Early morning sunshine
glints off the top
of the white building
across from me.

It’s shadow draws
quirky patterns
over the grove of
dark green trees below.

Their gnarled branches
shelter hundreds
of birds chirping
to welcome a new day.

Dappled leaves
sway hypnotically
in the gentle
morning breeze.

Sounds of traffic
begin to overlay
the trill and treble
of the birdsong

The world is waking
and so must I,
but before my day starts
I pause for just a moment.

Standing before
my window
I drink in these
sights and sounds.

My very own
daily renewal,
the promise filled start
of a brand new day.




Where is the line
that divides truth
from creativity?
When I write
my poems,
do I have
an obligation
to write exactly
what I feel?
Or is it alright
to bend, stretch,
and mould
my words
so that they
feelings more
than mine?
Do I use my poetry
to describe that
which is
or that
which can be?
Do I let bare facts
my boundaries
or do I let
wanton creativity
set me free?
What the truth
of this matter is,
I quite simply
cannot see.
But until I decide
I will choose
to err on the side
of creativity.

The book inside


Somewhere within me
is a book waiting
to be written.
The words hesitate
on the peripheries
of my imagination
ready to spill out
on to blank paper.
The characters
stand around
rehearsing their parts
waiting for the moment
when they will be
called to action.
Plot lines zip around
madly, tangling with
each other, becoming
progressively more
complex, as my
brain struggles to make
sense of them.
Scenarios race
with one another
hoping to be the first
to be created.
And through it all
my heart beats
with an unsteady,
escalating rhythm,
asking that eternal
question, when?
When? When? When?

The Storm


Lightning streaks
brilliant and jagged,
across the grey
darkened skies,
splitting the clouds
over and again

Thunder follows
close behind, rolling,
roaring, a magnificent
cacophony of noise,
shaking the windows
rattling the doors

The wind sweeps
recklessly, on a rampage
through my house
leaving behind itself,
a pathway strewn with
papers and other flotsam

Raindrops follow,
blown in, scattering,
eager to partake
in this wanton destruction
of cushions, curtains
books and keepsakes

And before I run to shut,
all the windows and doors,
I pause for a moment
silent and awed, enthralled
and just a little bit shaken
by this amazing thunderstorm.



The sound of
young voices
raised in song
like fledgling birds
chirping in
a whisper quiet forest

Their untutored
voices follow
the teachers
commanding notes
reaching for
that elusive key

Voices rise and fall
soaring high
sinking deep
magically creating
the semblance
of a melody.

Old photos


Old photographs

seem to evoke

a series of

“Remember whens”

that take us

for a walk down

memory lane,

a  place from which 

it is sometimes

very hard

to come back again.

Dangling feet


I love the sight
of little feet dangling
from a chair
that’s too high for them.

There’s a promise
in that picture
of heights to reach
and times yet to come.

One day those feet
will not dangle anymore
they’ll be all grown up
comfortably touching the floor.

But until that time comes
all too soon and somewhat
suddenly, I get to look at them
and hug this moment to me.