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 a base of brass

father once played piano jazz,

sheet music he didn’t know;

not for him ragtime razmatazz

– never joined any pub combo.


some studio time once rented,

recorded a seventy eight disc,

short blues tune, self-invented;

two copies – little financial risk.


wax disc on a base of brass,

that teen pianist played by ear,

rhythm on washboard of glass;

hiss now makes it hard to hear.


who else on our suburban street

recorded plaintive piano blues?

hear him holler, stomping feet,

stool-rock severely tested screws.


anarchist brothers boyishly toyed

with legacy platter, played using pin

pierced cone, experiment enjoyed;

– long absent now, no disc to spin.

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 salted swell, badly behaved.


shout, storm tumult makes you hoarse,

hand anchored, bodies bow to force,

rusty railings gripped tight, of course.


turbulent salt-water, surge splashing,

kettle-drum boom, cymbals crashing,

blown-about boats, sails crack-thrashing.


seascape electric: let loose frisson!

exhilarating, forced into submission,

Neptune shouts – in awe we listen.




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,

Jack scent-detects: nose ever niggling,

foxy ears erect:  terrier on full alert,

borders receive repeated canine spurt.


train engine echo-thrum in far distance,

its horn-trill signals, 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.