Red Thread



I follow it

it follows me

synergy in red


it felt, I felt

I bled when red thread bled

I sewed, it stitched

we wove together

harnessed leg and wrist

whither I go

it comes too

neither can desist

man on corner

woman there

many I forget

bound together 

by my red cord

everyone I’ve met

coloured yarn

for tapestry

 for warp the scarlet’s best

joined together


centred right mid left

red braid for the journey




in the maze I wander 

lifeline still attached

Daily Post – The Red Thread

In Other Days

Would you hold my hand and lead me through

the glens that we once roamed

In other days, before we met, 

and voices called us home

Would you wrap your arms around me

as once I wrapped you in my shawl

And knowing that we’d meet again

would be best dream of all

Shall we savour moonlit walks once more

while yet our souls take flight

And will patience be our watchword

we two guardians of the night

Unforgotten mem’ries writ in starlight

show our way

Will you hold my hand and lead, my love,

back to heaven’s yesterday

Those Days



those mottled days

pricked insistence

of the thorned flesh

those nettled days 

that itch unbearably

vented droplets oozing

life’s evaporation

those barbs of penetration




please, bleed the more

and once upon a story

let extraction

spill the trickle

let it pour, so feed

the need 

and grasp, the while,

the sapped relief

in application

of an age-old remedy

those writing days

their itch unbearable

themselves their therapy

those days

Second Revolution

Record Spinning on Turn Table

(Play It Again AM)

– the record is not broken –

– though rift in operation –

– jumps along –

– every groove –

– its own peculiar nuance –

– deny –

– to disbelievers –

– it was ever –

– just a piece of plastic –

– he sang my song –

– self-effacing –

– to newer models –

– deemed superior –

– to me ’twas special –

– he played my dreams –

– in words and rhythm –

– found my soulful heart –

– the record is not broken –

– though he’s quiet –

– residing on some shelf –

– time turns the tables –

– i play his tunes –

– sadly –

– nowadays –

– i play them for myself –

It appears I cannot resist the rhyme even after the free.


Late she came. No badge to mark significance. Just another mother, lover, woman. An anyone. And anyone could be her name. Late she came and stayed when all around had disappeared beneath the semblance of a snowfall, an ashen depth of winter dealt untimely. Surreal. And nothing ever quite the same again. It was summer when the dust began and hurried, desperate in its efforts to find base. Surfaces all around, all those in favour, resigned themselves to its reception, gallons of a powder white but tainted, knell of death to those who breathed its subtle lace. Intricate it was, in how it hurried, in a slow descent of wishing where to rest, it flurried and it roasted where it met life, resurrecting even while it met its death. Late she came and swept and swept as always, swept for all the reasons people sweep. And, afterwards, when so much dust still rested, she swept again. And swept. No time to weep.


so build the gallery

we’ll hang

such pictures

colour walls

with hues

too seldom seen

we’ll bask in beauty

found around

so help us

painted scenes

from every place

we’ve ever been

we’ll daub

and dwell a lifetime

ever open



discounted cost



in all its splendours 

so much gained

such sharing

never lost


at the pictures

that we’ve painted

we’ll wonder why

we ever thought

to store


under cover

will astound us

we’ll pull bricks down


never more

a painted vault instead

with sunsets


days ending

then beginning

once again

with paintbrush

in the hands

of many

we’ll wake and see

true beauty




only one eye knows the difference

but it shuts to see

oculus of moon’s reflections

nights that set it free

only one eye needs to notice

all that dark decrees

assimilated in observing

oracle that heeds

only one eye must to listen

other senses flee

cusping arcs of sight concession

one eye to truly see