Thank you Lord


Thank you Lord
For moments such as these
Quiet and tranquil
Overflowing with ease

I look up from my device
Stare fleetingly at the green
Then bend down again
A slave to my machine

I can feel my heart’s rhythm
Slowly picking up its pace
It’s hard Oh Lord
To stay still in one place

The ticking of the clock
Metaphoric of course
Rules all my moments
With barely a pause

Teach me Oh Lord
To sit back and let be
To not feel so guilty
When I take life slowly

And here’s a message Oh Lord
To friends reading these lines
It’s ok, please don’t worry
I really, truly am fine

Because my words, though born
from my innermost thoughts
Do also reflect
My minds creative plots

And as I sit here
Not looking at this beautiful view
There’s a question my Lord
That I’ll put to you

How is it that a simple thank you
Has zigged and has zagged
And ended, so very far
From the place it was meant to?


After the rain


Clouds scud
through the blue-grey skies
making haste slowly
towards a new destination.

Mist rises over
the distant mountains
borne upon a
gentle breeze.

The very last
straggling raindrops
fall to the earth
in a desultory fashion.

Steam rises from
the damp earth
warmed by the rays
of the just revealed sun.

Drops of water
lie shakily suspended
on fresh washed
green leaves

Butterflies emerge
from their hiding place
ready to take flight
amidst the flowers again.

And a faded rainbow
stretches across the sky
nature’s benediction
for this fresh new world.

In the rain


When I was a child
I loved to play
in the summer rain
running, jumping
splashing, singing
I would play
imaginary games
with hordes of
make believe friends
and sometimes
with real ones.

As I grew older
just out of my teens
I no longer played,
but I still loved
walking in the rain
sometimes alone
sometimes with a
special someone
those memories
still make me
incandescently happy.

And now I’m
somewhere in between
being a lot older but
not quite old enough
I don’t dance or play
in the rain anymore
or even walk hand in hand
with that special someone.
But the rain remains
special to me.

Now I sit at the window
side by side with
that special someone
snuggling under
a single blanket
books in hand
a cup of tea for me
a happy smile for him
and the magic
that is in the rain


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?

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.