Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 03/19/21 – Cajun Mutt Press (wordpress.com)

Today’s spiders weave noun traps –
Money, Hunter, Harvestman and House
at our corners –
webbing us in routine,
spinning bills with work and rationality’s
bluster at our rotting, window sills.

Lying now on purple sheets you swear straight
as the shadow ruled lines of louvered blinds
an unrelenting love.

Shot glass slammed
– tequila downed, salt sucked-
you muscle tomorrow on

splitting the leathery spines of books
free from their stale shelves
letting old words crawl with new
in the asymmetry of our lives

nuzzled briefly with night

as yet days are drawn longer with winter’s rheumy rack.




Published online at Spillwords  https://spillwords.com/trace/

Despite dying and so bewildering

All space around us your trace follows close;

A powder trail through the minutiae of days,

Rimming tea cups and drifting in bathrooms

As perfumed steam to giddy our memories.

Confounding locked days with the keys we keep,

Collecting itself amongst the porcelain figures

Still, still and twirling across the dressing table

That you polished to lake like reflections.

From the loose spool of old tapes your voice loops

Clear into today, words newly significant

Festooned with feathers brushing, circling near

Echoing warm with shadows in the eaves

Murmuring the past to our present; here. 


(published by The Drabble ) Talisman | (wordpress.com)

Also published by Spillwords https://spillwords.com/talisman/

We strung the paradise of those days
together as if they were shark’s teeth
threaded onto a leather lace
to be worn as a talisman forbidding tomorrow’s bite.

Each tooth having already eaten all other
shy, creeping terrors, before its own fall
from a blooded jaw to the quietness of a fossil
amongst a cathedral of cavernous bones
waiting to be plucked.

Now rooms are bare of that glory – hollowed
and we feel as skeletal as those displays
hanging in galleries where they sell,
for a few pounds, pendants
like the one we made all those years ago.

The new light ghosted with shadows slipping
between youth and the spill of age,
as if time was a toy spun carelessly in a Zoetrope,
then stilled again to individual images
that perhaps we can still hold.

Memory - Grown With April

Stalks, arrow-like grow green,

darting to the air -

damp today with April -

and the missing muffled tread

of Grandad's feet along the path.

Wall flowers fleck fragrance

in rustles of orangy-yellow-red petals

to dissolve with his echoes amongst

that garden of long ago.


Photos and their gasp of those days

tell of how he'd sit smoking roll-ups

in a soft felt of shade, greying and far

from where we played,

cluing words to crossword gaps

and telling of how to tie knots 

or carve wood to whistle.

The space of him shifting, rushing onwards

through each month as a memory

re-growing amongst us

and speaking from within. Is. 


published at The Blue Nib https://thebluenib.com

Because it is the crush of sky

to water - a horizon of lines

drawn long and mapping the dittoed

trail of ships printing waves

on carbon paper, words

printed to endless echoes


and because it is the soft howl

of a saxophone notes lingering


surging then that pout of lipstick

butting up against beauty

its kiss filled with the smudge

of bitten cornflowers -

their stars flung from night

with the blazing ends of fused indigo.


And because it is everything

we ever wanted to say -

without any words.

I Try To Listen As Your Voice Perforates The Air

You are away tonight, but
you phone,

your voice cutting thoughts
to silhouettes of words
within your phone’s receiver,
their outlines hard
with reconfigured sound –
their impulses electric now-
saying you are busy; a loop of people
are around you in a hotel, somewhere social.

All the while, outside, slung against the sky
and drumming through slender telephone lines,
your speech is a signal carried
to untwine against my ear – empty –

filled only with necessity and ready mixed
expressions, as if poured dry from
those food sachets marked
‘tear here to open’
the contents falling in a hollow percussion,
pattering at the dull metal of a pan

and so different from a real voice’s
warm soar from a mouth to a mind;
all hot and bold
with breath’s winged part of air.


Published in the Indelible Poetry Anthology 2020


After you died, we found them, whole years,
gathered in newspaper clippings, weathered with soft
veins and creased as your hands.

Everywhere, in the pages of books or stashed in shoe-boxes,
you pressed paper to translucent heirlooms.
I wonder that we never noticed you cutting them.

Paper mined, left holed, then folded
and later unfolded, its words remade as a bed's
coverlet is smoothed before you lie.

Stories slip like sleep through your mind;
the clippings crafted to confetti announcing
and re-announcing births, deaths and marriages.

The mapped markers of love, of name linked to name
in inky archives, and held and held before you’d close
the shutters and listen to them clatter with night.

Ocean Inside

(As published in the 2019 Anthology Reach)

Enclosed and inside the ultrasound scan

shows you afloat in a hushed ocean.

Kidney bean shaped and safe in your drift,

yet anchored to me and my queasy mornings.

I feel us pulling at each other's lives,

persistent waves pushing at me, surging

and shifting as you shape into a self.

The sea within; salty and clear and shown

as a vague grey surf fixed in the photograph

the sonographer hands to us casually,

as the air of my world constricts, conflicted

with two journeys; our shared one and my own. 

The Confinement

Fists clenching and filling

with the expanse of secrets

the poppies grow tight.

Roughly budding the clay,

their petals skin wings

thrown upwards in release.

As you lie newly 

in my arms, red with birth

and the crumple of creation.

Hot needing, eyes just open.

A skin seamless and unknowable;

a mind of our own making.

Tales I Tell My Children

Fairy realms linger; longings whispered to a child.

Heads full of hoods and wolves howl lonely on a moor,

While the yellowed pages guide a brittle mossed path

Back to bedtimes beyond and now freshly buoyant

With my own children's chatter and clutter of stairs

Climbed.  And I the teller now light incantations

Of the darkness and of the dreams hovering 

Freshly born tonight, ancient and again new

Brimming with technicolour misty murmurs 

Laid through the years so we bite again apples

Snow White's blood red lips knew and poison kissed.

And feel Rapunzel's starry, salty tears stray

To cure princely eyes and cut our own computer

Devised reality to size.

Dark comforts offered word by voice in these tales

Ensconce us; wrapping pain and reality in duvets

And towel damp hair; all beauty filtered to our bleary

Beds and so it is the children sleep.

Remembering Nick Kamen

(who died aged 59, 2021) 

After that Launderette ad

Levi’s 501s, cut lower on the hip

for boys, were the only ones

80s girls wore.


Skin tight and stone washed

teenage years tumbled

school books with Look In magazine

where your poster poses

and nude lipstick pouted

stating everything

was cool and changing – The Face

featured with yours

sold ski wear to city workers

with no plans to visit the mountains.


Madonna sang your backing vocals

and we played the cassette

of your single over and over

until the sepia spool

was almost transparent with wear.

59 seemed old back then

but now it seems too young

for anyone to die.  

To Shelley (published in the anthology Across the Page.)  

Seaward I wade into the watery salt

Where broken Ariel lays and recall

How you reached for me once through a dream's clear,

Bright foam, your hand merging with my own

Inky and full of awakened stars

So words floated where a heart should hum.

Leaves trespassed through the autumn air and danced

Faster and higher flinging me amongst your words;

Tempest lashed by proprieties stormy moan.

From the hollow caves I cradle your heart,

Not burned, nor washed away to fleshy ash

But daring to champion our un-fearing questions 

Still amid green wreathed tameless Liberty

and wan death you are not frightened to behold.

O wanderer, mercurial might

Is your endless journey still

And quick-silver across a stormy sea

Of years 

You lift me to you.

Afterwards Nana

a wardrobe to sort, now empty of hands,

sighing with garments worn and tendered soft

by your shifting shape.

and long lingering, though you are dead, drifts

Coty's L'Aimant

scattering memory, nascent and again new

Ash-less and minute-less smooth to soothe

our sorrow.

and beyond your piano sings flowers. 


Superstition snakes from the necks

of the flowers lolling their heady scents

to the night.

"Unlucky to cut lilacs" she mutters

lies lingering from those lost days of her childhood -

"but lavender weaves luck" she intones

pressing the papery blooms to a pomander

and placing it amongst her faded silks.

Now a chemist, latex gloved, in a lab

Distils digitalis to digoxin

Freeing it from a foxy, fairy past;

Modern medicine for a fluttering,

Failing heart.

I hear her singing still;

A flowered whisper tracing

Through the twilight of a garden

Slipping slowly from

Superstition to the science

Of a song.

Watching You Sleep

published online by Spillwords https://spillwords.com/watching-you-sleep/

Sometimes I watch you sleep

your mind deserted of day


and its immutable rationales;

your eye lashes jolting


as if a strobed, dazzling electricity

were fused and wired inside

to some apex of mind buzzing

with strange sorrows and unseen

journeys, opening only

in sleep as memories


that jangle and fight at sleeps'

quiet bond of darkness and rest.

The hot feathered duvet

twists around your limbs


as if quarrelling with repose

and webbing you amongst


its tangle, and I wish you the world's

drowsy violets, sweet with shade

and full of night borne remedies

to calm the agitation

of the day and soothe with loose 

blooms the shuffling stack of routine;


the trails and concoctions 

of all those tomorrows.

The Turtle Doves

Yesterday I read that Turtle Doves

are dying


40 million less, I read yesterday

to emblem countryside

with their gingered feathers gentle sweep;

constancy expired.


Their pink eyes and purred voices muted,

preserved as a line in our worded song

their 12 carolled days with the partridge

and the pear tree wrapped and reeled in

Ended. Their coos a post card

picture of the past sent skywards

and famished with seedless springs

and scentless flowers hybridised


chemically laden, high yielding

yet providing sustenance no more

the wrong wheat ripping at their throats

and rot growing rank in their guts

The partnership loosed

                               to the cold caw

of mistrust

             and hedgerows' silent thickets.

I read. 


(as published in the 2019 Anthology this uncommon place, edited by Kevin Watt)

Skimming the lake and thrown in fun, a stone

bounced before us, a flint, grey hewn

from cliffs chipped by centuries and strewn

with veined whorls resembling a heart grown


and patterned with beating veins of all known

time. You saved it and then sent it travelling

to me through red letter boxes to my home.

This new journey fresh with your affirming


hands and its presence, burnt with eddying,

kinetic dance to wake my still thoughts' sleep

and sew them firmly to your own, mingling

touch and taste and breath then together leap

beyond ourselves and bind as soft garlands

of forget-me-nots do joining our hands.

New Days

The days have become still,

Intricate and tissue wrapped,

Swaddled laying peacefully

in my arms.

I cradle each one.

Each impenetrable, confusing

Entity and wonder if the shadows

and remnants of before


Sometimes I dare to loosen

Their tightness, their neatness

To check they are not bleating messages

From un-severed umbilical telephone

Like cords, fat attached and still ringing

With the words of their predecessors.

But they are individual.

Silent, pink and mute,

Attentive, dependant, waiting

For me to feed, to fill them,

Bloat them with

My presence.  

Horse Eye 

(first published in Poetry Now's Anthology 'Straight from the Horse's Mouth' 

Edited by Kerrie Pateman 1995)

Soft, wild horses

are stampeding;

see them race their 

monochrome, electric silhouettes

against the ruddy sky.

Their eyes enlarged

and filled with fearful blue

crescents, carousing and chasing,

chasing endless brown unbroken vision;

feeling their nostrils flaring

in the wind.

Hooves, like animated wings

beat and sting the soil,

restlessly pounding and filling 

the dry loam 

with racing echoes

until it reverberates too

with vibrant rhythms;

assertions of self.

If you could

give up, see

beyond your papers,

hear, these driven things

ad their galloping visions,

living, indulging

each inviolable moment;

and yes, to be,

excited at each snorted breath

of moist mutilated grass. 


Slashed as paint ripping 

wild the canvas of its confines

you woke the room,

your music a stringed surge 

reverberating the grey.

Around the round words

your lips move as

delicate as gardenias drift,

as electric as panthers wag

the minted night

owning us more than angels

and the very lyric breath 

of each plucked pink note

is a danced destiny.  

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