Saturday, May 12, 2018


The older cat leaps onto the soft leather
armrest of the two-seater couch, crouches
and sits and waits, surprisingly patient.
There was a time when he would cry any
occasion when he felt we'd kept him
waiting too long for his afternoon meal.

These days he's turned the tables on us,
conditioned us to respond, like the dogs
making Pavlov scribble in that Stivers comic.
We even open windows to let him in
when he climbs onto the house to hunt for birds,
arthritic limp ignored for rooftop thrills,
green flashes of emerald eyes gazing
up with echoes of something ancient, primal.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Borrowed Lines and Spare Time

Hey there, strangers smiling at the bar,
And hey there, barman in behind.
You're a little more familiar now,
And I'm okay, yeah, I'm just fine,
I'm just sipping on my stout
And chasing away the minutes and hours
Long before you call closing time,
Yeah, closing time, but for now it ain't that late,
I'm just Tom who sips and Waits
For my very sweet companion,
For a lady who listens to Lou Reed
And Leonard Cohen, my partner found,
She's late, not lost,
She'll be dressed in black and polka dots
And she'll take me away, we'll leave here, yeah,
But for now, hey, I'm waiting for my gal.

Tuesday, May 30, 2017

In The Lodge

It's hard to believe
It's been six years,
If I'm correct in
My reading
Between vague lines
And if there's any truth
Behind the icons
Red on blue
Atop the screen
In the Social Network,

Since we shared
A moment that should
Have been forbidden
By all the usual standards
And the rules
Expected of friends or exes.

But despite passing time I still
Cannot help but recall
The thrill, the elation
Of how it felt, extreme,

Not because it
May have been wrong
But because it
Was electric and exciting,

And despite the years
That have passed since
And the lingering fact
That it
Should never
Have happened
At all

With you
Too close a friend
And me
And believing that you
Were taken too,

Despite that, tonight
I remember you well,

And me drunk under lights,
A cheap line,

Pressing our lips,
Seconds of time,

And then never
A hint
Of anything else.

Saturday, May 27, 2017

Climbing the Wall

I have known fear,
I must confess,
Yes, I have been afraid
To visit him
And get to know the world
As he had seen it

For reasons obvious,
Of course,
But also more obscure
More selfish
More vain,
Being concerned that
My efforts would merely
Pale in contrast to his,

That I would
Simply be
The poor relation
Who does no more
Than ape the
Of a previous

That maybe
I just miss the point,
The crux of this craft,
In ways
He knew naturally,
Made look easy.

Fear there was, too,
That I would be
A copy-cat,
That I would
Steal his style,
Try to mimic
All his best verses
Or produce
No more than tributes
And carnival mirror

Despite the contradiction
That I show
No such reverence
To those names
Of great renown
Who moulded and shaped me
In the early days
Of this lonely

And there are
Common details
That I cannot escape:
Each of us liked
To take our name
In its translation,
Loved to see
The places where
Old tradition
Lives on,
In the same vocation.

And I too
Have known darkness,
Known exhaustion
And despair,
Though not as he did
Nor as anyone else does,
But that too
Is a fear.

For even though
I can visit
His words and ideas
And marvel at
His choices
And combinations
And fresh compounds
And flawless attention
To economy,

And even though
I can revisit
My own words,
And all written when
We both
Were boys
Becoming men,
I cannot know him,
Hear his voice,
See him respond
To words and action
Away from the
Or the pen,

And I am afraid
Still to explore
Or delve too deep
To try and see
This world
The way
He must have seen it
In the end,

For I too have known darkness,
And some coincidental details
Are the same.
So yes, I am afraid.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

The Love Doctor

Because it was a Friday afternoon
And because I knew that soon the usual sensations
Of restlessness and loneliness and anxiousness
Would make their unwelcome return
I sent word to the Love Doctor
And made an appointment,
Late, of course, for Friday night

And went upstairs to freshen up
And get dressed up and groom myself
In the vestal safety of my room,
With alcohol and aftershave applied
To prepare my face to meet the faces
I would meet in one of those unholy places
Where the guru puts on his clinic,

Where his masterful approach to the physic
Of the symptoms of my ailment
Is displayed in the effortless attainment
Of interest, closeness, and contact details
As he scribbles in his black notebook
And prescribes a night of dark and hidden passion
Away from the plastic cups and too-bright lights,

Then he returns to raise a toast and proudly
Boast of his successful incisions and ponders
My reluctance and indecision and tries to trick me
Into action by pushing me to envy him,
Recommends jealousy as the first treatment in my cure,
To remedy my deficiency of intrigue and allure,
Tempting the prevention of some malignant chastity,

Poking, prodding, and examining for signs
That one is not blind to his social superiority,
Waiting for the "Oohs" and "Aahs" and
The tightening of my chest as yet another
Model subject succumbs to the chance of an intimate exam,
Another young lady who does not fear the touch
Of the devilish Love Doctor's ice-cold hand.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017


"Do not ask me for charity now:
Go away until your bones are clean."

(Fleur Adcock, from 'Advice to a Discarded Lover')

The Hoarder's curse
Struck again today
When a misplaced memento
Reappeared and dared
To poke its head up
From its hiding place
And scattered memories
And feelings all over
And made a mess.

I tried to catch them,
Control and gather them
Back into my pockets,
Tried to hide them all with
The scrap of paper ticket
From an almost forgotten date,
Buried them again under
Rubbish and vain layers
Of regret and hate

Saturday, May 13, 2017


I was told once or twice in my teen years
About copies of chapbooks and local
Journals that must still survive somewhere,
Proof filed away with scribbles, notes and pages,
The private and the published words
Of a talented and tortured poet,
One young man immortalised and remembered
Among voices preserved in parchments,
Tales from a decade before my time,
The literary legacy of a waning century.

These days I try to gather the works
Of a bright emerging generation
And horde them, safe in a cardboard box,
Save that some might be forgotten,
The sort of stanzas that might not make it
To the library shelves and archives,
Treasures kept for rediscovery
In some unprophesied circumstance
And stored with my own written contributions
Whatever meagre value they may have.