"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Wednesday, May 31, 2017


It was always there
Above the kitchen cupboards
That decked the walls.
It dwarfed silly china
Ducks or swans
That I cannot remember now.

A bottle of Black and White –
Two little Scotchie dogs
That enchanted me,
And they still do.

It was half full,
That’s how it seemed to me.

Half empty my grandmother said.
It was your grandfather’s tipple,
So it’s probably cold tea.
He’d surely have drained it
And disguised his crime.
Anyway, he’s not here to confess.

I was so small.
I could not reach it.
I’m still trying to climb
High enough to enjoy it.

Saturday, May 13, 2017


Up at five,
Barely alive,
Dangerous drive,
If I can park I'll survive
Another day,
Striving for pay.

My skin cancer scars
Often help my mind 
Remember sequences of events -
Like ancient texts
Curated by the blind,
Penned on parchment,
Once pristine,
In past tense.

I am sick of paddling in the shorebreak.
If only I was swimming way out there -
Beyond burbling white crests of wild waves' sets,
Where sea and sky blush in the sunset's glare.

Friday, March 17, 2017


Sometimes I think
I died so long ago
That what I now know
Is nothing but dreams -
Reminders of deep woe,
Authored by black dogs
Barking vicious schemes.
So why should I fear
Bodily decay
When it's my mind
That's mucked up by disease?
And sweet oblivion
Could end my day
With flights beyond
The bounds of life's meek breeze.

Friday, March 10, 2017


I am bound,
Stretched naked on an ant hill,
Tethered so tight,
The insects pity me.
Yet they must torment me.
They have no will,
Unlike corrupt men
Who bite for a fee.
Over lifetimes ill winds blow
Every week,
Poisoned sometimes,
Other times merely foul.
They bring pestilence
And grey skies so bleak
They encourage
Horrid black dogs to howl.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017


When I awake from my nightmarish sleep
I'm reminded of times when truth flowed deep
And all people drank from honesty's wells -
Now they swallow liars' potions and spells.

And what we can sell
Is all and everything,
Yet most are fed well
So few see the scheme -
By which cash cascades from springs
Spoiled beyond extreme.

Now I'm hung on a hook, thumb-tacked by themes
Rumbling through my slumber's thunderstruck dreams.
Before, when darkness seldom survived light,
The great and good were still up for the fight.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017


Your old picture morphed into multichrome 
And then your voice became a Siren's sound -
A diva singing love's perfect poem,
Backed by summer rain's patter on parched ground.
You were a text on sensuality
Written on my blinded youthful vision;
Bonny and blithe, tempting me to be me,
But I walked away to life in prison.
Now I'm here skewered, wriggling on a pin,
Accused, yet not remotely criminal,
Kafkaesque, lost, and wondering where you've been,
Wishing reality subliminal.
In dreams your face lights up and says 'hello' -
Old knowledge that I wish I did not know.

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


In my mind I still see those shining rails,
Parallel up close, joined at a slight crest,
Invisible beyond that spearhead point,
Expressing workers worldwards from the west.
Before carriages came out of the east
I sensed their rickety rhythmic rattle;
I felt the diesel motor's vibrations;
I heard cries of freight cars' sheep and cattle.
And I recall smoky locomotives,
Vapour spirals whirling like Dervishes,
Soot defiling my then tender nostrils,
Steam hissing like snakes locked in skirmishes.
Always the antique station waited still -
Gateway to the flood plains near Richmond Hill.*

* The first British settlers in eastern Australia referred to the Sydney hinterland town of Richmond as Richmond Hill.
The picture shows a 1960s steam train descending the gentle incline from Schofields as it approached Riverstone.