This morning walking,

the whale slipped into my head.

A great lozenge moving the wrong way,

up the rivers open mouth,  hitting the rivers narrow throat.

We watched from the dark grey bridge,

the man-made, palatopharyngeal arch.

The great capsule going in instead of out, the rivers mouth,


Like nature, stuck in nature’s flow, unyielding movement.

The mighty mammal pushes forward,

not knowing to turn it swims in nature’s line.

Momentous movement against perpetual flow.

We walk off the bridge, choking back our desires,

to have the beast flushed out to freedom,

a reflux, of natural distress, silently shared.


Man looks for a map

A man looking for a map,

on the nature of things you know.

Atoms and apples stirring in your groin.

To explode on the written page in pop bubbles

of brilliant thought. I consumed you,

I drank and swigged again marvelling at that

little swerve, that nod to things out of sync.

how I want to wonder about falling deep down.



Green Umbrella

Carrying a green umbrella,

I left the house with funerals in my mind.

Writhing my way to work,

the green canopy pushing against the rain.

Auntie Dot, swirling around me

remembering pink iced cake,

kittens and stove, scullery and hens.

The crook handle hangs on a wooden bar,

water drips drops on the floor.

I move to my desk and parts of my life

rain about me.


Same poem without death

Carrying a green umbrella, I left the house,

the green canopy pushing against the rain.

The crook handle hangs on a wooden bar,

water drips drops on the floor.

Green Umbrella Clipart



You killed the kids,

how could you, yet you did,
I want to say I would never do that.

I did though, kill the child too.
There was no way out, of the eternal torment.

So I created a path, an opening, a death.
You choose a travelled route and heard the child’s last cry.

I bow before you, alone you cut your gut
and bled the sinners sin.





Let’s hate Hedda

My mind is blank,

I wanted to write about Hedda her world closing in.

What a bore, boring, bored, bohemian.

Nobody sees or hears her torturous cries.

She brandishes her pistols around,

she wants to burn hair and kill children.

Frantic and  frustrated , she implodes and

clicks the trigger on the pistol and her

mind is blown out.

Dear Aristotle

Regarding the doctrine of the mean,

you say if you keep to the middle mean

life will fall between vice and virtue.

What if you come a cropper and your middle flounders

What wanderings awake in your gut?

You say and I quote,

“I mean by, “a middle term of the thing” that which stands at an equal remove from each of the extremes, which is in fact one and the same thing for all; though in relation to us, it is that which neither takes too much or is deficient. But this is not one thing and neither is it the same for all.” (Bk2, Ch6, 1106a 30-34. Aristotle Nicomachean Ethics)

An unleashed thing was upon me,

A great clash coming like metal scraping against metal,

teeth gnashing and jaws breaking open in screams.

Pulled down and back and through myself.

A fierce force moved in the pit of my stomach,

as I met my measured mangled mean.





I was falling, falling fast

nothing to hang onto all the trees

and things that reached out to grab me

broke away as I went down.


I going down, down, down

I hit land and met a camel.

So strange I thought it was going to bite me

with its ginormous teeth.


But the beast of burden was talking to me,

talking about

the end of the falling





journeys                                                                                                   beginning.

nudging me forward with his nose.





I went for lunch in the Korean Supermarket.

I used to go there before, before

my diet, my job share, my course.


I note the crane that used to sway with the wind

is gone, a brand new building is there,

I note the bustle of the food court is the same

welcoming and warming.


I sit and sip my diet coke

carbonated bubbles popping on my tongue

contemplating change,

my sushi choice waiting.


I feel connected effervescent

alert to the idea of completion.

I sit sparkling silence in

the hurly-burly of the supermarket.

Likely Story

A Likely Story
The thought process made sense to me
of the non-sense situation Plato was in,
Timeaus, he had a story to tell.
Once a god made the world round

Without hands because world does not play catch,
without legs because world does walk,
without a body because world has no need, the maker said,
‘its knowledge of friendship with itself is enough. “

A likely story which makes sense because,
when God finished with his making we “must set him aside.”
Leave him alone while we wonder,
about a world  that knows itself.


Plato explains a footless world.