Monthly Archives: December 2014

six, twenty four

for those in peril on the sea

plays each morning steadily.

fingers tap the sounds, the words,

little ideas readily. wore rags,

ate off broken plates before

it was screened.

yet i bet this is not a first,

not really our idea.

so we keep on mending, making, pray

for those at sea.



it were cold yesterday

started with magic furry frost , clearing cars

to get to work. early

the planes came over sideways,

lights shining, we stood and watched them fly.

it was all over face book, some complaining

of the noise, some like me, stood in wonder,


a day of lumps, that fell to nothing,

so in gladness we lazed the frozen day

indoors, logs running low from christmas blazes.

it were a cold day yesterday. let it go.



note for a friend

on cleaning, finding moth.

although expired gently, lift

and place in box with the


on old ribbon, slightly frayed,

wind, pin, keep for another day.

for work, for photographs.

on words, collect, retain the simple

ones, that do not confound,

hand write into paper


post often.

on living. make notes.



a lighter sky

we have a clean white bed, slept late,

a shock to break the ritual. a treat

on a major scale. probably ten.

i think i may like to travel to small places,

old and full of history. deep aged fabrics

stained with the words of time. to touch.

feel the textures, the threads, know that when

all things are sad, there is a happiness to be

found, in these places.

in the ribbon she gave me, in the thoughts,

the gestures from friends, their aknowledgement

of who i am.

. it has been a happy time.



. coming home .

can be.

frightful, in snow or heavy rain,

dark the days are, the evenings darker.

forecasts bring gloom and panic, then are cancelled

minutes later, the phone kicks off.

ice is predicted, mountains white

and jesus is reborn up the valley.

now there is a story, meanwhile

arriving home to candlelight, fire the same

and hopefully all will be well a while.

the word count is 62, the years are 8,

and i dreamed it was 2 months ; longer

than all the other numbers.

i have been a long time coming home.



a medieval day

wish i wrote dark, about deep insecurities,

a struggling childhood, i wish i wrote

like others with words of wonderfull

syllables, bells ringing,

you know.

wish i wrote long tomes, to bore myself

rigid. to tap the hours away till bedtime,


wonder if i shall write serious,

tell thee all hard stories that

don’t exist. i wonder if i shall stop,

when no one reads.

this is a time to wonder at the

dark hours leaving, waters receding,

black trees slowly turning. wintergreen.




can you hear the sound?

fingers tap.

can you hear the wind outside, the radio,

all things growing, I could. it was the start.

should have known this will happen,

to me, to all of us. some have had a

splendid year, while some have not.

shall i speak of crumbled cookies, of those

dice, which we collect? no, i cannot speak,

i have no voice.

i tap the words with fingers.




here this morning, treading one note at a time,

pointing toes, wondering about the roof

next door in all this wind.

vedro con mio diletto

now the days grow lighter, my head is

tied back on, and all seems well.

it all sounds worse than it really is,

the beams , you know, do creak so.

it is an older house, direct line will

not insure, as it does not conform.

i use another company.



. midwinter .

having searched for the word,

head reels across the room.

the path was mud, the willow cut

back to stump.

the memory remains.

snowdrop’s green


this is not bethlehem.