Blog Archives

Twilight’s Last Gleaming


Let us stroll now this empty orchard
Gone out of season and out of time
Grasp poetry, physics, the perfect rhyme*
To toast the Doctor’s magic pilchard†
A heavenly couple’s life is hard
S’not all apples, there’s sweat and grime
And groping in the dark and slime
With nothing sure left behind to guard

Cast out of the bright garden and left alone
Adam’s apple crumbles leaving merely bone
Always was a throaty tickle mainly subliminal
The doctor’s bobs in uttering the word “terminal”
In God they trust, in palliative they clutch
And this and that and so and such


* … our favourite Time Lord who had been teaching everything from poetry to physics – “they’re the same thing, same rhymes” …

† “Once, long ago, a fisherman caught a magic haddock. The haddock offered him three wishes in return for its life. The fisherman said, “I’d like for my son to come home from the war. And a hundred pieces of gold.” The problem is, the magic haddock, like robots, don’t think like people. The fisherman’s son came home from the war, in a coffin. And the king sent a hundred gold pieces in recognition of his heroic death. The fisherman had one wish left. What do you think he wished for? Some people say he should have wished for an infinite series of wishes, but if your city proves anything, it is that granting all your wishes is not a good idea. […] In fact, the fisherman wished he hadn’t wished the first two wishes.”

– The Doctor.

For Even Poets Pass On (A Four By Six)


Time to bid you fare well.
Should I say “Rest in peace”?
No, for that’s not your style.
“Wrestle on and create!”

Amicus Curiae


I am happy
To bring you
To the window

But not to tell you
What you should see
Beyond the glass

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



Another page then
Savaged, ravaged

No pristine virgin
No fallow field

Tell me for why
Is it just rattling

The bars of the cage
Of this our language

Busy busy restraining
Our breathless words

For after all, for after all
Who was it, who was it

Put the me in meaning
Or the em in poem?

Too Paranoid (Republished)


He started whispering to me one night
From the wall beside my bed
Said he needed my help

That the secret police
Were controlling his thoughts
With microwave radiation

So that he wrote poems
Which they could use if they ever needed
Evidence of his insanity

And this is one of them
Which he was too paranoid to write down
So he got me to do it for him

After all, he says
I live in a democracy
And it’s quite safe here

Stuck In A Rut (A Four By Six)


Glued your appealing face
To an ancient photo
Whose subject retorted
“This is not a poem.”

The Mystery Of Creation


Collect the random.
Act! Stream fresh fiction!
The key subsumes the writer.


This is a response to a writing prompt.

Weekly Word Prompt # 5

Recent Reading

Kim's Books
I recently bought from my friend and fellow poet Kimberly Wilhelmina Floria autographed copies of her two poetry books “Whispers I Silently Heard” and “Pages of Pain”.

Learn more by going to

Four By Six


Four by six, he ordered
Something universal
Haiku manages that
Fewer syllables too


A fellow poet told me that as an exercise during a poetry course she attended one of the tutors, Scots poet Thomas A. Clark, challenged the participants to write a poem which managed to make a universal statement in no more than four lines each containing six syllables.

I promised her that I would make an attempt at this myself. Here is the result.

I also decided to mint a new poetic form: the four by six. Expect some more in the future. And by all means have a go for yourself. 🙂