Category: Poetry


I’m grateful for piano;
the cryptic way it plays through me
the truths I knew I knew,
and sings me both awake, asleep,
aware, and unaware
that every key I key is key
to naming my despair.


Mr Relax

Mr Relax
brim, trim, slim, a grin
as if a whisper flown
and sewn into our skins.
It wins us over, and over,
and over,
this. bliss
hiss and kiss the coals,
souls turn to him before eyes –
wide at the centre,
tied to let enter
and paddle in their pupils.

Myself? I can’t stand the man,
preferring to hold too tightly to little,
than letting the lot wash over,
wash through,
wash me clear and clean of identity
that long I’ve left to grow like mold
in my cupped hands, in my clasped hands,
both dark and damp environments for fear to grow,
and convince you that it’s medicine;
too sick to even understand the prison that it puts you in…

I’m listening. I’m giving in.
I feel my smile-lines deepening.
I know that I’d be happier if only I weren’t grimacing,
and trying so damn very hard
to carve each pebble on the path.


Let me tell you who I am,
and what I do –
if they’re distinct? –
then you can make up your own mind
if you’re living true;
being me, in you.
An early bird, I feed the dogs,
and head on down to an empty gym,
enjoying the absurdity of exercise at dawn,
finishing my workout before you’ve even woken up.

A pot of coffee on the go, I catch up on the news,
rifling through my email, making notes so not to lose
the feel for how the day will play, and pander to my goals,
so by the time I enter in, I’m prepped for all the roles.

It’s after five, but not yet six, I wrap up to head home;
I use the walk to file and form the things I’ve come to know.
We walk the dogs, we cook up food, we catch up on our days,
we wonder about the future, or we roll about in play,
or find ourselves absorbed in tasks, and all can be okay;
variety forms edges to our long-extended stay
upon, within, beside this earth – for which we shall adventure,
and document through artful means
that long outlive our tenure,

so that we may be remembered by the art we leave behind;
impressions of the time we took to organize the mind.


What we owe

Given all the time we’ve had,
and were it now that needs and musts
come to the fore, and bear their wares –
a fierce demand that forms implied,
in lieu of calling it by name,
or of looking it in the eye –
then we in turn must inside-out
and empty all our carriers of coins;
the tax is high for what we owe.
The only thing we learnt to grow.


I caught myself
face first with eyes closed…
and it felt like dissappointment when
I managed to regain consciousness,
regain balance, retain my teeth;
I wonder were it better if
I’d dashed my face into the corner,
breaking something, or many things,
so that I may be permitted to stay home awhile
to recover from the falls that neither
bleed, nor bruise, nor swell.