facncy


!ick

Pavement Asemia

Funeral Glyph

An improvised window poem written on the front door of the church at my grandpa's recent funeral. Not very clear or original but you may see a sickle and you may see a vision of the afterlife. Or you may just see a wet, miserable day brightened by the memory of a fine, old gent who was a very fine, old grandfather to me. The poem reads:

death/reap

Moments later the poem started to drip away, much like life, but I didn't manage to take a photo of that because I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, the church elders being a rather solemn lot. No matter. Peace to them and peace to my grandpa. And peace to you.

Mad Hatter's Review Blog

Some prose poems of mine. Or are they short short stories? Not sure really. Have a look and see what you think . . .

http://madhattersreview.com/blog/archives/1089

ochre hoax occidental

Panda

The first wound is the birth wound, separation from the mother. Like Moses, we are cradled in a basket, comforted. No doubt further wounds are inflicted as we grow and we carry them into the world as thoughts, feelings, attitudes, actions.

Imagine someone bearing the wounds of the whole world, not just in his body, but in his heart. Imagine the folly in believing this. What if we did believe however, and in believing, our wounds were healed and we were open to the life that falls from the sky, rises from the earth.

Imagine a tiny spot of blood . . .

Shadowtrain

Sometimes I'll read a poet and be inspired to write something in response, with a little feel or style borrowed from the poet. Here are three sonnets I wrote after reading Emily Critchley - no where near as good as her wonderful sequence of course, but genuine enough I hope:

http://www.shadowtrain.com/id441.html

In fact, best just forget these and go read Emily. . .