Fenstone’s Flower

Another short story from the hip. Fenstone’s Flower Fenstone was in his favourite pottering spot for a not quite warm, though there be some sunlight day. He had finished washing the Saturday breakfast crockery and cutlery, scraping down the plates of scrambled egg residue and croissant crumbs. This was Peggy and Fenstone’s Saturday morning treat

Scrambled Eggs

  Into your hands I commend the beating of tonight’s eggs. This will be the last meal of solid food. — When my Dad was in the final stages of his cancer, one of the few things he ate was scrambled eggs. That period of my life still circles in my mind. It was a strange

Wild horses fling their thoughts

I love this poem – “Wild Horses Don’t Break” – so very much. To date it is one of the poems I’d be happy to have on my gravestone. Not that I like the idea of being buried in a cramped plot. Fling my ashes to the dunes and the sea! The wild horses of

1,000 Scientific Facts about the Sea, Poet Style

The facts of a beach-walk as seen by a poet.

The Age Show

Roll up! Roll up! To see the hairy Caucasian lady with her mandible chin hairs protruding since she long gave up plucking or pulling or waxing them off. And nobody else cares to do it for her. Hairs and cavernous wrinkles! Roll up! It’s not a wig. That’s naturally grey. Under the chin? A wattle

Dying is probably easier than this

It’s Thursday, 06:15 You wake up to the alarm knowing you will never win an Olympic medal publish a novel that would win the Man Booker, finish your degree or even pay the last R150 you owe Woolworths. Your first grandchild will die before you and each of those candles you lit in the cave

Stuck

Lento con agitato, for 10 minutes to to to tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow too morrow to to morrow tomorrow row tomorrow morrow tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow After the stroke Aunt Edie struggled with tomorrow and words. We performed patience with wrapped chrysanthemums for twenty minutes each week. She lay tied up in tubes. — In much printed

Benefactor of the Blind

New paths will take you through the wood: A diff’rent route you’d not expect.   From there you’ll see things – like the lake – from points of view you’ll not forget.   A green bench here. Let’s sit a while. The blind, we benefit from this.   Dec. 2012 — Another poem triggered by