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

A poem in praise of breastfeeding

Daddy’s sinking underGlorious weight 

It is a grand mix

 of all the energy – butter, salt

And sugars we could find and fix

New cells growing, plant fibers, 

cereals and breads giving nutrition and

Proteins from fishes

Oils too for those shiny eyes

Strengthen the sight we need to see – Vitamin D – we always need

More and more – 

more and more carrots for cold climate kids

Sunlight for sons born too soon

Salts and fats all included in the pack

The necessary niceties of night 

The darkness is never so black

Mama is ready at the drop – of a hat, not a spoon

And good – “it’s ready

Soon as I can, wash my hands

Ok let’s go hand him here

Daddy you go back, to sleep

I’ve got this I’ll keep him growing

He’s a growing boy”

Glorious weight, full of joy

(And milk of course)

Somali Pirates

Here’s a song I wrote about five years ago when Somali pirates were the big thing in the news every day of the week. (I also wrote the first chapter of a novel, however I lost momentum when I discovered that Wilbur Smith had just published one on the same topic. Another unfinished first chapter to add the the pile.)
My smile is turning upside down
Like a clown left out in the rain.
I wandered through the empty town
And never saw your sun again.
I wanted to think about you and me
And the times when we were just all right
But instead the only thing I see
Are Somali pirates in the night.

Sailing in their motorboats
Their grins and guns give me a fright
I hope I never ever see
Somali pirates in the night

You left me with a head of dreams
Melting like some toast on cheese
My river now is just a stream
My trees, some paper leaves.
My thoughts turn to my memories
Like the time you set my fire alight
But the fire will only ever remind me
Of Somali pirates in the night

A Wild and Gentle Lover

The wind can so often be subtle and sweet

The lover of wind must be light on his feet

He must dance along gaily with its gentle sough

And allow it to caress him from *neck to elbow

It will sigh like an satisfied lover one day

But its energy can never be wasted away

The days will come suddenly where kites it will fly,

And the cord like a garrotte will cause it to cry

It screams among power lines, antennae and vanes

It skirls up the litter and strews it down lanes

The wind has been known to be biting and cruel

The lover of wind is an innocent fool

That fool becomes breathless, excited and scared

Whenever his love’s cutting teeth they are bared

On sea or on land, there are many who say

That the wind is a mistress who will never stay.

For the wind it blows hard, above and beyond;

Of its freedom the wind is most jealously fond