And so it goes… The wheel will turn,
you may find yourself bereft. But do not fret,
my little friend, for this is not the end.

This too shall pass and soon the farce of living will present
a brighter shaft, a better draft with newer paths to trek.

Tread gracefully, my little bird, flit lightly,
as it will, feeling the wind beneath your wings
embrace you as you curve

towards a new meridian, made sweeter for
the swerve, filling your heart up gleefully
to share when you emerge.


A missing link, a key,
an awkward fit betwixt
the learning and the leaving
and the wicked shape of this.

In shadows where beginnings rest
           and dwell on their goodbyes,

Images of fledgling things
           gaping from the wings.

Moon on Sun

When you have called
and I have caught
your words up in my heart

Not a thought may linger
longer than the breath
upon my shoulder

For lips bear promises
that hands and hearts too
easily betray

And I have not the verbiage
to set them down
or place them on their way

When through the trees
the boughs will meet
in circles filled with light

It is your message that I carry,
to enjoy this,
if I might.

Stage 1

When petals pale
and flutter to the floor
in musky pelt

Peel away the layers,
pretend it was never Spring
with blossoms’ blooming
yet to be discovered.

Even at curtain’s close
a stage remains to play:

Use rhythm wisely, tread
carefully; savour this,
Breathe in.


her hair hung askew,
to the curve of cheeks
risen to the hue
of blossoms burnished
by a blush of gold en
-crusted dew.


No sooner than the mill begins
a stalk appears to quiver —

No quitting when the mill begets
a stalker for the spinner.


Beneath red lines,
the tapered edge, your
catacomb, a cold cocoon.

Spring blossoms bloomed
and grew to seize you,
shearing through the hedge

So you held the blade
to pace it’s prick, hiding
from the heft of it

But light caught up
with ash to find us
sifting for the threads.


Our lonesome sheet of paper ails
tonight. She longs to fold herself
into creases of aligned symmetry,

devour a drop
of liquid ecstasy
and succumb

to the experience
of being torn
in two.


Day descends. Before the break
you will attempt to charge the distance
between hand, mouth and a second
cup of tea. On the countertop

letters lie, begging to be read, but I cannot
string sentences to satisfy or justify this state
when time is toast and a bite
left over is all there is to taste.

(April PAD Challenge – Day 23)

Of Poetry

Devon says:
‘There’s no such thing as poetry.
They’re merely word jumbles -
Incomplete sentences
trying, unsuccessfully, to tell a story.’

Devon thinks of poetry
only in terms of Hallmark verse;
The Helen ‘Rice messages printed pink
within a potpurri of roses
that he sends, but never feels
And he can’t identify.

He thinks they’re only written
by the trite and dully smitten
who take their emotions and adorn the toilet door.

And I’ll bet he doesn’t think
that he, himself, might be a poem -
A human jumble of incomplete sentences
Telling a story to those who read
and listen
with their hearts.