January 2017

a cicada
clings to silence

a lisp
lip thinking

a sea breeze
encrypts messages
from the edge

a sequence for my daughter

jigsaw child
fitting words
fall together

only this
the flicker of blood
barely glimpsed

singled out
by silence
our mutable feast

in the world
if only of it
daughter buffalo

what has no voice
daughter of mine

advent silence
speaking our language

after rain too
the sea has no colour
of its own

alive - dead
astride a whiplash
of silence

am I to be the words no more

an imprint
of Hiroshima
shadows me

as it falls
the intonation
of the night

awake again . . .
has dawn recreated
the am I was?

a child washes away
from her death

before me
a future who's who
of non-being

dead - alive
astride a whiplash
of silence

dead silence . . .
an ancestral wisdom
in so few words




DT shakes
the cold-turkey of

empty room –
I enter the sound
of my echo

ever present –
is this too to be
our pretense?

eye contact . . .
particles appear smaller
than their wavelengths

eye to eye
the bottom line
still there

fog bound feel for the real



forget them
lest these very words
linger on

from Light Verse (a work in progress)

before light
when to be
is just that

in darkness
a candle

let there be . . .
ta ta ta
strike the flint

for now
a spark
just that

Saroyan's candle

night breeze —
the sound of light
on a wick

the light
that lies
in words

a candle deifynes the darkness

good news in the ends of now



grave silence –
a distant fantail
barely heard

heaven-sent . . .
vernix enfolds the word
whispered in doubt

in becoming the loss of now

in the awe
overspilling her eyes
our smallness

inaugural flight
the eagle switches to
autocratic pilot