no little lips…


no little lips to suckle pert nipples,

no tiny head full-breasted resting,

your brailled areole stupidly stippled:

pointless any emotional investing.


love-leeched lines, so unwitting,

senseless,  night-bedding soaked:

milk drip mocks, no longer befitting;

unblessed – strangled prayers spoke.


long after midnight, starkly alone,

absent hero-husband blithely snoring,

only to God her flayed pain groans:

silent-still baby, powerful goring.


knees buckled on cold, cold floor,

head sunken on tear-wetted arms,

shaken, whip-stripped to very core –

unblessed your umbilical tharms.


pathos prayer written, so apt,

read with sob-shaken diction,

rugged heart not handicapped:

faith-utterance vanquished friction.


no more tears, no more damn dying,

death banished by heavenly hope;

no baptism, no needed qualifying,

belief balances on tense tightrope.


tharms is a word for twisted gut. I use this as an ugly metaphor for that stillborn umbilical cord.


girls do funny things with feet

funny feet


girls do funny things with feet,

crazily angled, stunningly sweet;

Adam alone: incomplete.


thought-absorbed, humming heavenly,

slightly uncertain, gentle chemistry:

petite punch, winded pleasantly.


clarifying questions, heartfelt eyes:

shy and strong, womanly wise,

sunny smiles, fully apprised.


tender teeth bite lip: slight doubt,

hypnotising, hands dance, act out;

privately acclaimed my silent shout.


elegant and ardent, assured stance,

rhythms erupt, demure her dance;

rhymes paralysed, boyish glance.

Wax Disc on Base of Brass


Father once played piano jazz,

sheet music he didn’t know;

not for him that razmatazz

of jiving in a pub combo.


Some studio time once rented,

recorded a seventy eight disc,

short blues tune, self-invented;

two copies pressed, little risk.


Wax disc on base of brass,

that teen pianist played by ear,

rhythm on washboard of glass;

very worn now, hard to hear.


What other father on our street

recorded plaintive piano blues?

Hear him holler, stomp his feet,

stool-rock severely tested screws.


Anarchist brothers boyishly toyed:

legacy platter played, using pin

pierced cone, experiment enjoyed;

  • father would’ve seen it as sin!



a rhyming sinner’s song

rhyming sinner

I look in mirror – reflected: mere sinner;

sixty years on, still blundering beginner,

big motor mouth with shrivel-small heart

  • ever thankful for God’s fresh start.


I’m speeding towards heaven or hell

– final destination, only God can tell;

fallible foot stuck on accelerator pedal,

finish line sought, not halo or medal.


crazy things done, stupid words said:

my mind reflects, my face turns red;

multi crises dominate post-mid-life,

married thirty years: two boys, one wife.


I’m neither very rich, nor pitifully poor,

some people left me, some shown the door,

some few still remain faithful friends:

this rhyming sinner attempts amends.


how many years left to make my mark?

will I go gently into death and dark?

will I tackle my selfish sin head on?

will I be celebrated when I’m gone?


photo: Dora Kazmierak

let loose frission!


Wonderfully reckless wind and waves:

shoreline smashed, white fringed rave,

undisciplined salt swell, badly behaved.


Shout! Tumbling tumult makes hoarse,

hand anchored, bodies bow to force,

rusty railings gripped tight, of course.


Turbulent salt-water, surge splashing:

kettle-drum boom, cymbals crashing,

storm-battered coat-fabric thrashing.


Seascape alive, let loose drunk-frisson!

Exhilarating, forcing into submission,

sea warily watched, joyfully listened.




Mist smudges edges of the old estate



Down dimmed tunnel of broad-leaf boughs,

canopied the walk, much hoof-ploughed;

deciduous decay under sturdy gum boots,

over-head crow dissonance firmly disputes.


I tramp the track, listen to stream giggling,

my dog scent-detects: nose ever niggling,

foxy ears erect:  terrier on full alert,

borders receive repeated canine spurt.


Engine echo-thrum in far distance,

train horn-trill, somewhat insistent;

a jet rips open the early morning skies,

movement in bushes, nature’s shy spies.


Tyre-worn track leads to hill-field gate,

mist smudges edges of this old estate;

Jack seeks guidance, we change direction,

breakfast calls an end to our rural reflection.