My obsession




So, me being me, I’ve foolishly started another blog (I know, I know, I hardly have time these days for this one) but having written extensively about the love of my life for many years now, I feel the pull to write about another love; craft beer.

I hope some of you, my valued readers, will make the hazardous crossing to my other little island of obsession. I would love to see you there.

Two Rivers Brewery





Everything’s just wonderful






You want to ask people sometimes

Where does it come from?

This infallible knowledge

Which allows you to judge the way

Others live their lives

What deep wisdom do you draw upon?

That gives you such insight

Such certainty

Do you ever question your own opinions?

Or are you beyond the limits of introspection?

Could it be you just know?

Even that which you don’t

Or is the reality much simpler?

Your way

Or the highway.



Words and image are my own.





Intricate song’s lost measure




Odd choices


They built a brutalist monstrosity

On top of Hilda Doolittle’s house

I don’t know why they did that

Just couldn’t help themselves

I suppose


We can be careless that way with treasures

Always putting tomorrow

Ahead of yesterday

Today, her house is underneath City Hall but then

Aren’t we all?


What remains of Hilda lays

In an unassuming grave

I must assume


I searched but couldn’t find it among the obelisks

And laurels

A sign of healthy humility

Don’t you think?


Dear H.D. made it just a short distance up the street

In which she was born

(Via New York, London, Paris, Zurich)

Now her ashes are up on Nisky Hill

Seashells of appreciation placed on her headstone

Or, so, I’m told


In the end, the poet came home

To a place she’d long left behind

Nestled in the soil of memory

Looking down on old familiar views

O little town of Bethlehem.


She could see her house from there

If she weren’t in an urn

And they hadn’t built a brutalist monstrosity on top of it.





Words and images are my own.




Hilda Doolittle



Telling lies




Falling dreams


At that hanging point

Where it all seems doomed to slide

Rushing down towards dark water

Like some clifftop house into the Pacific

Someone turns on the light

And you find yourself dazzled

Realising your dream was telling lies

And the cliff was sound after all


The sheets are a tangle

Your chest damp and heaving

But you lie there in your sweat-sodden bed

And thank god you’re not falling.



Words and image are my own.



Lost for words


The poet of fractious things


George  Faludy

He, now dead, who

Was once more living

Than most

Tasted ideology

And found it too bitter

Sunk supine instead

Into his flesh

Ate life and spat words

Fucked women

And just one man

For the sake of asymmetry


His deep well never

Ran dry

His boredom with boorishness

Never divorced him

In gulag or salon

(He knew both intimately)

The driest thing was his wit

The sharpest his tongue

And in any language

His substance was the same

In the face of dogma

“What have we done to ourselves?”

“To what end?”




Words are my own.





Fish are Jumpin’




Chasing rainbows

Took dog down by the lake
Where the trout jump
When you’re not looking
Tried to catch ’em mid-flight
But when I looked left
They jumped right

Tricky little fishes
Leaving dog unimpressed
Too busy with the dragonflies
To get his paws wet.


Words and image are my own.



Ain’t necessarily so



A fine fellow she was



Did you hear about Pulaski?


May have been a she

The father becomes a


That dashing, tragic warrior

For whom we named a Highway

In the sky

Shows us that understanding can

Be subverted

And that history

Is not a dead language

General Pulaski

Mother of the American cavalry.




You can read about this interesting development at