knives

inks of gall and soot

entries torn into the hide

with broken nails bloody

with their own signifying

each parsed line

a signature

a guide

a faded spell

paces on a map

where X marks the spot


all leading into the shattered

library of amicable congress

where the shelves stand emptied

stained by damp and rot

colored by the unkempt greenery

overgrowing all its many lights


this was once a hall of learning

with reverence for living truth

reduced now to






still above its entrance

proud carven words

blurred with time

ignored by the modern world

in its hurry to be sick of meaning

in untranslatable

dead languages are proclaimed

dead ideals

abandoned aspirations

lost ethics

and the role call of the heroic ones

who achieved things

no one cares

to remember


I remember


I remember


I carry the content

of every heart I have ever loved

I have borne them all

from their days of creation

to their ruinous age

I am the dog-eared card catalog

of a universe

closed to all but myself


though I scream and pray and weep for access


and cast spells

upon the passage of every

midnight of power and consequence


the hall remains a ruin

its doors remain shattered and uncrossed


of ignored exhibitions

detested memorabilia

and blasted collections

I remain

a lonely curator

hopeful still

that one day

some curious youngster

will cross the mossy threshold

and share my sense of wonder



Camels From The East

I remember the yellow-lighted beauty

of being young time lay like honey

on the tongue and friends were spices

rare as camels from the east

recall with me the saffron-scented

sacrifice of hearts as open as our


lion-colored arts and watch

the altar smoke go writhing to the sky

as barges filled with lilies sail nearby

and legendary instruments

and throats raise music

as immortal as the notes are not


now randomize your chambers of the years

and summon up a whirlwind

made of tears and blood and send it

furious and grim

against the traitors and deniers

the haters and the liars


where once an Eden stood

the smoking stumps of sacred groves

are crumbling and the seeds

are salted and the ghosts are rumbling

in their tombs and revenge

is grumbling in tomorrow’s wombs



New Moon

New Moon between Beltane and Litha, between wind and flowers, between eggs and milk…

New Moon Between Wind And Flowers


my random old man

warned tiny me

about hidden moons

and how Spring Winds


could cloud the nature

of the Now with dreams

of apple blossom and eggs

and scents of unfreezing blood


my lovers taught me to breach

their every denial

and find true inheritance

in their lightest milky kiss


spells of darkness fill the heart

and swollen spells of flushing song

travel the fingered nets of night

and teach the reckless world to thrive


there are blushing lessons

everywhere I lean

the world quivers with hope

happy and yearning to touch me


touch me and show

the pink loveliness of leaps

in dark or light

in day or night


touch me and testify

to the unsullied singularity

that is breath and body bound

to love through every Ever



Mum’s Day 2018

me loving mum was a tarnished gal

who couldn’t bear the lightest kiss

cartwheeling through her chaos

with a hillbilly’s bitter bliss


me sweet old mum was a carnal thing

of coarsest taste and base desire

with her needs all plastered over

with sick old gods and hellfire


me sadsack mum was a tragedy

of poverty and darkest need

who never escaped her orphanage

or the coal baron’s greed


cartwheeling through her chaos

came a prophet false and crude

a dream of clean and normal days

and blessed solitude



Verse 1:

G             bm       C        G

Time was when I only dreamed of you

am              em        C         D

now all that I dreamed of is coming true


and all the things that I

em             C       G

hoped for have come to pass

bm         C       G

you are my looking glass


Chorus 1:

    D           em

But mirrors are strange things andC            G

do what they please

C          em

be ever so faithful; fall

D            bm

down on your knees and they will

C               em

never show you mercy – they'll

C          G

twist you around, and

bm              C         G

love is lost be-fore it's found.

   (I was lost when love was  found)


Chorus 2:

How many faces do I truly see?

And why do those faces look so much like me?

Am I looking in a mirror?

Does it mirror my life?

Are these shards in my heart? Or a knife?


I need to finish this song – couple more verses, intro and outro… peesakake.

Very old tune – original dates to the early 1980s.