The old churchyard





Silent fields


I pass among the drunken


Weathered and worn

Time has wiped the names down to

mere impressions

Guesswork for the curious

“Dearly beloved wife of- ” someone gone

“Remembered fondly by- ” those now long



Two names that can still be discerned

Also grace street signs in this town

But few who drive down them know enough

To care

Old Joe, the town’s historian (self appointed)

Could give you chapter and verse

On who did what to whom

In the Winter of 1762

But people know better than to get caught up

In a conversation with Joe


So I bide awhile

Among the forgotten dead

Looking for the shot

And finding only melancholy

They’re lying here

Those who built this town up from the dirt

Which is now their bed

While we just live in it and build


How they must pity me

As I walk over their graves

Just looking for a shot.










Words and images are my own.









Beyond my reach


The pain of an old wound

Bites deep

I watch you walk through the gate

Strong backed

Confident stride

Always forward into tomorrow

The arrows of our yesterdays

Pin me to the floor

Draw tears

Twist features

I am old

And you are beautiful in your vibrancy

I do not know when

I may see you again

So, I must live in the memories

Walk the corridors of our past

Feel the pricks of regret and

The fierce fire of my pride

You are the man I was not

A better man than your father.



Words and image are my own.




Enjoy the silence



White quiet


I will not postulate

I would not be so bold

On what she thinks

Or what she knows

That is how we fool ourselves

Thinking the cup has a handle

When the truth is

It’s not a cup at all


I know her better than anyone

And I barely know her at all

The moment I stop believing that

The waves will rise

Our country will vanish

And all that shall remain

Will be the desolate solitude

Of an empty horizon.




Words and image are my own.



Queen of hearts


Hand to hold


At the denouement

We peer from our high bluff

Looking back

Upon all we bore

The deep black nights

And bleary red mornings

Seeing in this moment how the p a t i e n c e

The crazed commitment

With    no    certain hope of reward



Paid off

Knowing that

Though we were insane to believe

In the h a n d we held

The universe saw our insanity

And    raised the ante

And on a


We snatched the pot.



Words are my own.






When it don’t come easy


Proof of life


I’m a poor poet, you say

And I must agree

I’m poor in more ways than one

Impoverished in my talents

And my pocket

Should I choose to be morose over this

When there is so much music in words?

So much that can be sensed


If not quite


It’s enough to keep me on the trail

Of that perfect, fleeting moment

That singular combination

Of words and cadence

Which might prove

Beyond doubt

That I





Words are my own.


Fall on me


Looking past the drops on my window


Old man out walking in the rain

Your jutting chin protruding way

Way out

Past the bill of your flat cap

Good thing you thought to bring your brolly

Else that chin would be a waterfall.



Words are my own.





Appetite For Destruction





Damned dirty ape


He walks upright with

A genius for chaos

A master in the arena

Of destruction

The naked ape

Who developed an opposable thumb

To better grip his gun

And project the worst part of his nature outwards

Project the worst part of his nature outwards

At 60 rounds per second.


Words and image are my own.