Music man in the early morn …

Sing out, sing out…


Pose me a riddle, quote me a rhyme
toot me a fiddle, sing out the line

Play us a melody, sweet and sublime
give us the treble, things of that kind

Play us a tango, mango and lime
lay on bassoon, clarinet, ones that go wang

Come oh music man, pluck us your line
waltz, foxtrot, twist, cha-cha or salsa lime

The pipe sound of our music, the conch sounds of our heart
pound upon the soul’s own; sweet drumbeats of time



There is great power …

… in these fingertips.

Punching out the written word.

Placing each word carefully we lay forth our plan
to diet, make; persuade others that
this is my scam

Make each sentence worthy, of each wonder of each word
Tales, schemes and simply saying
Nothing is absurd

Happy birthday, anniversary, come what may
each and every word,
take the very breath away.

Words that are happy, joyous, sad
words spring forth, exhaled,
smaller to larger page.

Words that whisper, linger, lustre.
words evoke the smallest biggest
nuance, simile, or sarcasms

Words written by hand, or on paper.
Words given and taken words sprung forth,
seep within wells of emotion

All from our finger ends spread
we control those emotions,
show scene and set place

A power like no other. The will,
to convey, set time, enthuse.
wisdoms, scares or beliefs

Words heady, portentous, downright silly.
we have for our protector
powers of communication.

Around midnight …





In the night
the people are sleeping

In the night
the insects stir

Cleaning the landings
cleaning the stairs

In the night
people deep breathing

In the night
wonders performed

Healing wounds, scars,
deep seated miseries

In the night
comes the time before dawn

In the night
we become ancient

Dreams of our destiny
become our realities, flung, strewn on seashore

Rain daze …

… the ground is already soaked from the overnight rain.

The day that was yesterday, pushed away from the incoming clouds.
The trees looking forlorn, in their autumnal colours, shake in the stiff breeze. Sea mists lie heavy, on the coast.

The grey that is morning, this morning, creeps in; through the door frame. Faint yellow golds, tinge the pallor. Scurrying to work jobs, heads bent down against the drizzles. The people come and go.

Cars, wait patiently for attention, on the forecourt. Smug in their paint and glass, Waiting to burst into mechanical life. The birds nowhere to be seen. Left? Only the winter flocks, of carrion persuasion, behind.

The rains bring renewed life, subsiding in the soils below. Ready to burst anew. When, spring warming, sun rays summon them forth. Trickles and trills. beneath dense close foliage. Copped to receive the ancient elixir.

Beneath ant colonies die off, spiders scurry to lay in against the colder weather to come. Eggs sacs full. Slow moving, for winter bites at the legs. The layer beneath, as busy as the one above.

When the rains come and autumn beckons to beyond. The globe tilts. To expose it’s other hemisphere, toward our star. The geese gather in for the season. All is well in our world …





Fun in the sun …

The mindless shouts and yells of adolescent boys
rang out in late afternoon sunshine,
around the motel swimming pool.

Bathed in late afternoon sunshine they played their teenage games,
shouting in unison.
Loud voices now dropped, from post pubescence.

Shrieking their voices with childlike glee, with only those games that groups of young boys can conjure.
Splashing, grunting, with pleasures known to them alone.

Their pale white bodies, spider silhouettes, against the pseudo brick façade of the motel, bedecked with bright blue sunbrellas.
Reminiscent of seaside grandeur.

The boys larked. Like many before them, generations of similar encounters. Oblivious to their parodies. A couple of girls watched from the safety of the adjoining space.

The sun swiftly dropped in the late afternoon, cutting short their revelry.
Towels draped in postures of Arabs in the desert, they fled the scene.
The gulls swept by overhead, looking for scraps not found.

Mathematical nonsense …

Veselin Malinov

Algorithms with complex rhythms
are terms that are widely spread
in our world of internet

Complex spasms of has, or hasn’ts
in between the layers of
algebraic bread

Divisions of derivation
building blocks of DNA
bring results of how we write.

Like Josephus, Jeremiah or
Jumping Jehoshaphat,
Ephraim or Jeraboam

Prophets of mathematical prowess
come and light our quay,
the harbours of the soul


Apparently the algorithm decides Edgar Allan Poe?

Man moving sideways through turnstile, going to Bankok?