Sunday, September 30, 2018


Do you want to bleed me dry?
If I was a stone you would still try.
And an old white man is easy game,
So hurl your harpoon at my undefended frame.

There might be a time
When you will shake and sway,
Full of the fear
That makes me tremble today.

Then you will falter,
When you yield your youth -
That brief season of waste,
Burned beneath a blanket of smoke,
Trivial, like a Dad joke.

Saturday, January 27, 2018


I see there are no more dreams,
No more schemes to fail,
No maiden voyages to take.
I see someone else’s seas.
I am no longer
Fit and well to sail.
I wonder whether those days
Of grand ventures
And unfounded hope
Were ever real.
They seem part of senseless mythology -
Those days when I was strong
And trained for battles in trenches;
When I was new and made of steel,
Blind to the bleak and slippery slope
That waited beyond the wrong.

Spring blossoms blossom
Before blanching in summer,
Then winter will come.

I climbed a mountain
To find it offered a view
Of less than nothing.

Life insured is a truly a worthless thing
Once value dead exceeds merit alive.

Saturday, December 9, 2017


Now that Amazon has opened in Australia, there's free delivery on all my books for Australian readers.  Check it out here.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017


Summer seasons
Bring back old lesions
And dubious reasoning.
It gets so humid,

It’s so hard to sleep,
Regrets theme dreary dreams.
The last of the blossoms

On jacaranda branches
Recall withered chances -
Countless changes in midstream.

Yet nothing stays the same
While the heat rolls in
And the afternoon promises
The pounding of pouring rain
That washes regret’s reminders
From the ponderous air
But fails to wipe away guilt
In the daylight saved for despair.

Sunday, October 1, 2017


Introducing Melchior, a central character in David Morisset’s dystopian novel, ‘The New Settlement’ … available from most online book retailers including here and here and here

It was almost dusk and the shadows of the two men stretched many metres in front of them.  Their tailored charcoal suits and matching fedora hats seemed out of place in the seaside setting.
Melchior preferred to discuss sensitive matters in the open air away from prying technology and other potential eavesdroppers.  A walk along the beach was perfect on a cool day.  The sea talked and talked with itself as the waves massaged the wet sand.  Squawking birds filled any temporary silences.
Tall and slim, Melchior looked slightly younger than his alleged 70 years.  His face was thin, bordering on emaciated.  He had oversized dark eyes and always appeared to be looking over the prominent bridge of his aquiline nose.  This idiosyncrasy was a byproduct of Melchior’s habit of tilting his head back to find the sweet spots of his black-rimmed multifocal eyeglasses.  His platinum hair was surprisingly thick and he was clean-shaven except for a carefully trimmed dappled grey and white moustache that presented as if it was a series of milky smears across the edge of his thin upper lip.  He seldom if ever smiled and nobody had ever heard him laugh.
“Tell me, is the woman a risk?”  As he spoke, Melchior removed his glasses and studied one lens as if he suspected a flaw.  His eyes twinkled slightly as he peered into the transparency.
“His mother?  Of course not.”
“Not his mother.  The one that he left near the old capital.  Tell me, what was her name?”

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.