The moon-rise is bright on this night of all nights,

this August the twenty-first.

When fall’s in the air, magic be there,

on August the twenty-first.

The critters of dusk all do as they must,

this August the twenty-first.


On the equinox of Mabon, there is something very glowing,

yet is not intent on showing itself in the dimly night.

It is stirring and procuring for the moon to reach its peak,

it is silent, never violent, as it lingers evermore.


There is something which excites us on this,

August the twenty-first.

The people who sense their excitement dispense,

this August the twenty-first.

The twilight air present, its coming deemed pleasant,

on August the twenty-first.


On the equinox of Mabon, there is something very glowing,

yet is not intent on showing itself in the dimly night.

It is stirring and procuring for the moon to reach its peak,

it is silent, never violent, as it lingers evermore.




Look at my palms- the insides of my hands where I hold things that I love.

what if I told you that the calluses covered everything, a mirror of my humour.

what if I told you that my nails are bitten down

not because of habit but because of necessity,

the work that I do that makes them useless as defenders.

what if I told you that the swollen patches are not from heavy labour but from heavy passion,

like the swelling that can deflate easily in my thoughts

when I put bandages over it.

what if I told you that the blisters and pink shiny patches still healing

from stress mark where I have made marks in my life

like the stories etched in my palm lines,

unlike the etchings that make me sore; these are proud.


tell me where my hands have been.

look at the white tapes:

they crucified me,

or perhaps

I crucified myself.

Saw I A Bird

Saw I A Bird

Saw I a bird on Isle of Mann.

I left a little paper slip

and made she little nest of it

to protect her kin from Boreas.


And mousey climbed up in the tree,

a little beastie from the field

she left her den and baby squealed;

she heads back toward the gelid land.


Comes fox with fluffy blanket tail

and tries finds she the paper trail

to nest in snow here, Isle of Mann,

before the cold wind comes.


Saw I a bird on Isle of Mann,

awaiting for the moony tan

that comes when little feathers swoon,

for she will find the springtime soon.

Sonnet on January

Sonnet on January

Bejeweled with snowflakes fresh as heaven’s eye

to herald in the coming of the earth

comes candidly the month ever so shy

to offer neoteric swells of mirth.

Pulchritudinous with frosted firs

and saturnine with ice and bitter rain,

the perihelion does much to stir

a sleeping, frigid earth from chilled disdain.

Bright flurries blanket cobblestone and roof,

whilst open hearths soothe tender, algid hands;

slim icicles cling everywhere, aloof:

how wondrous is the new, enchanted land!

Delight says I to winter’s whitened whims

as January jubilates herein!



When I am dead, it will not matter, please;

so make a smorgasbord of wine and cheese.

Don’t forget the sourdough and rye

for when they say their final, slow goodbye.

Although whilst I’m alive hear me to say

that good I find it putting wine away.

But keep the smorgasbord of cheese and bread,

for that I’ll gladly eat before I’m dead.

Asphalt Playground

Asphalt Playground

The first lane was the street I grew up on

time to jump on the roof

look up from just before dawn at the house over the garage

and then fall back down to the trees.

lanes I couldn’t see painted but tracked

people live here.

people live over there.

this is my domain.

it was repaved and then so was everything.

that wasn’t my domain anymore.

too many cars

can’t lay in the street like in the pages of a novel

I wrote a lot.

Snow wasn’t as much fun as it should’ve been.

nothing is when you only have one lane.

The second lane came when I met the world

and i couldn’t drive

but I went everywhere

I was on the ends of the earth

to and from.

left and right.

everyone was in me and we were a circle.

big lines on the cracked pavement where only busses drove

and i didn’t want to get on that bus

I couldn’t drive.

separate paint strips into equal pieces

but they aren’t equal.

one always has a better destination

when you have two lanes.

The third lane was

so so so so busy.

I was just trying to find me one

the left turn, the right turn, no turn.

but whichever one turned under

in the big arches under the roads

in a clover pattern, that was where I wanted to be.

the feeling in the pit of my stomach

city streets had more lanes

and it was far away from home, just like I wanted to be.

more exits when you have three lanes.

The fourth lane came when i was already in the wrong lane

switch left

switch right


a permit to drive in those lanes

but so many lanes only hold so many people.

I want to know them

so they don’t know me first.

so many things move so fast

when there began one lane

and now there are four.



The distant pines, too prickly to brush,

the closest breeze that you can touch.

the sun is hot and round and yellow,

the coolest stream so dark and mellow.

Caw! Caw! the crows call, desperately weak;

bugs moths and beetles will soon be their treat.

the wind slashes by, stabbing each tree,

rushing on through, on path to the sea.

the ponds become chilled, the banks become dead,

the clouds are now thirsty, their last raindrops shed.

the kin of the fields have all gone away,

the birds flying south ’til the first dawn of May.

Now as I must go now, friends, remember

this poem I wrote in mid-December…