The Magnolia Tree:

It was under the Magnolia tree,

He loved me,

And our children played,

All three,

(and then four, five),

And the puppies leapt high,

Under the Magnolia tree.

We’d sit and talk for hours,

Under the Magnolia tree,

Butterflies & dreams & wishes,

And she’d listen,

Our beautiful old tree.

The seasons came & went,

And we aged,

But not she,

The children grew up & left,

But she stood strong,

Our Magnolia tree,

And even during the storm,

She was calm – our tree,

She would stand there,

As if to say,

“I’m still magnificent,

And you should still love me!”

How does she endure it all?

The seasons, the changes, the melee,

Does she miss me as much as I miss her,

My beauty, my magnolia tree?

I drove past the old house,

To see her one last time,

My old Magnolia tree,

She’s in full bloom as when,

I bought the house,

All of those years ago,

When she whispered to me.

Poets Are A Weird Mob:

I get up before the sun,

And before the household,

So I can write poems for you,

It comes out of my fingers.

In reams.

One day when I finally meet you,

I will give them to you and,

Unless you are a poet,

You may not understand,

The significance.

You’ll hand them back,

And with a half smile,

Politely say, “That’s nice,”

And I’ll know: they were,

Too long, too childish,

Too unnecessarily tender,

Not profound & brilliant enough.

And I’ll think “nice,”

They were nice!

Is that even a word?

Do we even have it in our language?

Can you break that down for me?

Can you think of other words instead of that?

Can you elaborate at all?

And I’ll be tempted to say,

“Maybe you should take an English class,

To increase your vocabulary,”

But of course I can’t say those things because,

Then I’m being picky, arrogant,

Vitriolic & spoiling for a fight,

And I don’t want to be,

Accused of those things again,

And then you’ll try,

To have sex with me,

But the thing is,

It’s not about nice and

Certainly not about sex.

So then I’ll be alone,

Once more dreaming about,

My next one-true-love,

…Where for art thou?


Divine Retribution:

She doesn’t know where he is,

What he’s doing or who he’s with,

She only knows the ache for him,

She only knows that now he’s

Just another statistic:

His life turned to ashes,

The moment he hurt her,

(She had the garage door down,

And the engine was running),

He’s the fifth one now who has

Met with cruel & diseased suffering,

A young & tragic death,

But as they say,

Karma is a butt kicker.

She switches the screen off,

She fixes her eye mask in place,

She smooths down the sheet,

And allows the crashing waves,

On the nearby shore to soothe her,

Into another dark & empty sleep.

girl and wolves

35 was my lucky number:

Maybe it was time to go back,

She knew he would be there waiting for her,

But then she remembered his emotional betrayal,

She hadn’t rekindled their connection for that!

She was trying to improve her life,

Not to take a step back.


There are silent battles and steep hills,

But she’s spread-eagled on the ground,

With shield & weapon flung aside,

And her breath just won’t return,

Love had become her enemy,

And the summit seemed ever so far.

girl and man one by one




Of Ponds & Balmy Nights:

He approves of almost everything about her,

And enjoys being her hero,

So when she says she needs time,

To concentrate on her relationship with her,

He holds her so tightly that it almost hurts,

She knows he’ll always be there if she changes her mind,

“Don’t sit by the pond without me, particularly on those balmy nights!”

He will anyway,

She knows it.


When God Doesn’t Exist:

Hedonists will reason,

Hedonists will talk,

They’ll let you know,

You’re not the thing,

If you exercise or walk.


They’ll try to get you drunk,

And they’ll try to drug your drink,

They don’t have children of their own,

But they’ll tell you what they think.


The first to point out all your faults,

They never see their own,

Yet somehow remain puzzled,

That they can’t give the dog a bone 🙂





Little Boy Lost:

My little brother,

Lost at sea,

My little brother,

Come back to me,

Where could he have gone?

Where could he be?

He’s knocked out with amnesia,

All these years; ten and three,

(and not eaten by sharks after all),

Or faked his own death maybe,

Swim little brother,

Swim home to me!

Or maybe it’s time I start to see,

The sea wants what she wants,

Doesn’t she?

She’s not worried about the sorrow,

Felt by you and me.

lost at sea



The song of the Plovers:

 A song for this poem: Youth by Daughter from the film A Long Way Down


Everything was tender now, everything,

The song of the night time Plovers,

Kicked things up an extra notch,

She noted the heightened sense of awareness,

“Ah, I’m almost dead now,” she reassures herself,

She’s so sure of it,

She strokes her stomach, her breast, her throat,

For the last time,

This body, that holds the scars,

From her daddy, who gave her the curse …

girl drowingin09876t

The Long & Winding Road

It’s so important not,

To look a gift horse in the mouth,

So when she said,

She could help her,

She was quite delighted,

“I will integrate all of your splits,”

My oh my!

But she pushes down her hope,

She swallows it,

Because Black Swans only think,

They are Black Swans,

And Ugly Ducklings are,

Dogged by bad luck – persistently.

How can that change?

girl and hands


Internet Lovers IIII

I get to the mornings,

And the poison leaks away from the black nights,

If I really loved myself,

I wouldn’t keep putting myself through this,

But there’s this hope

That what we have transcends all,

Does it?

I’m not sure my mirror will keep lying,

And so I wait . . .

girl mirrir