Author:

The poor man is nailed to the door,
his heaving ribs make a mockery
of the charge laid upon is all;
the earth produces an abundance,
sufficient for the poor man and I.

Intruder stalks the shadows
of distraction and deception,
lays waste our humble lives
and buries us in the tomb
of one thousand lies;
my door was locked,
the intruder carries no blame,
they didn’t even knock.

His heart is a coloured light
The switch is always on
His song a rainbow
Hovering in dark skies
He writes in chalk
A prophet of the sidewalk
He is a friend of mine
His heart is a coloured light.

The wall, the wall,
that endless wall of stone,
it casts shadows on our hearts
but is broken by the spaces
that let our eyes glimpse
the promise
of the other side.

In the fading light
of evening
a small yacht bobs
on its mooring in the harbour;
the cabin light is yellow,
watching from the shore
we wonder at the dreams
that will be dreamed aboard tonight.

His footsteps echo
on the wooden floor
of the town hall;
the elder statesman poet
delivers the poem,
signed in his own hand,
to the young man
on his 21st birthday.

The old man.
my mother’s brother,
saw out 102 years;
tonight his chair sits vacant
in the corner,
a glass of kahlua and milk
untouched on the side table.

I’m driving down to see you –
you, waiting for the end of
all things as you know them;
I’m coming down with no words to speak
and no lies to tell,
just a promise of blood to keep.

I;m driving down to see you;
you, waiting for the end
of all things as you know them;
I’m coming with no words to speak,
no lies to tell,
just a promise of blood to keep.

Crouched
in the shelter
as the bus passed by,
he missed his ride;
should have stepped out,
been more visible,
waved it down
but he missed his ride.