Listening to Beatles Albums

We all do it, 
all of us with at least

five white hairs, 
three personalities,

one life to splurge 
on little pleasures,

on antiquities, 
dust-covered bars

enclosing greener fields
where content lovers

lay parallel in the shade
without a single sigh,

discussing what will be
when the sun goes down.

Wild Kingdom

I saw giraffes in my garden
this morning and,  perhaps, 
last Sunday, I'm fairly sure
about the stride they held
prancing in the dry grass, 
their necks swayed as they 
crossed each others' paths, 
tangling gently whenever
they kissed.

A Post-It Poem

When I travel, I find that the poetry half of my brain tends to spark more often than when I don't get beyond my own 4 walls. And while on the road, I often end up writing on anything and everything (despite having a journal and more gizmos than you can shake a stick at!).

It's is an example of one such poem :-)

Wednesdays

If it were two days earlier

it's safe to assume my wet

steps could be seen dragging

down the street, wrapping it

firmly to a cold, uncaring Earth.

Two days later would be something else,

entire stones going unstamped,

nameless faces in the crowd as I

sprint by rustling trees, commuters

and my own shadow, by then a mere footnote

from a book I would read on days like today,

in-between days in between places,

a day whose backwards steps can be traced

through the centuries, perhaps a taciturn penance

Gregorians thought little of from their damp, grey cells

Note: While Wednesday is commonly considered the third day of the week in the Gregorian calendar and subsequently in ISO standards, this is actually one day earlier than what it had been in older systems - such as the Mesopotamian calendar - which the Gregorian calendar came to replace in many parts of the world.

Summer Storm

My garden weeps in the night
when it thinks no one's looking 


down their nose at it,  walking
all over it as they often do.

It doesn't know I lay awake 
listening to laboured breaths


rattle my single paned window, 
switching the lights on and off.

But the sun always leaves it exposed,
face down by the veranda door


its face still wet, hair dishevelled, 
just trying to act natural.

Passing Through Woods in Domodedovo

The Russian birch grows

white and high, one wonders how

it doesn't tumble

La Vieille

She can talk to squirrels
with the same sense
of ease she addresses
everyone she encounters
in the grocery store
each and every morning,

the young mother she lectured
about how easy she had it,
the stock boy who scoured
shelves tirelessly for everlasting peas
or the gentleman half her age
who simply smiled while she insisted
they had once danced in 1958.

From a worn park bench the dialogue
continues to roll off her tongue,
occasionally curtained by her lips,
thin, quivering but mostly longing
for the time they garnered attention
and would only speak when spoken to.

June

It's when Nature's plot thickens,
blossoms giving way to other blossoms
yellow to pink to red to mauve
opening,  closing,  crinkling,  opening

not unlike a million plastic folders,
binders and tattooed notebooks
in clammy hands beneath languid eyes
batting back and forth upon their pages.

Each morning exhales Baby's Breath
through boughs sponged a hundred greens,
far below the radar of young adults
matching luggage beneath their eyes and

coffee rotting on their dry tongues
while they beat their brains with both hands,
fashioning bowls large enough to contain
the entirety of Dutch grammar,  calculus or

something else someone in a worn
tweed jacket insists they know by heart,
no different from the swallow's song,
learned over weeks before leaving the nest.

Driving A Point

It was late afternoon and my thoughts were arid

when it struck me that I needed a new vehicle

to drive my thoughts far enough, fast enough

to the eyes and ears unknowingly awaiting them.

A meticulous consumer, I did my homework,

took my time, snapping reverse angle pictures

of me behind each and every wheel, feeling

the newness with each nostril and furrowed brow.

I tried out a traditional, up market Sonnet first

and – despite how many virginities had been

lost in its back seat – it still felt more like

my father’s than my own.

The Ode was no better, enveloping the driver in

thick clouds of vaulted purpose,

only came with AM radio and was impossible

to get parts and accessories for.

The 180° rotating side mirrors on the Sestina

were eye catching but seemed distracting

to the driver on today’s winding roads

and tempted oncoming traffic to admire itself.

And while the Dylan Thomas signature model Villanelle

looked like a joy to play with, I honestly didn’t know

what I’d do with it, was aghast by how much it consumed

and feared for its resale value.

Towards the back of the lot was an endless sea

of Haiku – three stroke wonders - which seemed cramped

and even the full-sized Tanka left me unconvinced

about how much leg room there really was.

With a blood orange evening tumbling ripe towards the Earth,

I bent to tie my shoes, scurried through a ditch

to Green Street and let the incandescent night fade in to

guide me, illuminating most of the street signs and

cheap hotels between "here" and wherever "there" was,

noting with interest one clapboard place where “No”

was blacked out on its sign vacancy sign, its steps crooked

with time, a saxophone sighing through its open door.

Another Hymn for Saint Christopher

Every road takes me further
from home,  from here,  from
there,  beneath the lazy willow
where I used to fish phantom

trout as large as my belly
or there,  the sterile high school 
I infected with my first kiss
amongst rows of grey lockers

or way over there where I stood 
stiff in the wind of two oceans
smooth stones at my feet,
Africa looking over my shoulder.

With each glance at the map
I declined to take with me and 
careful readings of the cracked 
compass I never understood,

each step which tattooed the Earth 
brought me to this place where
monkeys pluck strings all day 
to the delight of dancing dragons,

the night belonging to us.

A poem about corporate culture

The Company Man

Listen to me and
regurgitate slowly

                                 climbing your throat
                                 cracking your lips

practice makes
imperfect you perfect
                            
                                 washes away what
                                 Nature couldn't

but we can
just make an effort

                                 let each syllable
                                 ring your grey bell

once for me
twice for us

                                 third time's for you, 
                                 whatever's left

This Isn't A Poem

Poets like to discuss the role of metaphor in poetry in order to examine specific subjects. But poems themselves are metaphors, too, as the following poem inspired by the work of Réné Magritte attempts to explain.

Be sure to check out this quick video to hear me reading it...not to be missed! :-) http://vimeo.com/67793061

This Isn't A Poem

It suddenly struck me as I sat in my familiar chair

towards the back of the white buzzing café,

a hazelnut terzetto staring up at me,

it struck me what Magritte was trying to tell us

when he painted “This Is Not A Pipe” below

the dark strokes of a brown bowl and black stem,

a slight glare the only sign of life beyond it.

He wasn’t pointing out what was real and not

with a wave of disdain to the perplexed viewer

but, rather, was underlining what most of us are

too frightened to admit, that everything is what

we make of it – or not – and objects have no

preference as to the labels spectators cook up.

And I will leave you with that slippery nugget,

close the spinach leaf I was scribbling in,

take a last sip of the faded photograph before me

and step out into the foggy rush hour bee hive,

this life vest slipped carefully into my coat pocket.

Flypaper Poetry Is Back!

After a prolonged absence do to other projects elsewhere, I have decided to put my nose to the grindstone and made Flypaper Poetry my single and centralize location for all of my poetry going forward. Over the comings days and weeks, I will migrate existing work from other sites (Hubpages, in particular) and - of course - any new work will be posted here directly. be sure to stop back often :-)  

Embracing the Deluge

This graphic poem can be found in my upcoming collection of illustrated poetry: "In Between Places", coming to a bookshelf near you SOON!