Saturday, 28 September 2013

Spring storms

It's wicked fierce tonight,
outside and in.

I listen to the wind as it tears apart the trees,
their branches lashing out in the darkness,
striking everything in reach with devastating blows.
The debris becomes a hail of whirling missiles,
spinning through the night.

Rain thunders against the steel roof,
overwhelming the gutters,
falling in cascading streams that swirl,
washing away the earth,
uprooting and drowning the spring flowers before they bloom.

Lightning cleaves the sky,
the house shudders with the force.

Ah, but it's so peaceful out there compared to how it is in here.
I long for that kind of peace.

Thursday, 26 September 2013

Love, love, love, love


It certainly has been
Interesting Times
and, well,
what to make of it all?

Somehow my tolerance has held,
past the limits of reasonableness,
and pushing through the boundaries of miracles.
It hangs by the finest thread.

It’s a trap

Stuck-fast in a trap.

If I abandoned everything,
I could be free.
Could I have a better life?
If I wasn’t me.

Regular problems

It would be nice
just to deal with regular problems
once in a while.

Every day
a fight with futility,
a failure.
Entropy beckons.

Am I less than I was before?
Or am I more?

Take the truth

Take the truth
and make it yours.

Take the blows,
and take the shame.
Take the heartache,
and take the pain.

Take it,
look upon its face,
restore it to its proper place,
what’s done is done,
we start again.


my shadow.

Funny how
your two dimensional form
has more depth and meaning
than all of my existence.

No star birthed me.

This machine

How does it feel?
To sit atop the world,
in all its beauty and ugliness?

This machine
can’t compute that.
This machine
can’t turn your money into anything good.

this poem is part of a series including and

Error; redo from start

What other machines may break;
This machine will make
a few.
What this machine may take;
for others’ sake,
it will give some too.

This machine,
can make mistakes.
This machine,
can make dreams come true.

This machine,
can make mistakes.
Error; redo from start.

this poem is part of a series including and


So many mechanics
to make life a little better.
So many mechanics
to make this machine work.

Who we lean on.
Who we call on.
Who we bleed on.

This machine,
a mechanic too.

this poem is part of a series including and

Butterfly Words

With my pen,
I pin
my thoughts and feelings,
as butterfly words,
to the page.
Stab them,
one by one,
and hold them fast;
to better understand
the shades of meaning
on their wings.