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I can be seen, but I am not
As if a shadow, and discreet
Yet I will never admit defeat
A mirror image I can’t greet
No words in ink, just a blot

Some may consider it an edge
Privy to everything that’s said
Eyes and ears from desk to bed
Even if the mood is turning red
A secret spy out on the ledge

I hear and see but never tell
Ranging from issues of security
Sometimes reflecting impurity
Perhaps destined for obscurity
But discretion, I know too well

The Ocean

I have
Swum in it,
Sailed on it,
Lived near it,
Gazed over it,
Dove through it,
Took fish from it,
Been drawn to it,
Been healed by it,
Made love beside it,

No wonder it’s so hard to leave it...



Jagged pink lines of lightning
In a boiling sea of jungle green
Off-white smudges lie in wait
In a thin veil with a silver sheen

If there’s meaning, it is hidden
Proud never to be in plain sight
As the eye relishes every angle
Understanding left from right

All works hang there in silence
Each a portal to another place
For some, an undiscovered view
Presenting an unrecognised face

Ten Years Later

Her jeans were as worn and faded,
As her once vibrant smile...
The years had been less than forgiving,
She had lived her life beneath a neon sign...

I could see the fiery passion,
Still hidden in those eyes...those eyes...
Her hand slipped easily into mine,
She spoke with a gentle calmness...

Ten years had flashed by in a single moment,
We were back to a simpler time...
When cares were few and dreams were plenty,
How long could we hold on to it, an hour...maybe two...

The Grateful Fire

As I roast and I toast
I’m most proud to be host
To those, who make me glow
As they eat and warm up their toes

Be it a friend or a foe
As I glow and I show
My display I can certainly say
Soon, is end of my days

Although right now I thrive
They won’t keep me alive
They’ll pack up and go back inside
And leave me to shrink as I die

And yet with sparks that I spit
I don’t scorn those who sit
I’m still pleased that I’ve lived
I say thank you to them: I’ve been lit





My palm, when an inked print is made
Is as stems growing in an Eastern jungle
An attempt to display those Nazca lines
Or an early drawn map of the Nile delta
Four main lines and many smaller ones
Each with significance to some who know
And to one side is a faint diagonal mesh
Perhaps a net to catch an interpretation



So, are we all gathered here
I’ll do a headcount to be sure
Five of us, but we should be six
This leaves us in a bit of a fix
All of us went through that door
Jim’s the medic, there’s his gear

Jon, did you check the display
It would have shown us as light
Maggie – wasn’t Jim with you
And wasn’t Ken with him too
This portal isn’t working right
I hope we can get back today

a poem in which i ask for the things i do not have

give me a memory in which your voice does not sound like receding footsteps / give me a memory in which my father does not chase me out of the house for daring to look him

straight in the eye / give me a truth that isn't bitter enough for me to spit out lies / give me a dream in which my brother isn't lying too still on the bed / give me enough

strength in these fingers to write a new world into existence / give me a starry night that doesn't end with me screaming myself awake / give me an early afternoon that doesn't



Gather around and let me begin
To tell you a tale that’s very strange
It’ll beguile you, before it lets you in
Before any preconceptions change

A story with no beginning nor end
Just a continuous plot you must follow
As into strangeness you will descend
And realise that everything is hollow

No pauses or places to draw a breath
Like a mosquito it drains your blood
And the prospect of an unusual death
As unexpected tears flow in full flood


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