Every day is like Sunday




Time passes strangely in the days of Corona


Pacing their carpeted cages

Pale, listless ghosts

Scroll news feeds ceaselessly as

Acellular microorganisms

Permeate every fevered thought


Belligerent banner-wavers march

Sowing infection vectors

Late Spring graves from April blooms

Their defiant snake coiled and hissing

Don’t cough on me


While the (casino) king prevaricates

And Governors prognosticate

The bored masses masticate

And fitfully masturbate

Their night terrors


This novel thing divides us

Like some cancerous mutation

We shed empathy like virus

Growing wary of outsiders

And argue with deniers

Whom we hate now more than death.







Words and image are my own.



Wave of Mutilation




Waves crash


Somehow, the houses seem closer together now

While people draw further apart

We husbands and wives sit alone-together

In shrinking rooms

Nursing our vulnerabilities

Pensively viewing events

Through windows without walls


Curtains are drawn closed

Against a world beyond our control

Doorknobs bleached for good measure

We scurry to our mailbox for dispatches or cheques

And eat our boredom ‘til our pants get too tight


Every mind is an abacus now

Calculating exponentialities

And checking the odds like touts at the track

We watch the goalposts receding

Towards the distant horizon

Counting down as the numbers rise

Feeling like time is dragging too fast

Sleeping later each day

To avoid the feeling

We’re not in Kansas anymore


We are small and


Oh, wave of displacement

Pass us by


We are small

And do no harm

Oh, wave of retribution

Pass us by


What day is this?







Words and image are my own.

White Winter Hymnal


Is he back? Who knows? It’s been a long (and eventful) absence. I may be speaking to dead air by now. Every now and then I’ve dropped in to see how you are all getting on but the urge to write anything creative has been.. absent. And so the blog has languished and probably been forgotten, it might be for the best. Do I have anything left to say? Did I ever have anything to say?

That’s not for me to judge.

Frankly, I’m working too damned hard these days in truly menial labour to care all that much.

One piece of news may be of interest to some of you, we’re leaving Jersey. Yes, our time here has come to an end. As of the very near future, we’ll be calling Lancaster PA home. I’m excited by the prospect. Lancaster UK is actually where my family originates on my grandmother’s side and there are many symbolic connections to be found in this very pretty city in the heart of Amish country.

Perhaps the move will inspire some posts.

In the meantime, here’s a piece I wrote standing on a train platform after a night spent unloading a truck full of Christmas crap.



Cold early morning in Bridgewater


Down the tracks, under the overpass

A doe crosses

Proud silhouette in the backlit white cloud

Of her steaming breath


All unaware

As the train from New York

Appears silently in the distance

Made insubstantial

By the haze of morning’s mist

The deer declines to shift from the trackside

Nosing her way through the glistening weeds

I wait for the blast from the driver’s horn

But the train bears down with mesmeric rhythms

More seductive than startling

The deer if she has noticed

Remains unharried


Then, as anticipation hangs in the chill

That horn blares

And the deer



Bounded by grace


The train speaks its language of power

The deer remains eloquently silent

I stand in awe

Of the unrepeatable moment.


Words and image are my own.






Short memory





To the broken goes the crown


It circles unerringly

Ready to drop like an arrow

Or God’s hammer

This shifting of allegiances

This disregard for past loyalties

When did we become Mercury?

Slick and slippery

When did the flow of poison gather momentum?

I have no answer

When the pillars we stand upon

Begin to melt, warp, crack, and tumble

We all fall together into flame

A heap of flailing limbs and lashing teeth

In a tangle from which no one rises

A hill of discontent crowned with

The ruins of resentment.






Words and image are my own.



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.