Monday, 27 November 2017

milk morality

war museum
a mole hill looks on


milk morality
a ballerina becomes
a landscape


long night
a carpet beetle finds
the linoleum


the only cure for black heads is death - winter shower eddies

       Theodoros Stamos. Infinity Field. 1981

Wednesday, 22 November 2017


Cumulus clouds rustle cows and clowns down sunset’s cuffed agenda. Looking for a fair weekend; pardon’s curve increases the value of the fair weekend. Riders hip to the weather head south overtaking vehicles and ungulates. Stopping just for water and trading. Along the distant road triangles and exotic shrubs slowly reforest the priest’s favoured possessions. 

fair weather clouds 
the sound of a train
in the distance 

Tuesday, 21 November 2017

talking to myself

talking to myself
has never been so productive
'alexa, add bin bags'


aviation museum
my feet


mole hill
you probably can't be happy
when you're dead


the sound of a dog


Sunday, 19 November 2017

Ghanaian stamps

I meet J. We eat ramen at a new place in town. Clef statements emboss the lullaby chic that dominates the plaid shirts. I have sake w/ my food. We have enough of the airliner dining. After the food we go to a bar that has a lot of video game cabinets. We play streetfighter and other games. J makes a lilac out of a tea pot I have nothing to offer except my father’s rare collection of West African stamps. ‘Oh, the Ghanaian ones are nice.’ J  offers sympathetically. The Moonwalker game is funny. There are lots of weird things in the game like the phallic robotic bad guys. Bubbles is also a power up that affords MJ the ability to become a giant laser shooting robot. With the church only a skip away we buy replica crown thorns. It is a good time.

clay stars
a lawn 
full of dandelions

Friday, 17 November 2017

The laser show of 1804

They were enjoying the laser show when they composed the most famous poem of 1804. D made the situation awkward.

new moon
the patch where
the daffodils were

Two youngsters sat on W’s lap and counted the flies on Ullswater. He wrote most of his poetry in found cheque books. He wrote most of his poetry about the number of flies on Ullswater.

Thursday, 16 November 2017

goat star

frozen boutique

an onionskin
locks a bucket

the moon
nothing more
than a cliche


fixed deck

the fish’s lifestyle
down stream

there’s a word
for when a leaf
is withered but not fallen


trick cards

if buddy holly
didn’t die

in that plane crash
he’d probably
be dead by now


goat star

all my autumn
wishes came true

a sweet potato's hymen
moving along
to saskatoon

Wednesday, 15 November 2017

7000 dead sea witches

collecting pebbles
on the beach
uncle’s illness


dead sea witches
the buoyancy 
of my crutch


on my son's chest
a giant black mouse


the dull drip
of my words


Tuesday, 14 November 2017

rice milk

rice milk
the low sun through
even lower clouds


full moon
my son's love
of squash


feeling like this could be a painting of hell - autumn sunset



zuh zoom the branch where a kingfisher....


Saturday, 11 November 2017

remembrance poppy

blue sky
what does it remember
this remembrance poppy?
(after Basho)


mistaking nudes
for clouds
a painter adjusts
his timepiece


half grey
half blue
the sky


a poet shaves
his poem


       Salvador Dalí - Spring Explosive

Tuesday, 7 November 2017

beech tree

three line
the pine


2 reds
a bullfinch
& the rowan



cold day
sending my father
an email

Monday, 6 November 2017

6000 birds

some of the sky

millet blurred by
a bilberry's elegy

rain has
a habit
of starting


traveling through Fife

my head
6000 birds

the freshly cut fields
a poem
of red and yellow


all my problems
a yew tree
full of berries


blue sky

my hair
thinning on top

in the park
only the sycamores
have leaves left


Christo Coetzee. Head in Pink. 1987

Friday, 3 November 2017

aquine anonymity

yeah, yeah, yeah

‘what’s with these homies
dissing my girl’

aquine anonymity
a seahorse dries itself
on a cactus


around the castle's ruins green grass


blue sky

                                         every end of summer

staring at it

                                         the way water

a dead pigeon

                                         moves through trees


       a song thrush’s anvil

the sound of

                                 the bottle

demolition workers

                                  empty again


Salvador Dali - Seahorse

Thursday, 2 November 2017


falling leaves


the bridge &
its reflection


waste line

in the clarity
of oars

a hydrangea
looses its
fear of death


cold snap

longing for its own
summer house

the mandible’s sheaf
carrying warm straw
to a  heart bypass