Saturday, March 30, 2013


it is rare

but today
if left alone
and free of urgent purpose:
I would slump
like a disowned marionette

all energy turned inward
under repair
out of service

Sunday, March 24, 2013

sculpture and naughtiness

Jen, you were dying.
We knew that

And I was about to head back to England
So it would be a proper goodbye
We all knew that

And somehow, I can't remember
who had the idea.
We cooked up a plan to go out 
to see
the sculpture by the sea

Not the easiest thing when
walking isn't an option
But it was sculpture, and it was 
by the sea
On the sand, on the grass
by the surf club.

So off we went, I think it was,
on a Monday.
Wheelchair from hospital bed
down to the car
Propped up on the front seat with
that special cushion of yours.  
In a hospital robe.
To the sculpture by the sea

Getting there, under the 
Norfolk island pines, we could see
a little from the road.  But 
not a lot.
We drove down a service road.
No Entry except for access.
Access to sculptures. Yes.

We talked about sculpture
and life and stuff, about people:
Bea and Libby
and Gus and Benj and the people 
at the bridge club.  
Convivial, like Jen.
Not deep or political that day, but with that
deeper understanding, unsaid:
We know why we are here.
Time is short.

And inching the car down and around 
Cottesloe Beach --
careful reversing amongst swimmers showering
and sea kayaks,
We saw a lot of sculpture. 

And gathered dirty looks:
    You can't drive here. 
Why bother explaining?
We laughed, defiant. Nothing to lose.

And that, the simple 
adolescent naughtiness
of seeing sculpture but the sea,
by car, while
living, while dying
Was our greatest pleasure.

Driving back to the hospital;
flying back to England:
became a cold silent shadow
of that bright moment.

Thursday, March 21, 2013

some random person on a train

you could be that guy
i don't know that well

i haven't seen him for a while

but you look rough
no sleep i'd guess


so literally
you aren't him

unless you are --
from our future

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

More like clay

at night
these leafless
sticky trees
rattle together in the chill breeze

mud more like clay - stiffening
brings hope for tomorrow's

clean boots under my desk
in well paved London

here a creature of fire
but in London I am of the earth

Thursday, March 14, 2013

This tree

If I were to fall
In a storm
Borne down by the wind
Like this tree

I could regrow
Perhaps lopsided but strong
Making new roots
Growing wiser and more solid
Making space inside
For me and other beings

Outside: signs of trauma
Inside: spacious and peaceful.


oh seven fifty four
old rattly cold and dirty
be on time today

slap in the mind

a touch:
green light
a trill, electronic
and the gates slap back

I still flinch inside:
will I be slapped back,
caught or trapped
as I try to enter?

The flow of words

A few thoughts on my current style, topics and writing technology.  This isn't meant to be interesting except as reflection for me.


I'm writing short to medium poems, either modern, fairly flexible haiku, or longer, free-ish verse.   Nothing longer at the moment.


All observations, particularly nature, city, commuting, including walking, trains and the underground. There's a lot to say about the commuter and commuting.  I'm living it.   

Also a little stuff that buddhism/awareness/mindfulness inspired; hopefully not too preachy.  I'm thinking about writing some short angry poems, shouty ones.  Loud shouty haiku. Poetry by the pissed off.

Writing tech

I spent a while fiddling with complex writers tools (nice but closed) and a bit of a play with the kinds of tools I use for software development (git, vim, stuff like that).  All of them ended up suffering from the same thing.. not where I was.  I'd picked up the mantra that writings had to be easily publishable -- as I have no time to transcribe from paper to a blog post or something.  

But guess what?  When I want to write something about where I am (a lot of what I do) I've got a smartphone with me.  So I need something that syncs and shares.  

That seems to be what Evernote was made for.

measuring the day

the icy crunch underfoot
tells tale of frost and the last snow
of the season (we hope)

frozen mud - a happy thought
my boot and trouser legs
will remain unsoiled this morning

and like an accessories machine:
on gloves off hat off gloves on scarf
i seek the perfect temperature

out of the woods the horizon opens
what kind of day is this?
blue sky, few clouds, sunshine

a playing dog barks
the satisfying clink of the chain on the gate
and the crunch of my boots