"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)

Monday, May 23, 2016


Although I am old
I am still a child
Of one
Who always cares for me
And ensures I have
All I need.
He guides me
As I take every turn
And as I enter
Every roundabout.
He walks with me as I stroll
Across green parks
That flank the strands
Above sands of primrose
Where I can paddle
In the gurgling shorebreak
Before pausing to watch
Parades of the coolest shades,
Dissembling in impressions
Like works of abstract art,
Beside turquoise waters
That shimmer in the sunlight
While rippling in the breeze.
Even when it is dark,
And I cannot see,
He sends me visions
So I know the waves glimmer
Under the moon at night
When I listen in my sleep
To the sighing sea,
Diminished, breathy,
Rolling with a rhythm
Written in the beginning
And set to the tempo
Of dances for angels.

Friday, May 13, 2016


How can I beat the black dog that hounds me?
I live in a world where there is no trust -
A place of unhindered malignancy -
Where lies prevail and truth is left to rust.
I never sought a harbourside mansion.
I invested all I earned in learning.
But now no one comes near to read my words,
And I attract only sneers and spurning.
At the crucial junction I was robbed blind,
And then thrashed raw by leeches of the law,
Who live in glass houses with stolen gold -
Slow torture then massacre by chainsaw.
The postmodern preachers rave about hope -
Slapstick for prey at the end of their rope.

Sunday, May 8, 2016


Living in a tent
And paying too much rent;
It’s far too hot to rain again,
So at least I’ll get a suntan.

I am an old fashioned man.
When I hear women screaming,
And children crying,
It makes me worry.
And then I remember
I live in this half hell
Of postmodern relativism,
Where any behaviour is blessed
In the name of tolerance,
And only the aged
Are not accepted.

A man’s ghostly black heart stores up follies -
Think of Gatsby, or Heathcliff, or Enjolras -
And yet the polo player always wins
In tainted times like these.
For women there’s no real choice –
To be a fool is still by far the safest ploy.

Living in a flat
And hoarding too much gold;
It’s warmer by the minute
And it’s never been so cold.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016


Now that we've disproved gods we know the truth
And we are truly free to rule the world,
We can do whatever we'd like to do,
But we flap in the breeze like flags unfurled.
Proximity and circumstance drive us,
Our choices are not really our choices.
It seems as if we make up our own minds
But our minds hear only random voices.
It's all mere chance and biochemistry,
None of us are here for any reason.
We win and lose and love by accident,
We shine like Springtime sun for a season.
So, if life is not really life at all,
No wonder we recoil from death’s shrill call.

Saturday, March 19, 2016


I know what it's like to be a stranger,
Frequently feeling endangered,
Picked over by predatory cultures,
Thirsting under circling vultures.
Life’s autumn brings dread and no respect,
Scorn meted out by the usual suspects,
Every disease, changed up into overdrive,
Street racing a futile will to survive.
Living forever is just a way of wanting more
Than grace’s gift of ten years plus three score,
And the rest of the world whispers leave us,
We don't want you here, old white men grieve us.

The photograph shows El Beso de la Muerte (Kiss of Death),
a sculpture located at Barcelona's Poblenou Cemetery.