Keeping In Touch


“HI! Love you. Kiss kiss.
Must dash.” And scrolls down to the
Next ten second bite.


Old Lovers (A Four By Six)


That curious rhythm
Stitched us to its branchings
Caught up in its weaving
Gladly surrendering

sky become sea

dhamma footsteps

OLD NOTEBOOKS: East Anglia, England (originally dated October 8, 2012): 06.00hrs: I’m upstairs in the cottage, sitting at the desk placed in front of the small window looking out at the world. What a strange sight, everything is chocolate brown. The field was ploughed yesterday, I remember now, a man in a red tractor ploughing the earth into neat chocolate furrows, moving by small increments across the field and back, followed by a flock of pale grey seagulls making a tremendous mewing sound. It took him the whole day.

Furrowed chocolate fields, forever, like lines drawn in the earth, as you would draw with a pencil on a piece of paper, but on a huge scale; a measurement made across the field. Furrows as neat as a comb passes through hair and it leaves the strands precisely separated from each other, for a time. The strange thing is, though, it’s…

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Trimurti (The Writer’s Lot) – (A Four By Six)


Creating. Destroying.
In between? Sustaining.
What about abstaining?
That’s when there’s writer’s block.

Remembering Of A Something



I shall not remember this,
Nor shall be remembered for this.
And yet for a moment I am here,
Settled between grey hills in slow rain.
My love, still sleeping, her dreaming breath
A slow mist down by the river.

Where did it begin?
Moving on, just so,
As a shifting sunset.

Stone stretched thin until i admits hollowed light.
Dark cliffs wane, and here we are:
Saints as numberless as sheep,
Sheep as numerous as clouds.
Clouds piling to heaven then whispering to nothing,
Pushed by hills older than themselves.
The river runs thick and dark, naming each stone.
It is as easy to forget, sometimes, as to remember.
(Bitter ashes, black soot, husks huddled that once had faces).
How fast the grass covers it all, takes away cause and reason.

Here we are:
A silted green valley down to the sea at Llantwit,

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A Simple Acrostic



Hugely appreciated and
Universally valued when
Genuinely expressed and
Shared slowly between two

Gold coins, silver, diamonds
Over-esteemed, so say I

Arid … Meantime all these souls
Neglected, disregarded, crossing
Deserts alone, dying of drought

Deep dark dank oubliettes, shackled to walls
Old fears and hungers binding us fast

Likely seems it’s we hamstring ourselves
Imitating care with taut taught gestures
Kisses on proffered mouths or cheeks
Evasive tactics, light flirtations, small talk
Worrywarts avoiding any need of need
I ended up imprisoned as did you
Solitary observers, unknown, disunderstood
Everywhere so let us welcome them then

Hugely appreciated and
Universally valued when
Genuinely expressed and
Shared slowly between two

POTUS Poots Forth Another


“Wake up, Pop, you have to meet the press.”
“What is it this time? Why can’t I just tweet?”
“This Harvey thing’s too big. You have to meet.
And be careful not to look like you couldn’t care less.”

“Why don’t you go, Ivanka, in a slinky low-cut dress?
Distract ’em. Let your booty take the heat.”
“But you’ll be on TV, centre stage, comfy seat.”
“Well in that case … Oh no! Look! My hair’s a mess.”

Now he’s in make-up sat polishing his schtick
And figuring out ways he can stroll off with some big money.
“I’ll have him deported.” “I’ll make Mexico build a big wall.”
“I’ll nuke him.” “The bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

Trouble is while thousands are suffering yer bumpkin’s so thick
He thinks “this Harvey thing” is an invisible six-foot bunny.


NOTE Any prurient innuendo or double entendre is fully intentional.


Departure Lounge


Motion suspended
Awaiting call to action
Flickering candles of thought
Like tiny sparks in the night

On The Crests Of Waves


What new worlds shall we
Not simply determine to create
But share today?

What new worlds shall we
Not simply determine to share
But create today?

St Ives

How unexpected to find a second poem containing the word pilchard in such close (relative) proximity. And a fine poem too.



Where is the tang of salt,

the reek of the sea’s harvest?

No more the seafarer’s roll

caresses my pier side stones;

no more the women’s red hands

bear fish stained air to cellars,

to chapel, to marriage beds.

I am left to the idle,

the fanciful escapees

that smother my golden sands,

and the sea only knows rage

or seduction – picturesque

to the exclusion of life.

Pilchards were my life – “pilchards”!

Even the word lacks beauty –

‘a devious shining worm

of a man’ this oily fish

has become in a packaged age.

Eyes have turned to the shining

light, springing into the air,

to the translucent turquoise,

to shapes of leisured gesture,

and the abstraction of form.

But beneath, I lie silent,

founded in oil and offal,

grieving for the days of fish,

the certainty of produce,

of sea, land and working hands –

plain, factual…

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