Something Like Peace

pelted by a rain of bullets
buzzing from the planes’ bellies
I lie in the ditch

carriages and bikes,
lone dolls and shoes
litter the road
where a moment ago
a people fled

a distant rumble is heard
a beating drumbeat
from anxious clouds

suddenly the sun is out
like a curious child parting curtains
to survey the scene below

something like peace
descends on us

the sky is back to being the sky
the planes a distant memory
except for the cries for help
from writhing bodies

I offer my strength to the injured
my health to the dying
my hand to the orphaned child


ANGRY is the SCREAM as I papercut myself trying to go too fast

It reverberates in my bones, in my skull

I don’t scream out of PAIN

My FRUSTRATION has reached the boiling point

The tipping point, the point of NO RETURN.

YELLING let’s out steam, that build-up in my veins

Borne of vexed dreams, DOWNED expectations

As I try to FLY HIGH.

That scream is ME

Calling out to the GODS for a respite.

Angry bypasses reason.

It goes straight from SYNAPSE TO SYNAPSE

Short-circuiting all attempts at moderation.

It feeds on itself like OUROBOROS

It is WHOLE and complete and happy to be

SHOUTING to the world: I AM!



sad eats up all my energy
it is voracious
sad preserves my self from Angry
it scares others more because it is quiet
and doesn’t say its name
sad shuns light and life
it is gray, it swirls into the void
coriolis striving for non-existence
making inertia beautiful and desirable
sad is no-capital
it takes you on insidiously
wants you to stop feeling
to stop thinking, and stop being
whispering to the world
am no longer



HaPPy bOuNcEs Up AnD dOwN

It Is MoVeMeNt aNd SurPrIsE

lIfE mAnIfEsT

mUSiC aNd DaNcE

bUbbLiNg LaUgHtEr

It MoVeS YoU FrOm WiThIn

To ToUcH ThE WiThOuT

iT Is CuRiOSiTy FoR tHE WoRlD

Of WhIcH YoU ArE pArT

AnD wHiCh Has CrEatEd






Clipped Wings

Tethered to the ground
Hopping madly from place to place
Protesting, adapting, fumbling, still

I want to soar
And explore the skies
Carried by the wind

Clipping is a painless procedure
Humanely performed
It has to be repeated

Our primary feathers
Stubbornly grow back
Blood feathers

I no longer submit to the painless procedure
I want to feel up close
The sting of the sun

As I fly again
Ungainly at first
And breathe freedom


White plaques on atrophied brains
White handprints on fissured rock walls
I was here – do you remember?
Before those hands obliterated your senses and sense of time
I was here yesterday, and the day before
I am your daughter, not your sister

Your sense of self intact, a collage of other lives
You never made it to Morocco, although your friend did
You talk animatedly of the spices and the souks
Of the brutal men and veiled women
You don’t remember why you went
In fact, you never did

You still have your sense of humour
To every song, you create your own lyrics
Your dizziness a chance to sing of the Seine
Meandering around Paris

It takes its toll, though
The deep fissures are covered in moss
The cracks dusty, the edges brittle

Your flame flickers
It throws shadows on the fissured wall
Illuminating small bumps, concealing flaws and cracks
The candle just a stub now
Where once a proud pillar stood

You have started to shuffle your feet
And suspect foul play.
When someone stares at you,
You hiss and growl back.

You won’t leave me alone in a room –
A stranger with your treasures?
I am no stranger – I am blood of your blood
Flesh of your flesh

And yet your core remains
Under a veneer of crazy talk
And suspicion
I still see you behind those fearful eyes
That once were so fearless
Behind hesitation
That was never yours

You are as beautiful as ever
Full of light
You have never before spoken so freely of love
Of how important your family
Of how beautiful your children

You still lead by example
Humility, resilience, compassion
Never steal away
You still have so much to give

You have shouldered the cloak
Of Alzheimer’s
And the cape has made you

You fake enthusiasm
Desperate for acknowledgement
And belonging

We assure you that you belong
In our hearts, in our souls
We smile and you smile back



Careless Sea

I went out today on the careless sea
I needed something solid to pound
After our argument
My paddles hit you until I was spent
You mirrored my unrest with your tall walls of water

Towering over me
Crashing down furiously

It suited me fine
I screamed at you and shook my fist
My face wet and salty

When you tired of me
You tossed my frail skiff
Aside and under

I did not come back

Just a Poem

I know all the words
It’s the meaning that escapes me
Like a theorem just outside my grasp
Or the mystery of electricity

I like how it flows
I can feel the undercurrents of emotions
The brilliant images make me smile in wonderment
Without rhyme or reason

Perhaps it is meant to make me feel good
Perhaps it is about the journey
Sometimes a poem is just a poem
A sunrise just a sunrise

The meaning contained in the feeling
The process a reward in itself
A clank of the bell
On a clear crisp night

The Walkers

The walkers come in all shapes and sizes
From all over the world
With their colonial accent
They gawk at our sheep, at our hills
Deem everything magnificent and oh so British!

The walkers cross the road like children
Check for cars to the right
To the left, again and again
Before launching themselves
With high cries and panicky eyes

They accuse us of letting dogs and children drive
They look at the passenger side all the while
With utter disbelief in their eyes
We laugh at their antics
But never to their face

The walkers come in droves
The adventurous and the organized
The planners and the ones looking for meaning in their lives
They take selfies, they take over our pubs
Their money flows like water

The walkers sport their dirty boots like badges
Trading routes and comments with fellow walkers
They share a common sentimentalism
About the English countryside
Romanticism made dirt

They trudge up and down hills
Through dung-filled pastures
With bleating sheep
Annoyed at the intruders and vigilant
Lest they steal one in the herd

They can go for days under the rain
When at home they would hop in a car
They relish the fresh air and the Facebook posts
And the boasts that come with their feat
A hundred km in ten days

The walkers are quaint and part of the scenery
We humour them but don’t join in
We’d rather walk our dogs or ride our horses
Than follow the fools in all weather
And visit sham villages – the old made new