Poetry

The North Wind and the elementals some call sprites are real creatures. They bear their names, given by the imaginations of men with pride, and the...

It’s not for lack of trying But I’ve given in to dying. I’m 83, diseased and old Without the strength to catch a cold. On assisted suicide, my...

What does it signify? That wave, a half glance, cool brush of the air with a white hand, the nervous smile behind lips roughened by time. What does...

Children, join hands it may not be that you will fight for your country. Children, sing songs gather in play you may not be here the next day....

Berryman was a saint, not sinner For inviting Henry in – he didn’t have To do that – could have waited sickly By the bridge to die. Before him...

Laura, I realise Love is no libation It involves us in sadness and loss, Informs the child of its broken heart Where the whims of fancy perish On...

I don't want him home He's a fucking liability. She never said those words The scriptures won't allow it With their plainsong lack Of imagination,...

I felt love, and it was a soulless, moving empathy, unbounded by selfish commitments. Not held by language or limited by occasion. It flowed through...

Birds fall off branches, dead to the cold, all over the known world…

The round face of the sun
greeted me this morning…

Love is the most thing you can do…

After I had dismantled the pole, its pieces spoke to me…

I tell of the lost hours playing games – in the fun of distant worlds, and words framed from disappointment, another hour ticks by. My disease is...

We've got snow, it's so exciting. We've got snow and it looks inviting. Pull on your socks, and pull on your wellies; we're going outside to slide...

I've been going through some poems, tidying parts up, preparing them for the ritual of submission. It occurs to me that a lot of them are about...

This poem sort of goes with my last blog: Time I waste the lost hours playing games—in the fun of distant worlds, and words framed from...