Readers make the best companions

Drifting above the room
to areas rarely seen,
the top ledge of the bookshelf
displays a dusty parade
of propped novels read
and some unread
leaning aslant into tomorrow.

The lampshades from here
are tempting orbs
shining upwards,
directing me
in their searchlight nudges,
with adamant requests
to get out a duster and flick
away highlighted cobwebs.

I desist (knowing what I know)

For there’s that old spider reading
“The Time Traveler’s Wife” again,
and I notice its fine silken thread
traversing one room corner
right to the open book.

If only I made the same efforts
to read as it did. So, I assist
turning the page for it (carefully)
and between us we get to page two.

In genuine thanks
it untangles its trap,
and offers me begrudgingly
another free-fly
so I can become accustomed
to these fragile, moth wings.

Here’s hoping it’s a lengthy book
with a happy ending.

A straight line has no corners.

Days lead into days
of straight ahead lines,
I am just an ordinary,
old schooled legionary
out of time with his world.
In a century imagined
I’d never see,
scarred from too many battles
with Barbarians.

Our monuments,
they’ve alas crumbled,
given themselves unwillingly
to the sea, not wanting to be
rediscovered, “Carpe Diem”
thrown upon its head;
a plaque under the waves.

I’ve Viewed the statues
of the Gods and Goddesses
from sideline standpoints,
caught fish swimming through
their armless elbows,
necklaces of pearl, azure,
just precious weights
to submerge in transition.

There’s emptiness within
those marble set features,
the missing limbs, chiselled lips,
from subtle to strong Roman noses,
once so carefully formed,
now broken, askew;
as if that’s what they always

On the new shoreline,
you stood beside me, my love,
posed in their place, smiled.
Shook the old world from your hair
like Neptune’s daughters
discarding tridents for a nets,
and it was no use denying,
we soldiers were captured
by a different pace, along a path
which really didn’t matter
how direct it was.

You can’t fight every war,
sometimes you just have to live.

This time counts

you smile because,
well, while nothing exactly
is as it should be,
there are these sets
of notes.

They play like a flute
carried on a gust
of a Northern wind,
taking all the force,
and gusto of its harshness
to another direction.

These oppor-tunes,
they spin weathervanes.

And it may be especially
because of that gale,
or a sense of a less playable
downwind later,
that they make the most
of the breezed-by moment,

and play it as loud
and as bright,
as it should be lived.

What’s Underfoot

I haven’t written
a poem for so long,
that the paper
I ink these thoughts upon,
has rip-curled
to an unusable tube
and it lets each line
of words slip
out the other end.

There they go;
dropped out of view
like flimsy ideas discarded,
being only shavings.

Except now, I notice them,
and all these other little bits,
every word I missed off.
Every life splinter –
each one that I could not wait to lose,
and minor thing
hid under the heel of my shoe.

Every thing I felt
and didn’t acknowledge
its place of value –
all that was
dropped on the floor
and left to walk out the door before.

These odd scraps lie in this poem,
and I’ve come to love them.

From small beginnings

The stream finds
its cascading rhythm,

swirling past branches,
who hold out all the
memories of good timing
in those certain buds of spring.

A flowing staircase,
fresh, over the rocks,
come tumbling
syncopated chords,
and it has played this out,
oh, many times before,
but never in quite
the same way.

How it loves
the collected volumes
of these seasonal rains.

For they are a means
to run faster and further,
and to sail a leaf
to a new found land
(it only dreamt of
once upon a time,
when it was up in its tree)

Ever onward the waters zigzag,
often with the angle of a lute.

Retuning by degrees, it remerges
to be heard once again,
becoming the folk song
it was surely meant to be.

Keep travelling


Don’t dismiss
the unseen
or the seemingly

For the wild winds
of imagined thought
once steered
and caught,

can push ships
with sails unfurled,
right to the other side

of the world.

She asked me who broke the pond

Oh, don’t ask me I wasn’t there,
but ’twas a cracking affair.

I’m reliably informed
from lots of swallows sat in trees,
a small vole and a -oh please
you don’t want me to name them all,
they were there – that is all.

I’m told some hefty ducks
skated freely over the ice,
more than once, maybe twice
until their upturned tums
met their feathery bums.

Then a burly swan
joined in the fun
(he didn’t know his size)
much to the other swans surprise,
skidded right to the middle,
which made the field mice giggle.

It then turned substantially worse,
there was a loud craaack, a curse,
and an old crow landed right upon his head,
– that’s what the ducks said.

That’s when the ice broke.

That’s when the ice broke!

So, who did the deed,
was it the crow or was it the swan?
I can’t be sure,
as I wasn’t actually there.

But did that swan give that crow
a slap and a very big swany stare
which caught it completely unaware,
and was the crow flattened below,
and did the mice continue to laugh,
yes, they did, Cath!