Sporadic print

As vibrant as the sun and energising as the moon
Shaking soul through her filter exploding out a tune
Washing in her pure raw power she energises us
She is more psychedelic than Ken Kesey’s bus
Open your heart and let the music all soak in
Fully appreciate the mighty Janis Joplin.


He had the superpower to change form to how he chose
No need for costume he could also create his clothes
He was always found though, despite this super wish
This shape shifting penguin couldn’t hide his stench of fish.


A demon emerged from hidden realm
Wanted more power to be at the helm
In fear we watched it emerge from within
How balloons feel when they see the pin
Please gird your loins and hold on fast
This part is scary but it will not last
One more twist of its screeching head
Now to move on beyond the dread.


They have been here for millennia.
They watched all the fighting in the many wars,
Watched the destruction and the reconstruction,
They saw some of their brothers being taken away.
Watched civilisation’s transformation
The stones are still here today.

Henge, or band?..


I push the big iron key into the lock and hope the mechanism still turns, it is as stiff as usual but in lumbering clicks and laboured sprung springs the door unlocks, I reach around into the dark and switch on the light, it flickers and buzzes before settling and starting to brighten. The workshop is still cold on this morning so I switch on the electric heater and go back inside to get a sweater. Upon returning the light is starting to hit its stride and now I can see the clay pots standing to attention in rows of twelve on all my shelves. I take my apron from the hook and prepare the clay, for more cups to be made today. Metronomically I wedge the clay, then sit at the wheel and throw it down. Automatically I centre and form the basic shape, feeling the same feelings of more than a thousand cups formed before, a boredom suddenly hits me and I turn off the wheel. Stare up at row upon row of clay forms, I look back down at yet another, stand up and take my apron off. Time for a walk, turn off the heater, turn off the light, time to clear my head.



Autumnal walk

The Autumn weather is tickling the senses,
chill wind blowing the hedgerows and fences,
the sun keeps low profile shining in pastel hues,
every subtle colour from red through to blue,
wrap up warm appreciate the autumnal light,
As fall’s daytime fades into winter’s night.


Autumn is kissing the maple and making her blush
Though winter seems not in much of a rush
The branch will shiver, the leaves will be lost
Summer’s final fling banished by frost.


Winter as cold as it sounds, this whistling word as chill as winter’s winds.
Spring comes and bounds out of the ground, the new sun giving new life to the earth.
Summer and simmer so close and entwined, as the extended heat bakes all that it finds.
Fall takes all that summer gave and puts it back to the ground, to soak and to store for when spring comes to use it once more.


Autumn is feeling warmer than spring, for the earth has saved summer’s heat to take the edge off for us, I can feel it under my toes, the residual warmth remains,
Spring though bright as a torch, had to work from the snow and ice hangover of winter, even in the sun, the feet feel the stored up chill of the long cold nights of winter. The seasons are never starting from a clean sheet.


The pavement is slick beneath my feet, a multitude of soaking leaves feign banana skins, as fall tries to live up to its name. Some leaves still stubbornly hang on to the tree, but no longer have the proud copper hue of when they shone in the late summer sun. They hang, dark, limp and ridiculous like discarded broken umbrellas. The wind bites at my neck, so I raise my collar, shove my hands back deep into my pockets and I try to imagine warmth.


The multicoloured fall is inspiring us all,
for even in a leaf’s last days,
They can be their most beautiful of days.



Ever since I was told that lying on my back brings nightmares
I have avoided sleeping that way
cricking my neck facing down
stacking pillows on my side
all ways to avoid lying on my back
to avoid the nightmares drifting in.
Maturity brings rational thought
I take my chances
drifting to sleep glaring at the ceiling
as dreams approach
true to form
the menace shows its face
I roll over to my side and delve for peace.



How ambitious I am lying in bed
All things can be done easily
Many things even before tea
Anything is possible when prone
Nothing is beyond my reach
Dynamically my mind arranges
Easily hurdling obstacles
Gone is tired
Gone is lethargy
So why can’t I be bothered to move.


I am concentrating on lightening my weight
can feel there is less pressure on the mattress
soon I will be floating up
I am worrying how I will get down.


The spider webs are thickening up with dust, I can see them clearly hanging there,
Lying here looking to the corners of the room, my do has escaped,
When I am up, the webs disappear from view again.


Such cruelty to make the bed most comfortable in the morning.



















Flowers they do draw our sighs
Under these picturesque skies
Could it be a more idyllic sight
Knots of posies shining bright




I am sitting in a living room, small with well used furnishings.
The tv is on standby, the DVD player blinks twelve o’clock.
On the mantel an old clock ticks.
In my nose resides the smell of polish and coffee.
I read my book.
Between the clock’s ticks there is a gurgle in the pipes, a sound like homely indigestion.
Again a gurgle, then a moan which draws me from my book.
I turn to the radiator as it moans once more, then rattles and shakes, flicking the thin carpet from the floor. The rattling settles and so do I.
I return to my book, noting the odd radiator dance for future reference.
The radiator grumbles again, it’s pipes chattering against the floorboards while the howls of troubled souls from deep within trouble my head.
I wonder, do plumbers do exorcisms?



Out west I holiday, the beach is stunning here,
I feel the soft sand beneath my feet,
crisp white foam dances on the ocean’s rolls of deepest blue,
the cliffs curling many miles away glisten in the sun,
in this expansive idyllic western bay

I return to my eastern beach,
the litter strewn sand keeps the shoes beneath my feet,
sickening brown foam labours over the dank waves,
two hundred turbines foul what once might have been a view,
I turn away from the east, mind drifting to the west.



Driving a hackneyed street
folks mill around to meet and to chat
but never to do a thing
outside a shop selling bicycles, coffee and cake
a young lady writes the specials on a blackboard
the wind flirts with her short flared skirt
just enough to excite
but no more
the light turns green.



Don’t lose your warmfort
It holds you shurmly
Avoid a stinxaticalax
It will pull you to shatterment.