Tuesday, July 30, 2013


It’s hard to write in a place
Without history without the
Moaning or creaking of any
Ghosts descending the stair
Case or pacing the unspoiled
Floorboards where violence
Or tragedy is conspicuously
Absent amidst the silence of
That which is yet to occur the
Words of those yet to speak
In a white washed memory of
New born echoes everything
Seems slightly out of plumb
Without a guide to measure
Or a precedent to compare
Yet every now & then I do
Detect the slightest hint of
Mystery like dust particles
Waiting to collide


Monday, July 1, 2013

Red sky

After the hatches
Have been battened unaware
The sea is becalmed