Wednesday, March 31, 2010


My Father.
An hour out of my work day.
Every Tuesday, every noontime.
He, the master carpenter.
He, the drummer.
Me, the wide eyed boy again.
In awe of all the demons
he has battled and defeated.
A warrior in the fight for his life.
Our old kitchen; my old man.
“How you doing, Pops?”
“Sonny, I’m dying.”
With three words
I died a bit myself.
Just lunch. Much to digest.

Friday, March 26, 2010


Skinned knees and elbows,
and a face sliding along a graveled
street, bounding up the curb
and rattling a few molars to the core.
Cuts and burns and bloody noses,
all treated here; without insurance cards,
or appointments. Emergency room
always open, with Tender Loving Care
and a bottle of Mercurochrome.
A gentle hand pulling pieces of stone
from the face her “handsome” boy,
wincing with me and holding back her own tears.
Always at no charge and with the healing powers
of a tender kiss on the repaired injury,
in time to get dinner on the table
when her work had finished.
Doctor Mom was always in.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


Once behind a milk maid bleary,
I beard a Liddypoolian surly,
sing-song pop/rocks, yeah, yeah, yup,
with good dog Nigel, me soiled pup.
Richie-ringy, drum, drum, drum,
whilst Petey lands upon his bum,
Paulie doodles wally all day,
as Georgie puts pied pudding away.
Meanstyle, Yokie loudly bang she slaved,
a New Yorkshire in me final daze,
avant garded must too grately
amongst the scruffy beat alls lately.
Banded four we combed to stagED,
we was all the bloody rage, Ed.
Maniacal, the screamies faint
as were the mused sick; badly tainted.
Writey, writey, Bob all righty,
pose'em, storied; all humoured slighty.
From me pen me wordies stumble,
in me own write does muzak crumble.
Go salve the Queen!

*** Secured a copy of Lennon's "In His Own Write" and drew me storied inspiring from without me.

Sunday, March 14, 2010


Spring ahead
the time has come
to reset the times
around your home.

All the clocks
to synchronize,
that's the daylight
savings prize.

Analog or
don't forget
to set them all.

Work your fingers
to the bone,
the time you save
may be your own.

Monday, March 8, 2010


You lived down the street,
the brown house with the privet hedge.
The grass, manicured and perfect,
marigolds planted along the drive.
I used to cut through your yard.

Your father would yell for me
to stay off of the grass.
But I would chance a pass
to get to the next street.
In the upstairs window, a face

always appeared when your father
released his gentle tirade. You.
Dark eyes and a generous smile.
Dark flowing tresses and
happy sun dresses were your appeal.

And every time you would steal
a glance out your window, our eyes met.
Your smile drew mine out of the
shadowy thicket of inexperience,
and I welcomed your "intrusion"

into the realm of my consciousness.
A day came when I entered your yard,
clean jeans and hair combed,
sweaty palms rubbing against
the coarse denim of my youth.

"Excuse me, Sir" I called.
"Would it be alright if I
went through your yard?"
And your father looked up
from tending his garden, hoe in hand.

In that moment, I knew from where
your smile had come. Waving a gloved hand,
he relented. "Go right ahead"
I saw him glance upward and
again his smile beamed. I turned to look.

You. Dark eyes and a generous smile.
Dark flowing hair and a flair
for always appearing when I would
pass through. I searched your father's eyes
for permission of a sort, and he simply nodded.

When I looked back to your window,
you were gone. You had come to stand
on the back porch of your nervousness.
"Good Morning" you demurely cooed.
"Hello" my voice cracked, as I turned

in my sudden shyness. "Hey!" you recovered,
"Can I walk with you?" Again to your father;
a broad smile and a wave of a gloved hand.
"Go right ahead" his smile beamed.
Many times I crossed through under the guise of

getting to the next street, but I knew your
smile would always be waiting, Cheshire Cat
at the ready; touched by your grace.
We've met many times in our imaginations.
I've known your smile in the beauty of your words.

Friends in the sharing of distance and
our known anonymity. And the wave of a gloved hand.