Papillion (butterfly)

With fluttery breath
Each wing sighs on nature’s wind
A Kaleidoscope

On corn yellow stalk
Soft petals perch peacefully
A chrysanthemum

Calm fragility
Swept high on the breeze
A trio of butterflies


Observations (Haiku Chain)

Still winds, quiet chimes
Hanging in contemplation
Stir a thoughtless soul

Under cloudless sky
Unpredictable footprints
Scamper to and fro

Angry howling winds
Have no rustling leaves to blow
Crows are forced to fly

Though soft to the touch
She prickles like a bramble
No tender moments

Fall into autumn
Onto a bed of bronzed leaves
Sleep until summer

Hear the cries of spring
Cracking, breaking, thawing ice
Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip

Rust coloured red leaves
Meander briskly below
Before leaving home

Arid pastures spot
Token raindrops pour scorn on
Broken, cracked, dry land

Torrential Monsoon
Festivities are raised high
We dance in water

Blustery, leaf-strewn
When thoughts turn to summer sun
Golden rays, sand dunes

Frozen rain drops cry
Pale sheets catch all their sorrow
Saved from burning fire

Achromatic, shades
Bled dry by sleeping mind’s eye
Shutters closed on life

Satin Sheet

Kneeling down on her soft bed I follow my
hollow sounding, icy trail of hot breath,
as my hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of the ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
of winters. A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress and too soon my heart aches
for the callous black ice to keep forever the footprints
of yesteryear – sadly only imprinted forever in memory
– quickly they disappear in warmer times. Is it by tender
touch and passionate farewell or is it the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shakes off her shrill wrap and vanishes once more.

New Developments and Old Bridges

First time you looked…
the old bridge held court, towering over a green, blank canvas,
save for the rustle and bustle of splendid leaves;
when the wind was behind them, music played.

Last time I looked…
interlopers festooned the ground, roaming freely,
making noise like only animals can, digging the dirt,
uprooting the trees till they bled roots hanging and crying.

Each time I looked…
they’d replanted with bricks and mortar; creatures loomed large, still sleeping; under their red manes the empty shells would soon thrive and cling to the soil, in a short time their windows like eyes pierced me, all lit up and hungry.

Whenever I looked…
I remembered when the rainbow would arc the sky, pierce the grass
and carry on its journey. I see it now planted firmly between the cold, stone
faces; it stands taller and resolute before springing forth to a better place.

Last time We looked…
we saw the same rainbow holding the same truths and feelings and heavy
load we are apt to burden it with; it is ours and it doesn’t mind caring, connecting, and transporting us in time, our time. Like the bridge, it will probably always be there.

Black Christmas

scary elf

Charlie touched his brown-rimmed glasses knowingly, his freckles crinkling as he marched down to the garden’s borders. He noticed how austere it all looked this time of year and remembered from school how the birds might find it difficult finding food and contemplated eking out worms and other treasures just for them. His eyes smiled at the gaping hole in the deep green hedge his father took pride in and decided to follow a walk of footprints leading off to the street which was paved with gold – Christmas gold.

The huge black lead street lamp shined a golden yellow on the neighbour’s efforts. They had gone to town with sledges, reindeer, Santas and lots of glittering sights and sounds. His mind was still on the tracks though and the puzzle they presented. Charlie’s jaw dropped at the magnificence of next door’s sled where he noticed similar prints and more right beside the giant Santa, which was red and white and had a smile for everyone.

Charlie knelt down and checked under the sled and inside it holding onto his specs as he moved them up and down in inspection mode, murmuring the occasional ‘aha’ but he could see noting really. He scratched his head with stiff cold fingers while he simultaneously rubbed his cold, red nose wiping the overspill on his new, red scarf and saying an apology to Aunt Mildred for the mess. He clapped his padded hands together before they clasped behind his back, and a shudder took him into high-speed detective work.

He decided to sit on a large leather seat to shelter from the snow falling once again. The sledge began to move slightly making him a bit uneasy. That soon went as Charlie was soon in awe of the blue-black sky and the twinkling stars amid the white dotted snow falling around him in the sledge before it turned into a storm like whir. From behind he heard a booming laugh and bells; there was shrill ringing behind him then all around. His excitement was tinged with longings of home and the warmth and his mom and the Christmas tree and just all the familiar things, but maybe that was Santa. Was it Santa?

Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the sled floor and the tiny prints which had reappeared. He pushed his glasses onto his nose and pulled back as he noticed a small creature on the seat beside him. Charlie smiled at the furry paws though dirty and wet with very ragged nails; he was anything but cute and the stench emanating from him – it, was becoming unbearable.. Charlie’s smile was met with a dark face with crooked menacing teeth that dripped saliva that turned the sled floor a greenish yellow. Charlie’s heart sank together with the thoughts his companion might be an elf and he held onto his red scarf from aunt Mildred and smelled his moms mince pies on his glove, which bore some squished crumbs.

He was pulled out of regret, and near tears, when he was jolted by the roar of ‘Santa’s’ instructions to the beasts pulling the sled. The horrible goblin like creature that terrified Charlie turned to ‘Santa’, and with a hyena’s laugh and to Charlie’s disbelief, it uttered the words, ‘One more and we will be done for this evening.’ Charlie and the sled flew into the air and he was never seen again.



She raises her head slightly from the comfort of warm air
rising from the private space between skin and shirt,
and stares out of the steamed window.
She peers long into the distance – distant miles
and years have passed by her – growing older with time
to spend, but on what riches in return?

She can still hold a stare and make heads turn – even now,
they follow with jaws dropped as she slaps on her cycle
clips and leaves the local arena which smells of ale.
Eyes follow firm thighs and hips, both thankful for the years
of steep hill climbing and brisk walking.

She decides home is best for reflection well away
from the intrusive noise and incessant chirping of youth
biting at her heels. She exits the rowdy cottage style pub.
Age, she muses, brings with it its very own cloud,
and it is up to us how snowy white we keep it.

Looking In

Inside my head there is a story
with plots and angles,
arcs and curveballs,
twists and turns,
reality and make believe,
mystery, assumptions and clever word play.

Inside my head there is a dream,
where clarity resounds
and bleeds into
fuzz and fur,
the abstract becomes meaningful,
reality becomes the nightmare, contained.

Inside my heart there is a man,
who is part story,
part dream and daydream,
I see but dismiss it
I hear then forget,
When I feel, only then do I fully understand..