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!

Solid State

My favourite country walks invariably involve water -
lingering lakes encircled by whispers,
impatient seas drumming their fingers,
loquacious streams splitting stones' attention -

and the temptation is omnipresent,
the sort only children will admit in company,
the longing to unsheathe a hand or foot
and watch the uncaged coolness roll over me.

True, we did this with many things in our youth -
gravel carpets in the drive, unclipped grass,
a patch of sand on our knee or nose would do -
in our conquest of the world as we met it

but the allure of water never fades, the way
it embraces us, tracing our silhouette,
its absence our being, its presence our pardon
from a world otherwise too fixed in its ways.