Prose : The Cat Stares

her eyes are
hunter’s eyes
midnight black
devoid of pity
merciless pools
of ebony intent
dark mirrors
in which is reflected
oblivion
for the unwary.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-seven : extract)

among the oak trees
grow snow white valerian
here my dreams are born

Possible Gravestone

I never played the Albert Hall
nor kissed the Papal ring
in fact if I am honest
I’ve not done anything
but if with words I made you smile
or brought an ounce of mirth
then I can say without reserve
my life has had some worth.

First verse to an unwritten chanson

let the rains come
and wash away the songs of summer
there needs to be September
to remind us of July,
when the long days grew tired
and let themselves
fall into your waiting arms
and have the nights slip by.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-six : dance)

let’s blindfold the band
so we can all improvise
dancing ’til morning

Read Me.

Words like fingertips
stroking cursive passions,
ink stained long hand
caressing the vellum
of your soul.

You finally read
yourself
in every line I write

The Blackbird (remastered)

The blackbird is dead

no final flight to the treetops
no poetry, no funeral rites
no eulogy
to send him on his way
from this world
his body cold
and empty
still upon the concrete
his voice lost to eternity
as a hundred songbirds
greet the morning sun.

Untitled

I find her face in fields of heather
the sundown moors of July evenings
where lavender dreams kissed my senses
as we lay beneath an invisible moon

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-five : [un]finished)

our incomplete lines
say just as much about us
as finished poems

bad poem

this verse is my bad poem
the one I should not write
its reasoning is so flawed
it keeps me up at night
so I thought I’ll just let loose
and set all these words free
at least then they are out my head
and with luck will let me be.