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






The humbling river



I’m quite pleased to be able to tell you all that my poem, Beneath is to be published next month in the New Jersey Bards North West Poetry Review. This will be the first time one of my pieces has appeared in print but I’m hoping it will not be the last.

Thank you to all of you who have read and commented on my poetry over the past several years, your feedback and support continue to be greatly appreciated.









Life can be edited



Each moment

A photograph in my mind

Composed, lit, storied

Colours bleed into monochrome

Art in place of the merely mundane

Each turn of my head

A panorama

Each moment of concentration

A study in macro

And in those crazy hours

When life tilts

Grainy reportage and

Blurred action

Sell the drama and

Feed the observer

Perched pensive behind the lens.



Words and image are my own.





Maybe I’ve forgotten

The name and the address

Of everyone I’ve ever Known

It’s nothing I regret.

– Regret, New Order



Turned coat


I murdered all the friends of my first life

My old comrades in shared delusion

Starved them of oxygen

by recanting old exhalations

And sawed through their truths

With a blunt-toothed betrayal

Left them wondering if

They ever knew me at all

They knew me

They knew

But that me withered on a barren tree

Where reason was nailed

While dogma looked on

Cheering hollowly in counterfeit triumph

Pyrrhic victories in the end times

They kept asking where I’d gone

But I was too gone to care

So, they shot off their arrows and one by one

Fell silent as the graves they’d dug.





Words and image are my own.








Context matters


Hate gets a bad rap

Sometimes it’s the only sane


To the ceaseless tide

Of stubborn ignorance

Passing for consciousness

And calling itself ‘woke’

It’s not a weapon

It’s a scalpel

Cutting the necrosis

From the healthy flesh

A purge of all things loud and unexceptional

An antidote to performative indignation

Hate can be freeing if the object is deserving

Hate can be the clarifier

Amid all this white noise


A man turns to hate

When all he cares about in the world

Are those things he loves

And all the things he does not

Keep getting in the way.




Words and image are my own.



Rootless tree




Stubborn stains


I lift a finger


Because you always said I wouldn’t

Take infinite care over anything that will

Prove you wrong

You were my harshest critic

And you never even knew me

Not this me


The finger hangs in the air

Pointing at nothing

I’ve forgotten it

Lost now in bitter reveries of

All those

Ancient condemnations

My arm grows tired


And I lower that protesting finger

And wonder who I’m really angry at

I’m getting worried it may start pointing my way.





Words and image are my own




Lifetime supply




Stasis and flow

The philosophy of being

Staying true

The science of belief

Sensing almost nothing is

We stare into a dying sun

Shield our eyes from its deceptive light

And hold on to anything

We do not know

Because not knowing

Still holds potential

While knowing

Keeps us always where we are

Not one step further

Down the track.




Words and image are my own.