On homecoming

Where we have been is a beautiful memory,

Fading fast as though steeped in sepia

A photograph album soaking in tea.

And tea is one thing not lacking

After all the trips to the car, unpacking

The tea was last in, first out

Except our son, without a doubt 

and we drank in both, the journey ended.

As our house we once again befriended.

The days of sun and tiger mosquito bites remain 

But neither will quite be the same, in the city

The mosquitoes are less bitey

The sun is less shiney

Its glare seemingly harder somehow

As the voices of neighbours are harder and loud

Amplified in the closeness, proximity defeats

The possibility of keeping our vacation Secret.

“Ah you’re home?! It must have been grand.”

“You’re looking fierce well, were you out on the strand?”

And the questions push mirrors before our beautiful lives 

And our ghostly, but real memories merely live on inside.

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Painter’s Muse

You stood stock still in the golden hour

Your brush dangled from your hand as you scrutinised the scene

It was the first time I’d watched you work

And the joy and the freedom were almost more than I could handle.

If I moved – to speak or to scratch,

You would gesture impatiently for me to resume my stance,

The crickets clicked their deafening wings

While the lowering sun engulfed us both in its splendour.

The heat of the day would not subside, but would linger

Long into the hot summer night, the mosquitoes usurping the crickets

Your sensual, gentle strokes continuing,

As your final touches transformed the wasteland around us into paradise

Running on Fumes

If ​a final fume were found

In the recess of my tank

I could keep on running round

And I’d let my mind stay blank

If a final fume were found

At the bottom of my lungs

I would exhale it all around 

As I let my song be sung

If that final fume were found

At the end of a long day

I could run another hour

To see the ones who had to stay

When those final fumes are found

In my life of joy and toil

I can keep running on fumes 

And forget about the oil

poetic injustice

I write what I would

Like to read and sometimes

I Even try to rhyme and not put too many words in one line
But then again 

Poetry can

Be surprising.

Beautiful.

Lyrical, lurid, unbelievably empty and always

Unpredictable.

When I read it, I say – my God I’d love to write

Like that!

But I follow my patterns

I write what I would 

Like to read and maybe even sometimes,

Someone,

Somewhere,

Thinks it’s pretty good.

Horses for Courses

I’m wrapped up in liquid – whiskey or rum

No sign of my lungs failing, but my heart is overcome

You are playing my organs with a serrated spoon

A gutsy concerto by the light of the moon.
The music is yours, hours upon days

Living for moments in the moon’s gentle gaze

An impassioned plea for your time, nothing more

But this dream was a harbinger of the nightmare in store
I wake up alone, you are gone.

Taking the sun, taking our song

I choke on a torrent of bile and of blood

The visions I’ve seen but never understood