the old man & the fence

he wears the same shirt every day
(or must have hundreds of them, lined
up neatly in his wardrobe)

leant against his fence he
holds his cat, catching the evening sun
in lazy amber eyes.

He smiles friendly as i pass
but does he have a voice? not sure,
my headphones cover me –
so i know nothing of his sound
nor what he loves or hates and if

the imprint of his fence takes hours
or years to disappear from sunburnt arms.

smiling back and twinkling at the cat,
i walk on while he watches
(there’s just nothing else to see) and as
i disappear around the corner,

he may tell her of the light, reflecting on
blank-polished metal bars

which hold his fence,

which holds the street,

which holds his world


as the sun lays down for the night

. if you got a cat, make sure to tell her it’s one shot wednesday tonight and this wicked crowd of crazy poets gathers for a blistering poetic blaze over at One Stop where we will bathe in words without a single drop of sun-lotion…come and join us..sign up opens 5pm EST


not really

i don’t drink whiskey – usually and probably
this is my eight out of nine or so problem as

getting badly drunk just by the smell like on that
day when we had samples in the office, you
k n o w_we  measure  flow and someone had
to – ‘cos the density can vary and that was

what i thought of, this evening in the bar and
you had e y e s their color amber-ish, kinda
fell into them and smelling you did crash me

to the ground, t’ was the gravity they say but
more, ha guess it was where angels dance and
they had many colors as you saw and multi-as-
king questions but not a teeny-weeny an-swear

so probably that’s why, you know i chose to
sorta stay ‘cos —

i still haven’t found
what i’m
looking for.

ha – it’s hot today…and i went by bike to work…so my brain got a bit fried…first time linking up with poetry jam (probably no good first impression…) and also with the free verse crowd who sails under Steven Marty Grant’s flag today..(they know me quite well and probably shake their head..ha)
oh and the poetry jam challenge was to use the line of a song and build it into a poem – you already found out – right…? still haven’t found what i’m looking for – U2 – a song that really moved me lately.. 

in dew time

i met you, sitting in the summer
on a resin scented bench,
asking if i’m thirsty – –

When you led me to the pond
i wondered who you are,
but you have never told me.

you took forest flowers,
wove them lithe as fibre strings into my hair,
so it would look like fine spun gold
and when you kissed me,

i felt the earth dance on your tongue &
fir cone trolls rolled up their sleep sleeves

as we made love all night
on soil-soaked pine tree pillows.

Sinking deeper to the ground
you said i wouldn’t die, instead you wove me wings
and gave me dew from water petals,
telling me it was the morning light &

so i drank until we waded in the sunrise
and grew webs between our toes


..i wrote this poem in response to the One Shoot Sunday Picture Prompt over at One Stop Poetry. Jump over there to read Chris Galford’s interview with photographer Adam Romanowicz, who shot this fantastic picture.

so we keep falling


through the night
i saw you standing,

on the edge of a dream,
bent lonely into a house,
not your own while

stars kept shining
as if nothing
had you hold

your breath,

as if nothing
made you melt

with what seemed natural
to all of us
and yet it wasn’t,

as i watch,
your dream bends slowly
into me,

susurrated by a voice
i never heard before

and the tissues of dawn
keep falling

with us

The above iPad Drawing was made by Alison Jardine. I was doing a spotlight on her over at One Stop Poetry last Tuesday and today at Friday poetically, we’re writing poems about her beautiful artwork.

it’s – you don’t play enough..

Scratching the morning with
a sharpened knife i cut myself
to pieces– all tiny parts
that seem irrelevant when
laying lifeless, bleeding out on
white tiled floors —

and a mad sun laughs me silent,

I’m speeding over me,
my streets are covered with
deep holes, camouflaged
by fallen cherry blossoms–

There’s no scent nor
can i feel their flowery pulse and
i don’t sing nor love nor

can i bear that longing for
a lake, for waters make me tremble
with a fluid hand and

“You should cry the ocean deep”
says Time–  lips in a snear

“It’s –  you don’t play enough”
whispers the wind,
paragliding through my hair

and i just wish he wouldn’t stop
until i’m lost in loops in wind-swayed chimes,
until my chambers brim with water gnomes

and i forget my name

until he gently takes me and–

i let him.

ART Basel & touched

three hundred galleries & history
invaded by the artists of the world
i’m moving amongst forty thousands,
there’s still room to breathe in holy halls
until art grabs me, first a light touch

on my hair, feels feathery and makes


a single color slowly sliding
up my arm and with firm hand
bends back my neck to kiss me
vulnerable and exposed, exhibited,
parting my lips with

sudden fierceness & his colored tongue,
invades the choir of my—

vocal chords,

i’m sensing crumbs of oil paint on my teeth,
wanna sing aloud but all i can is
stammer hoarse & splintered words
that make no sense; amidst the crowd
i start to sweat, warm hands glide up
my thighs until i’m shaking heavily like
Shamrock Sundae, stirred until i cannot

stand and leaned against a wall give in,
letting him—-

drag me deep into the dark where
pigment-tainted chambers hide their
secrets from the light, his voice sounds
like a galaxy of structure, pressing hard
against him, hanging spell-bound
on his lips as he moves deep and leads
with gentle hand; wrapped tight &
canvas-sheltered, thousand tiny nerves are
pulsing badly and i’m pushing


glasses deep into my face to hide

the eyes that will betray, my lips

get dry and i am rational until i burst,

explode and end up gasping on the floor
when water-colored streams wash me to pieces –



purple droplets dripping wet from
sterile walls and everyone is moving slowly,
hush their voice as in late gothic churches,

weighing, nodding, moving, no one notes
his hand is sweet & moist with what was streaming
from me as i screamed and crunched under
each pencil stroke, so i walk on – one visitor
of forty thousand, watching, weighing, nodding,


..was visiting the ART Basel exhibition last week, the world’s premier international art show for Modern and contemporary works…and..woohoo.. it’s One Shot Wednesday again where we let poetry touch us until we cannot stand…sounds good? come, write a poem and join us…sign up opens today at 5pm EST

Icarus also Flew


he still stands, spray nozzle
in hand as life drips like
little kid’s running noses, cutting
thorns from dead roses, bleeding from
what dares coming closest, he knew
but for a short time flew – high

with wings, built of magic-doped,
beat-soaked nights and white dust,
you-can’t-keep-me-down lust until
he crashed hard and all that held
him, the black-as-coal king, the
bend-it-to-the max melted like wax

& he still stands, spray nozzle
in hand, starts to run and
dark toned glasses prevent him from
seeing, from touching the sun &
concrete-related he’s spraying
acetone-inseminated letters into
the night, he was smashed-to-the-
ground-icarus in another life

the above picture was shot by One Stop cohort Chris Galford and my poem is the response to the One Shoot Sunday picture prompt