Post flu fidgets

Centuries ago, by the light of a fire, in the vibrant wood, no wonder imagination took flight. The flickering flame paints gruesome movement on gnarled oak trunks, while the impish ash dances skyward. Tales are told to hold fond ones near, tales to pin their hearts to home.
If you venture out beyond the ridge, you will meet from where the screech comes, That loathsome beast will snatch your soul and fix it to burning thorns. In a tortured forever you will learn the foul word named regret.


There really is no barrier between here and there. I was surprised the ones of there do not visit more often, and that we are so ignorant we have not discovered the pathways ourselves. Perhaps their delicacy lends them timidity. In all their otherness, their vitreous face, they come to our clod footed place unprotected and frail, a wisp in our glutinous human realm. Whatever they make of us, their stay is brief and often tormented. I now hope we never discover the paths ourselves.


Long silver shadows scamper along the attic floor
chasing sparkling dust to an antique chest of drawers
witnessed is nothing in midnight’s unbroken cloud
a crackle and a creak the bottom drawer slides out.


Laying in the bath watching the tap build a drip between my resting wrinkled toes. A soothing feeling weighs upon my lazing eyelids, a steam thickened breath fills my lungs, extreme lethargy soaks in me, I don’t flinch when the vaporous duckling spirits swim beneath my legs again. What a cute haunting.


A millipede is a Juggernaut to the microscopic ant
ant wants to ride the juggernaut but he really can’t
oh to ride the jungle highway along the jungle floor
to beat all the long ant lines to the jungle store
dreams fall away so he rejoins the micro masses
in time to get in line to cross some sweet molasses.


Metagnostic how his lipostomy does little to stem his logorrhea.


In the woods there are many things that howl and screech, but it is the Conger Moose that reigns. Beware the crackle of hoof upon crisp leaf, heed the warning call of the whooping cranes. You would be wise to make your retreat, your feet running swift aflame.




Them there

Short of directions I turned into this residents to gather bearing, the gravel drive crunched beneath my wheels. The help look on incredulous at the ostentatious colour, the ostentatious lines, at my very existence. The lady of the manor blindly bounded out of the door in excitement, bumping her head on a hanging basket, I helped her to her feet and picked up her cane, the fall had dampened her enthusiasm not one jot, she enthused “You must come see my fish, such playful beauties, do come in”. Bobbing on her effervescence I followed her indoors.
The old mansion was old moth-eaten, yet the help maintained it’s fragrance with fresh bloom and clear windows. I sat on a buttoned burgundy leather chair, while she sat on the floor, I dis-chaired and helped her onto her feet, to interface bottom with chair, before returning to mine. Immediately she began to enthuse once more of the fish, I looked around and there against the wall, a large aquarium sat with all manner of shipwrecks, bobbing divers and bubbling treasure chests, but no fish. To appease her I sprinkled some food into the aquarium and returned to the squeaky comfort of the chair. behind me I hear a disturbance in the waters, a splash of activity, I turn to glimpse a tail but no more, as the food continues it’s tumble to join the rest of the pile at the bottom of the tank. Turning my attention to pressing matters of being lost, I ask “Where exactly am I? and how far to get back to the A303?” She looked quizzically at me and asked “You are in Kent, I hazard a guess you have been lost for some time”. I slump somewhat and glaze over. Behind me another splash of aquatic activity. Turning, I see an orange fish slowly glide and hide behind the volcano. “Did you see!” she exclaimed as she launched her desk calendar at me in a flourish. Fortunately I blocked its further progress across the study with my face. “Such wonderful companions” she beamed. I took another look into the tank thinking ‘and so cheap to feed, they have not touched one bit of food.’
Just then a large gardener sidled into the room, wringing his hands, I would presume a big rosy face, yet his as pale as a plate, he ventured no further than the study’s threshold, nervously he shot glances at the fish tank. Before asking, “Please miss, could you stretch the composting budget a little further, so I might acquire a spade?”. The lady of the house in her only turn from enthusiasm grudgingly agreed to the gardeners request, so the gardener fled.
She turned to me “I imagine you suspected as much, but I just so very much wanted fish, they just arrived, so foolish to feed them I know, but I would still feel it would be neglectful to not do so”.. “Erm.. What?”.

Thanks Rudyard Kipling.

The chase

Wolf has slowed his chase of the Sun
the chill has seized his joints
Sun spreads her shadows long
coldly where the sun dial points
winter is rest from Wolfs pursuit
two continue the seasonal wheel
the circle the same till Ragnarok
when Wolf finally gets his meal.


What quake we are suffering
the ground is trembling still
do gift Sigyn a larger bowl
this one too soon to fill.


Slate is the season in Devon
every day the sky born grey
no bright spry crispy blue
Devon gifts rain all day.


This house creaks every night
in five hundred different ways
one noise for each years life
a howl for each ghost and stray.


The Moon is singing silently
with a twinkling starry choir
she is taking all the plaudits
till the sun returns with fire.


Blue wind slashes through soaking throw
lights are flashing in the store window
perhaps tomorrow is the big reveal
perhaps my loss will be repealed.


Squirrel sits on high bough, continuing to munch his mushrooms. He is unalarmed by the emerald green piglet crawling up the tree, he has met him before, piglet only offers words of encouragement, but the coquelicot powder viper wrapping around his left leg is more discouraging, so discouraging in fact, squirrel knocks him on the snout with his candy sceptre, poof! the powder viper explodes in a venomous pink cloud, in four bats of his eyelashes, the cloud is gone, dissipated into polychromatic sky. Squirrel can now get back to watching the liquorice monkeys dance over the leaves in peace.


An inebriated woodpecker
pecks at the tree but misses
he’s adorned with mistletoe
yet he gathers no kisses
in time he gains sobriety
world comes back to focus
what a waste of a holiday
alcoholic hocus pocus.


Dark as the scuttle
our last days weather foul
winter thunder rumbles
across our grey hills brow
numerous the days
till winter’s splinter brings
shattered ice and frost
clearing a path to spring.


I cannot see nor hear it, yet I can feel the cloud arrive, where once was brightness, a darkness resides, oh so subtle, but noticeable to me, yet strangely not by them, they know not of the switch, they darken without a clue, it chills me to the bone, even when the cloud moves on, I look to them with suspicion. How can they not feel it?


For every star in the sky
a million ripples on the sea
and every ripple represents
ten wishes for humanity.







Viking milkman

Magnus has been having a stressful day, Ivan was very miffed there was no gold top left, Magnus felt that wagged finger deep down in his soul, but he is almost sure Ivan was wrong about his mother. He turned away, climbed into his cart and encouraged his horse Iron Hoof up the hill, just as it started to rain. The rain chattered against his tin helmet, watering his germinating headache. Looking up the muddy hill, a sludgy river began to develop, making even Iron Hoof slip every third step. In soggy slipping progress one more lodge edged past. Aslaug, next on the left, takes her name to heart, she demands Godly treatment, yet who can be punctual in such a place? So inevitably she will rage. Fortunately the deluge was too heavy to rage in. Magnus leaves her milk a little late, with no violent repercussion. The Gods gave a pinch of pity, the rain began to falter, a wash of sun burnt the water from the ground, as Lokelana took a morning stretch. Magnus very nearly drove his cart into a ditch.


The boat cracks as it pitches on waves
a murder of crows swirls and cascades
yet I can see one splinter of light
so keep rowing with all my might.


In the kingdom of fear and loathing
charity is deemed as theft
beggars are thieves on the side walk
no one has any change left.


The optimist wears sunglasses in the rain
while pessimists wear a raincoat in the blue
then some, through the dessert, drag a canoe.


Two tubby tabbies went to space, they did not think of how, they just did
they saw all the stars and galaxies twinkle in the universe infinity
then returned to Earth, they did not think of how, they just did.


Work as Demon to balance the world
to make the world less mushy
be hated by all that is good
though the job is cushy.


As mad as a kitten
as sore as the bitten
eccentric the kitten’s claw
I hear no sorry
they show no worry
as I writhe in pain on the floor
yet every kitten
is now forgiven
I do not see their soul lies
I cannot scold
I just wish to hold
the look in their beautiful eyes.


Red skipped through the glade
then sharpened up her blade
to the wild wolfs chagrin
she sliced off his skin
she took her prize
a furry disguise
another chap
to trap.









The vegetable garden presented a beautiful sight in the morning sun. Sprigs sprouted and lettuce leaves stretched untouched by bug or blight. The night dew floated off in a shimmering haze. There was no sign of one creature on foot or in flight, the only sound in the garden, a robin calling pretty territorial tunes, caught on the breeze from an acre away.
But over the hill in the sun’s view, a creature approached. He took the air in wing and threw it behind him. His emerald scales caught the sun’s eye, they brightly winked in return. His eyes glowed red, his many teeth shone an ivory grin. His talons clawed the air in dreams of captured prey. Serpentine he coiled up into the ether. Spying his target he came screaming down. The innocent garden sat defenceless. The dragon mercilessly nibbled at the cabbage’s leaves.



She has mastered fluidity
she is a pool
a lake
then long as a river.


She forms a pool in my lap,
her head in my hand
her whiskers tickle my fingers
from dream land.


She is sitting watching
the washing whirl
nothing else in mind
I ask her of meditation
she just stares at me.


Torn up things,
shreds of money fly
yet who could admonish
such forgivable eyes.


She is sickle and scalpel
shrouded in velvet scabbard
she brings such elegant death.


A kitten’s orchestra of soft strings and oboes today
after yesterday’s kettle drums and cymbals
perhaps a day of purrs and snoozes
after chasing violent adventure.

The Rabbit and the Vulture

Late in the afternoon, the rabbit and vulture happen to meet. They sit in the shade of a marula tree and reflect on the day. The rabbit remarks “A good day huh? A rest from the rain”. The vulture replies “Yes, a good clear day, to see far and wide”. The rabbit added, “Not that I don’t appreciate the rain, it feeds the earth, makes all bloom in beautiful abundance”. The rabbit wrinkled his nose in thought and continued “All through the spring these plants have just been waiting for the right moment, but then, not all wait for the same moment, I myself must wait a little longer for those that grow in the field beyond that hill, but that will be after I have had my fill of this field’s bounty”. The rabbit pricked his ears in enthusiasm “How interesting the seasonal changes, how closely I must pay attention to what grows where and when, it’s all quite wonderful isn’t it?!”. The vulture, his eyes glazed with disinterest, noticed the rabbit had stopped talking. He shuffled his shoulder feathers then replied “That’s all very interesting.. In this clear warm sky I can ascend, so high I can spot death from many miles away” He continued, not noting the rabbits ears retreat “All I need is height and death”. The rabbit recovers somewhat “It is a good clear day”, “Yes”, replied the vulture “A good clear day”.

Care is compulsory

Irons and gallows await the jokers
whose jokes are growing cruel
for those who suffered wit
a most glorious view.


When we’re at the gates
and you are arguing your case
I won’t even glance across
your deeds, your loss


You wish to build your rockets to the stars
turning away from the souls who starve
feeding ego’s phallic enterprise
burning care in night skies.


Man celebrated surviving where the goats dance all day
he gloated in selfies floundering where the fish sashay
he still had no idea how ridiculous he remained
all that he invaded was nature’s domain.


The sun’s last light is shimmering on the surface of a fidgeting sea,
appearing like tadpoles writhing on a dried out pool.


The words were so odd, extraordinary,
that I went to the next room to lie down,
to absorb why they emerged from sobriety.
I return and pretend they were never said.