Memorial Cliché


 A mean and petty old boss I once had,

made threats to all when he was mad.

“My pen’s mightier than the sword!” he’d say

“Bad recommendations will affect your pay.”

He was always looking to pick a fight.

So with my pen I poked him – to find he’s right.




Testimonia Miscellanea


I know not what of poetry.

If it sounds Latin it’s Greek to me.

Yet pages turned new words learned,

emotionally concerned more is yearned.


Emboldened by fantasy I ward off attacks.

Slivers of truth yet slip through the cracks.

In a masquerade of hither and yon,

a poet’s mask is what I write on.


Sadness lurks beyond a child’s grin.

The truth bleeds hidden within.

All parabolic permutations I can’t define,

calculating the depth of every line.


So I’ll jump up and down, rattle around,

feet in the air and ears to the ground.

I’ll hear the sounds I note before bed,

where arranged tomorrow, unless I’m dead.







I don’t like writing sad poetry.

It’s not a place I choose to see.

In my world of goodness, all are free,

where faces of children are full of glee.

Hope and happiness is how it should be.


Yet pencils ever dull in reality,

so I hone my points, turn’s the key.

Returning I do to the safety of fantasy.

I think that’s best, don’t you agree?

Or is everything escape in poetry?





On a canvas of life we paint every day.

Some burst with color, some dull and gray.

Each stroke has consequence, broad or precise,

all mediums large though most will suffice.


Hue’s all made one from another.

Texture’s built on a base we smother.

Shadows lurk in black and white.

Brilliant moons portray the night.


Love is felt on glowing skin

Hate pours from the blood within.

Seas of green churn, gallant ships tossed.

Crews-o-many flounder, all forever lost.


Happiness’s awash in the bright blue sky.

Sadness gives it time to dry.

Realism reflects an instant in mind.

Abstract’s more real when meaning you find.


Yet in two dimensions we do all conform.

Our edges and corners define the norm.

Then we sign, frame and place on a wall.

There hung with the others, all very small.



Exercise When


There was a duck upon the fen,

eyed by a fox in the glen.

Dusk came, the time was then,

but the duck’s alerted by a wren.


The hungry fox returned to the den,

the chanced missed for what he does yen.

Morning comes the fox climbs the ben,

from its peak he sees a pen.


In this pen the tasty hen,

not just one but eight or ten.

The time was now, if not then when.

The fox is wise, it’s in their ken.


Though overlooked, the ken of men,

the fox still hungry but gained some Zen.