Runaway Thoughts



Everywhere I look 

the day tries to get my attention

a bright square of morning light

a silhouette of cup and vase 

bounces off the kitchen cupboard

a streak of light

lines a chair and corners the table

highlighting the contents of a cut crystal vase

light glowing from every window

screaming to get in

to wake me from my sleep

a beam of light throws itself

across the floor with intent

abrupt then fades in attitude

the kitchen, beautiful with life

walls and ceiling surfaced with patinated wood

nothing buckled or splintered from age

if we could only access its memory

turn the tape back with our fingers

and play the days again

topics of conversation would consist of

inches of rain or evening frost

schedule for seeding and field rotation

everyone having a job to fulfill 

feeding chickens, milking the cows

or delighting in the birth of a new calf

politics would not be a circus act

perhaps the walls are speaking

giving their opinions 

technology has taken the lead 

no one can say its totally wrong

perhaps just perhaps, we have grown blinders

tunnel vision for progress

such a rush to inhabit other worlds

while we disregard and disrespect 

the world we have been given

the imperious attitude travels much quicker

monstrous companies rape the earth

then stand on pedestals 

dropping pennies to the poor with one hand

while they rub their fat bellies with the other 


this house of which I am so privileged to sit 

built long ago, of and for a family

it stands tall, straight and proud

built as a home for generations past and future

kitchen of seven doors and two windows
if only they could speak

these walls hold thoughts and time

they grew alive and still they breath


two roosters calling 

their voices can be heard through the walls

wanting the gates to be opened

grains and water to be served

joy rushes through my veins

for their call will make me walk

out across the yard and witness

another sky saying good morning to the sun

and goodnight to the fading moon

june 9 2018




IMG_8241 (1)

If I stand on the point of a needle
the wind will not be altered
raindrop will not glide down its surface
no shadow will be cast
if I stand on the point of a needle

will I be able to tick off each day
will I be in a meditative state
will I still see the sun rise and set
if I stand on the point of a needle

will I need
or will I just be
listening to the bass cello
drifting over me

will I be music
will I be colour
or change the sky
to something duller

if I stand on the point of a needle
will I be able to see
all that surrounds me

june 4 2018

Early Morn


I rose from the warmth of my bed

to the early morning rain

seeing the mood change across the open fields

the sky a soothing grey

rain, soft and warm

feeling it dampen my head

then soaking my shoulders

I did not run for cover

for I felt I was witnessing a miracle 

standing with my face to the sky

my arms extended

welcoming every drop

greeting them as if I had never seen them before

in life we can get trapped

caught in barbed-wire rope
venomous of global news

if allowed, it will kill us all

I say, look to your sky

your fields, your waters

this planet that continues to try and forgive us

that is the only creator I can get behind

the holy trinity,

earth, water, air

for without that trinity

we have nothing





in life, there is yin and yan

the anticipator, the reactor

a leader, a follower

two sides of a coin

day, night

hot, cold

good, evil

wet, dry

rich, poor

happy, sad

extravert, introvert

must there be 

balance of all that is

so all may be


what if the rain rose

took to the sky

would we hear it hitting the clouds

would there be pools of water floating in the sky

with prisms holding rainbows

what if the season change

is actually the world in flip

for when I look at trees

across the fields in the winter

they look a lot like exposed roots without the ground

could our world be

made of two

living each day connected by the soles of our feet

always having the opposite living at the same moment




what makes us live as if transfixed

frozen from the insides

breathing slowly

sitting,,, still,,,

no one thinking of you

where you are

what you are doing

you manifest into a white light 

what makes us unable to function

frozen within our steps

breathing blackness

sitting,,, listening,,, waiting

no one speaking of 

where you have not been

what you will do

you hide within the walls

of the shadow

every breath you take

thins the atmosphere 

shrinks in dimensions

who is this alien 

absorbing all the oxygen

squeezing out all of life 

we have come to know





A Complex Creature

Photo on 2018-05-10 at 7.23 AM #2

I wake and for some moments
possibilities of the day
speed through my mind
unravelling my body from pillows and duvet
proves to be more than an easy task
how did everything get so twisted about
I can see impressions embedded in the pillows

If we could only scan each impression
retrieving thoughts or dreams left behind
would that be good or not

With some bits of fancy legwork
I managed to free my body from the octopus bed
a small jump and I raise my arms
as if I had just completed a gymnastic routine
I can hear the crowds cheering me on
for a quick moment, I bask in my achievement and victory

Spinning back into reality
I follow the path of most mornings
I unscrew the espresso pot
pour water in one part
two scoops of coffee with a dash of freshly ground pepper
into part two
tighten part three
then turn the burner on

I walk back towards the bed
hand picks up the iPhone
I raise the phone and take a picture of the bed
same angle every morning
a project in process

The artist is a complex creature
eyes are like a camera
framing  and taking stills of nearly everything I see
being so aware can be exhausting

what if the artist is just a complex fleshy computer
our eyes connected to the clouds
allowing others to access everything we see and feel
being directed by more than one
could this be why?
when I look at my door
I see it in three  black and white stills
then I can visualize them framed and on a wall

skipping over to a short poem

then again a short film with feet walking
on a wooden floor towards that same door
watching it open
a shadow walks through it
The End  


Is it just me
or, are there others
punching keys
giving me directions

Am I an artist
or just a
complex fleshy computer

Sitting here looking out the window and open door
hearing the birds trying to speak
above the sounds of commuter cars
my left ear has caught the sound of the refrigerator
it seems to sing like a voice in a tunnel
than abruptly is stops

The light in the room changes
as the clouds cover the morning sun
I take a breath of relief
for it’s the grey clouds that I seek
they calm my soul
like a memory embedded in my DNA
travelling clouds and crashing waves soothes me
listening to the rain
feels like home


All of this with only one cup of coffee and only 9am.

Asleep,,, ​Or Awake


AT some point

I slipped out of bed

I can still see where my body laid

soft pillows of down 

each holding an imprint of my head

different moments of time

the duvet has adopted a body shape

am I still… 

lying in my bed

or ….am I dreaming

dreaming of being awake

IF we could see time

would our world be full of remanence of where we were




may 3 2018