The forest birds know not to trust

I proceed on the outside with my daily life, all the while taking mental or handwritten notes. These observations saved ‘for writing’ often echo personal revelations. The regularity of this continues to astound me, especially as I re-post poems from this blog’s archive. It is sometimes said among writers that we are called to write what we are called to

When the taps run with tears

In the facecloth parcel up the little cry. Let it well with the suds. With your fingers, with what is left, crunch up the crystals from the soap dish. Rub such salt against forearm, shoulder, shin and knee skin; sand out the rough grains of today. In the giant bowl of liquid, soak off the

Such is clinging mind

There’s that thing, that topic that gnaws away in an alleyway of your mind. Perhaps it’s the last acrimonious discussion you had with a lover or the overdraft on your bank account, or maybe it’s a work project that didn’t unfold as planned or your child’s school report. “In an alleyway of thought” considers such matters that the clinging

Saying it Plainly

Ten days ago I didn’t know you. Didn’t know you walked the streets of anywhere walked the streets of London Didn’t know you Didn’t know you had walked the dusty sights of that anywhere near where I had breathed the streets of there and then in London. I didn’t know the sight of each “1