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Please forgive our words
She’s having her way with me
We’re lost far at sea

Calliope’s Children


You stoke and provoke
Open up countless chasms
Too vast to orate
Conjuring such wild answers
Few are they who dare reply

Poem For The Last Days


So that’s what this is for then, this writing,
she discloses – without hesitation –
when, at last, finally, I think to ask
(wondering, unbelievably almost,
why I never thought to wonder before);
this complex histrionic roundelay.

We love to perform this conjuring trick,
the musey lady and I, hand in glove,
again and again, whenever we choose.
A sprinkling of magic words and Presto!
The exhausted familiar transformed
to à la carte resplendent effulgence.

No fear of lapsing into hoggishness;
rather we’d have even willing strangers
share in helping us celebrate again
the birth and rebirth of our wayward child,
this fantastical origination of ours;
another dissembling layer pared free.

Will you, won’t you, dear mobsters, join the dance?
Sense has yet to ever become common;
it is marking time still till the moment
you slow your madcap barely human race.
Disabuse yourselves; the final frontier’s
not outer space but rather inner time.

You’ve managed to plant a flag on the moon
yet seem unable to feed the starving.
Pigs at the trough and lambs to the slaughter.
“Stop, stop, you can’t take us here. There are rules.
We know what we like. We like what we know.
We don’t want it spoilt with this sort of thing.”

Another pistol whipping. Who’s counting?
Play on! The perfect pair flex their muscles.
So take your partners and not your bearings.
Let’s be done with avoiding avoidance.
Fiddles away! Drab Hamelin is boring.
Let’s dance on. Nearer my Nero to thee.

We live in a time and place where seriously worrying things are happening. What is the place of poetry in that world?

Such Sweet Teasing


I think that I know
That I know what I mean
But my tongue, I’m afraid
Has a mind of its own
And has taken Calliope
Up in the mountains
Delighting in flashing me
From the beyond while
Basking in the everlasting
Moonlight: clair de lune
Declared a loon my love
All the while she sparkles
A la Dulcinea, her smiles
Like lucid diamonds

Love Of My Life


She watches the idiot boy tinkering.
Muttering, mumbling, worrying at the cud,
stuttering through the fog, clutching at limp scraps,
floundering in discarded redundancies.

She recalls that piece of paper on which he
scrawled “Words are the pegs on which experience
is hung out to dry.” Inconsistent or what?
The image bristles with frustration, contempt.

Is he completely disenchanted by words?
Yet it was words neatly condemning themselves
satisfied him so deeply as he wrote them.
He loves paradox, adores ambivalence.

They’re like two long wedded lovers, him and words.
A profound affection for one another,
but also resenting the chains of habit
and codependence that tie them together.

She is happy to be his occult bedmate;
mistress also of that realm where sounds are born,
she knows how to set them coursing through his veins:
a great deluge; a mighty niagara.

Essence of being and experiencing
thunders through the flume, sparks flecks of vocal spume.
Words once again stand agape, untongued, dumbstruck.
For this is the mistress of his heart, true

love of his life.


The relationships between the poet, his wife (words) and his mistress (the Muse – gateway to the Essence).



Your muse is within
Forget all them outsiders
Simply distractions

Dues For The Muse (A Ghazal)


Unseen, you witness with smoking eyes your home, Parnassus, sanctuary, now home to ski ……….lifts, the tailings from a mine. Calliope!
You let me view it as through your eyes and my heart surges, a frenzied urge, to protect you, ……….your ease my soul’s sole design, Calliope.

I’ll always challenge their compliments. I’m not the writer, just hold the pen. It would be ……….foolish, and worse than that, it is a sacrilege.
For who fathoms far beyond what I glimpse then deftly spins the wheel of my glazed eye till ……….feelings, snatched thoughts and words combine? … Calliope!

Being the eldest is not easy, we both remember. You tough it out. You used heroic words to ……….mask your vulnerability.
Drew tight the shutters and hid your fear, forgot frailty becomes a strength when shared, so ……….let me see yours, for you’ve seen mine, Calliope.

Yes, I’ll admit I enjoy a pun or two. To me though a play on words can be far more than an idle ……….joke; I use them purposely.
I jest, in hopes to amuse a muse, cross fingers hoping the fool I play contrives to conjure that ……….wistful smile of thine, Calliope.

Forget the epic. Look where that leads. Death and destruction. You’ve been betrayed. Ares? ……….Achilles? A brute. A heel. You’ve had your share of pain.
I know a new shore. Let us set sail, if you will allow. Make love, not war. Yes, we’re no angels ……….and yet our lives entwine, Calliope.

Your past is chequered, no less than mine. Through poison ivy and bittersweet you climbed, ……….then outgrew, your family tree, untarnished, defiant.
You’ve run the gamut: daughter, sister, lover, mother, wife. If you’re game, milf could be ……….another. Fear not, I won’t decline, Calliope.

Life’s not been easy. You spoke your truth through art, and artful words, then saw men grab ……….all the glory. Yet you retain your generosity.
I’ve answered sirens. They’ve played me false. Now, in your harbour I drop anchor, realising ……….it’s in mine you sink your line, Calliope.

Devoid, an exile among the cloying throng possessed by possessions they pursue, unmoved by ……….agitation, I shall await you here.
A glade at twilight. This wood, this world, a living temple and in each tree, each leaf, each ……….flower, each blade of grass a shrine, Calliope.

A bird embroiders the evening with a cascading of notes that slice through flesh yet leave the ……….heart beating time until it’s time to leave.
A sign, this song bird. Those same dreamy dark eyes that refuse brief encounter, promise ……….quintessence, beyond beyond. Divine Calliope.

I am your captive, my queen of hearts. You break my heart and then sew it up, all in a heart ……….beat. There are no words for this, not even yours.
Untried recipe; we’re working blind. Not best components; we’re chalk and cheese. Red wine ……….and brown bread, that’s all, A loaf, some wine, Calliope.

Brother and sister in one body, sapling forever in bud. At peace at last. Untroubled, we walk ……….the line. A jewelled carriageway.
The night is pitch black. I am writing in the light shed by your golden crown. Only your rapture ……….can cause this ray to shine, Calliope.


The dear Musey Lady has been pestering me to repost this. She has been feeling neglected recently. All I can say is that I have been doing too much reading of other e-logs rather than working on completing poems of my (“our” she says) own. And so …

A Muse Opens Her Heart


Where is my mind?
Where oh where
is that place we’re all,
all of us, all of us,
my sisters and brothers,
seeking – unfulfilled?

Where we can vomit forth
our polluted essence,
our poisoned heritage,
into that accepting lap
at last. At last. Oh yes,
even Calliope herself.

Perhaps her most of all.
What did I, her lowly herald,
earn to merit this though,
that she might honour mine
when I am still searching,
still unfulfilled?

I Read You


I read you,
loud and clear.

Another open letter;
another open wound.

The same old wound
but scabbing over …

… slowly.

You gift me poems,
my stand-in muse,

and I give you
as others
say grace
before a meal.

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