The smell of new curtains

It came from the right side like God, or a deer, a

Migraine warning;
Chemotherapy strikes at any time.

Where am I going wrong?

Under community skies and red roofed buildings, immaculate
And unfinished,

Holding on for next week’s rent,
Even if you were alive,

I’d not have listened,

Missing a father to say what’s wrong
In his opinion,

Old enough how,
To hear sterner words in music,

To understand that the clinic serves Japanese-Americans and Kenyans alike,
On the dusty Main Street of the farming village,

The dusty, ochre-coloured Main Street covered,
With maize drying, and

Women slipping from bus-stop to bus-stop with children in their hair, that was

Paid for,
By a man with a plan – the clinic,

And mum’s words,
Soft and gentle and supportive,

And different from yours;

I can take it now daddy,
Where did I go wrong?

I can make things right now,
The deer came from the left.

And whilst hindsight works in accidents we do not see coming,
At least Cancer gives us time.

Published in: on November 18, 2017 at 00:25  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,

Pain relief

Builders will continue to build, and
White folk dumpster dive,

In the winter anyway,

In red,
And blue overalls, scavenge –

Some for profit, others fun, and I

Cannot be a predator, I
Cannot carry luggage, I

Am dying, and

Perhaps giving things away, a
book or something will relive the pain, lord

Knows I just need some pain relief and, I
Just cannot afford to hoard right now, nor pilgrimage, how

I wish I had done this earlier like,
Forgiven my lover, myself –

I’ll do it in dungarees, I am dying and I

Will give away yellow popsicles instead.

Published in: on December 31, 2016 at 20:01  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , ,


We spend our days,
Getting ready for tomorrow,

Hoping the past will not catch us,
The bad eating, the saccharin juices, when

Now is the only moment, to

Love, to

Re-pack your life, forgive –

On an adventure or,
Simply state your piece,

It will be alright.

We may yet,
Save the climate.

♦photo♦ – High Museum Art of Atlanta

-short evocative poetry-

For my friends battling Cancer.

Published in: on December 14, 2015 at 23:30  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , ,


why don’t you?

lift your arms and
heal yourself

stand taller than you
were made

be stronger
than fear

mould dreams into

why don’t you
set root and

paint the world
green with envy

you are alive

simplify your needs and
grow wings,

or stand still,
and skin lizards,

decorate yourself
with war paint,

shake off the dust,
why don’t you

uproot yourself and
walk a mile

in any direction you like,

you must at least

To rage against
this idea

that you cannot

and perhaps
the sweat off your brow

will seed
fertile ground,

coat handsome men with lust
for life


photo –

evocative short poetry – words move

Published in: on August 26, 2015 at 14:54  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,

The sound of an African funeral


They sing for him,
Swinging from heel to frail heel,

Growing earth between ground and casket,

Bleeding love into the air
Like orchids-


They rise again
And again their gently swaying busts,

Move the air to and fro-
To and fro,

Intending that mother be comforted,

Intending that her wet eyes,
Smile at new wives; That

Though her son was gunned down, the
Rhythm of the occasion,

Brings life.

-short evocative poetry-

Published in: on August 15, 2015 at 20:22  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , , , ,



And suddenly there is life;

Cross legged,
Bug eyed,
Oiled and massaged in the temple,

Groomed by a priest in,
Orange robes and,
Fat, fat

Ghee smeared on painted plywood,

Frantic efforts to recall the past-times of
Frolicking on Earth,

Right next to the toilet,
Near the paddocks,
In this life.

Planes punch through the,
Sky at the nearby airport,

More planes than it seems,
India has a right to;

And the man across from me,
Is fingering a grain of rice in his pocket,

Sweetened at the alter by the,
Guru’s tears,

smuggled through the airport check,

just so he can swallow it now,
as his flight is called,

just so he can get home safe,
just so he can see,

his children again, and
his beautiful wife.

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 18:01  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,

Where do socks Go?

The broom slices across the floor,
Cutting a precise path through the mess,

Clean swathe through the valley,

Creating mounds of discarded,


Returning slowly to their original state while,
Still holding plastic memories of the night out,

A strong attempt at cleaning up,
A fine start.

Loose Birthday cards too,

Steal up on you,

Perched as they are atop,


from a long time ago,

On leather surfaces by

open briefcases,

Dragging with them memories,

Sweet enough to have you sitting there,

well past that very important appointment,

With a Very Important Person,

In bed beside you now,

Like an angel,


Wayward sock appears on top of the,
Crest on the

Freedom has come at last.

The lush valley though it took years has been traversed.

The mannequin operating the broomstick is creating life at last.

As was written, the cockroach was right.

When a window is shut,
Somewhere, a door will open.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 17:37  Leave a Comment  
Tags: ,


short poetry, disaster, survival, rescue, hope, sacrifice, father, daughter

Her legs will be amputated but,
Non-collapsible items like,
Book-shelves and fathers
Can make a space to survive.

-evocative short poetry-

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 17:09  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Careful now

short poetry, Africa, hope, future, children, freedom, potential

And look!
There’s an African!


There’s another!

So fragile,
Precious stones off,
Every limb!

Careful now,
May come a time,

When evil cloaked in,
What is right!
Leads goodness into night!

words move, Africa, reconcilliation, ownership, economics, future, death

See – Exile

photos – Pierre Holtz & Paul Cadenhead for REUTERS at

Published in: on June 21, 2015 at 15:38  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: