Secrets the not saying of it the hush of it weeping through her veins through her daughter's quiet down the branched roads of generations the still of it the still stain of it the...

  Don't Know Thyself   Playing the guitar, Dave heard:  “Look at this – books, music – are you going to do anything with your life?  Or what?” His father left the room, slamming the door....

    For the Record This poem was written at a computer It probably won't get published on the page This poem isn't for performance either Highly unlikely to grace the local cabaret stage...

    The Quality of 6.15am   it is still as expected & I am awake thinking about jumble sales &Carpal Tunnel Syndrome a wood pigeon confirms what I feared, I am truly awake,...

  The Icknield Way reaches the coast The line endures, resistant, as an unworked seam of flint following the chalk. Iron salted, sprung from sea wash, braided ghost road, liminal, a trackway...

    Eight Days in March   3-7 An oxidized tin roof slants across the lean-to picking up a matte glimmer of daylight. Shafts of sun begin to arrow through the gaps in winter's last...

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    The New World An old man’s toothless smile as his street organ plays a wild-xylophone lament. The daily grind with only a monkey to keep the company, while he tips his hat – hoping...

    Mirsky’s Flight   Mirsky called his wife from a pay phone at the airport. He hadn’t used one in years and was surprised at the fifty cents it cost. “Hell”, he thought, “It seems...