"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, July 20, 2016


Why am I lost
Amongst the daffodils
Swaying in sweet breezes
Above the trickling rills
As I wander
Across the florid hills
And point and snap
The clouds
To make my stills
Of God's skyscapes
Above His rampant earth?
Because it helps me
To sense my true worth,
Freed from oafish extremes
Of glut and dearth,
At one with wonders
That can bring rebirth.

Saturday, July 9, 2016


Have you ever tried to remember what
You were thinking seven long years ago?
When you were paid to think about a lot -
Conundrums cloaked in columns and cash flow.
So how about events when you were young?
They're all so clear and bright those memories.
All words were new, they tripped off a sweet tongue,
And you heard rhymes and rhythms in the breeze.
Yet now each day is like a gauntlet run -
Your face slapped by studded leather falsehoods.
You served, you worked, and, yes, sometimes, you won,
'Til you were flattened, roadkill, damaged goods.
But now you know nothing of anything,
Although, in nightmares, you watch liars sing.

Sunday, June 5, 2016


There's death all 'round me in my deepest vales,
But you lift me to peaks where I am whole.
Your will clears a path for each step I take
And I am thankful you are in control.
Like the birds of the air I will not starve,
Though my enemies plot to steal my wage.
Indeed, at times, you gift to me a feast,
While your love soothes the pains and stress of age.
For you alone bring mercy and goodness,
You forgive me and you enrich my life,
So I can marvel at eternity -
Your spirit's works, shaped by your word's sharp knife.

Saturday, May 28, 2016


I stumble
On crumbling pieces of driftwood -
One shaped like a human forearm,
Others the length of lanky legs,
And some fanned like hands
Or smashed like broken ribs.

If I can find a heart
I might be able to assemble
A man without a brain,
Who could frolic in the sand
Before the arrival of the fine rain
Already drenching
The tangled branches of banksias
And the purple petals
Of morning glory
On the wooded hills.

Choppy surges lick the sky
Between me
And an almost invisible
Distant headland
With an old lighthouse
Standing solid,
Like a dry fountain
In a forsaken past.

The beach is cold,
A southerly blows
And delivers icy slivers.
There is such a severe chill factor
That it makes me shiver
And it threatens,
By way of freezing gusts,
To shrivel my beard,
A two-day stubble of grey and greyer.

Fizzing crests of waves
Turn back on themselves
Before crashing
On invisible seaweed shelves,
Rough rocky ledges,
And concealed sandbars,
The white spray creating
A salty mist over the bending sea.
Soon it will blend
With a bitter shower
And I will wish
For the sizzle of a fire
As the drizzle
Rips through my threadbare fleece coat
And tears at my ageing torso.