Frank Faust
Cheltenham - Melbourne, Australia
Tammara Slilat
James Bell

Richard Lawson
North Somerset
Philip Johnson
Northwich, Cheshire
Arthur Chappell
Denice Nardone
Lancaster, UK,
Louise Wagoner
Ormskirk, Lancashire
Richie Foy (1)
Mick Moss (1) - Waking
Lynn Owen
Liverpool -
Jim Bennett -
Wallasey, UK. 8am
Angela Keaton
Caldy, Wirral
John Howard
Douglas I.O.M
Ciaran Parkes
Gary Blenkinship (1)
Bremerton, Wash -
Maryann Hazen-Stearns
Lincoln Street House
, NY
Barbara Ostrander
Lexington, KY  USA
Barbara Phillips
Morning (1)

my eyes are open     it's half past six o'clock
why am I awake on a day off work?
well there are accounts to do and the mail
to collect from chelsea      back before nine
to mind the overnight stay children awhile
but they'll be gone before lunch
and the house will settle down

part 1

Astra smells the fresh morning air, ears forward,
she's enjoying herself, calling me to let go of the
reins while she soars for both of us, but
I can't. Too much responsibility, too
many things to consider, bind my spirit.

(1) 9am

the morning adds up
behind me,   tallies
its familiar load;
darjeeling and post
the harsh gulls calling
and, dear on the air,
the rough purr
of a new day
wait for the fun to begin
maybe an audience
in the public library
a minute to go
nobody but poets
have shown so far

the coffee has come
10.47 am

fingertips black with news
head so full of thought
the exit's jammed

Tony sees a New World Order
Robin wanted an Ethical Dimension
in Foreign Policy

think I'll have another cappucino


Dawn in Northwich, the sun still in bed, still dark with a hint of Winter’s
ice.  Don’t much feel like a poet first thing with few words and little
inspiration.  No point moping.  Get up, get on and make breakfast, have a
coffee.  For me the words can come at any time, spontaneous combustion, or
not at all.

(1)  - Work

You've been   writing poems when you should have been stacking shelves
Do you think our products look after themselves?
The fact that you want to do something for national poetry day
Is no excuse for you not doing the work  for which we pay
You for instead  of skivving off thinking in rhyme
This isn't the place. This isn't the time.
Save  your hobby  for when you retire
If you write them in our time we'll have to fire
You as poetry is not part of your daily  workload itinery
So do it again and  you'll face a disciplinary
I don't care how much your Muse or the booze inspire you
Stick to the work for which the company hires you


already five minutes late
the traffic is spoiling
a day that feels like
a birthday

I want to celebrate
have a party
read a poem
at the cross roads
I always seem to hit red

Phone rings wakes me
call from mum
she says the sun is shining
I try to tell her about
a new working group
later today
you would be better off at home
she says for the thousandth time
But I am at home I say

Outside it is raining

he's late,
the oblong in my door
is occasionally
stared at.

Inspiration ?

I awoke to the fuzz
of recent shattering events
as the radio alarm clock
shattered my dream
remembering it was
national poetry day
I grabbed a pen and......
fell back to sleep

I've never understood that word
I think it means to break the fast
the fast when you abstain from food
not the fast when you hurry
It could be the hurry fast
perhaps break fast
emergency stop
Fill your belly and run

I can hear the noise
as Tom and Keara
jostle for the bathroom
each wanting to be first
to pour the milk
the dogs
mooch round the garden
while I stand at the window
watching clouds write
poems in the sky


collect mail
taste morning air
stroll in garden
take time out
from life
to live


Turned on radio 4
to hear I don't know who -
black lady -
telling of when she read
a protest poem
to a room of whites
back in SA
Apartheid days.

Her tongue
stuck in her mouth
but she began
"Dear Lady"

Knocked me out.

Repeat tonight, 9.30
must not miss.

7.30 a.m.

There is a cardigan folded neatly
over a dinning chair
and three books
left on the floor
someone is cooking fish
and left their window open
the smell is swimming
in through my open window
mixing with the sound of gulls
and street noise

It is time I start to notice things
to write down notes
but there is nothing
just smells and sounds
thoughts of the day ahead
and wondering
who has left the cardigan
and if she will come back for it
10 A.M

Twisted in dreams,
last night's book
a bright escape line.

6:16 PST

as any other day
wake to heartburn
57 emails though no spam today
no plan
except to mow
if here in the Big Wet
the drought does not continue

as any other day
coffee to make
dishes to wash
clothes to fold
a poem to find
regardless of here in the Big Wet
the drought continues

as any other day
(1) 8 AM

     Paws gallop into room
launch Chicken-Leg onto my stomach
remind me how badly
I have to pee
     His cold wet nose burrows
under covers
curls into curve of my knee
     I lie in flannel
smell chocolate almond perking
begin plans for the day
Reach for birth control pills
     Mike left early today
dressing in the other room
so as not to wake me
     Elastic gets tighter
around my waist
     Chicken-Leg kicks me
smacks his lips and snores
     I shouldn't have left
the window open last night

7:45 a.m.

I wake to jammed e-mail
NPD and already
your creative juices
on the other side of the world.

I still have fog in my eyes
the dew still wet on the dog's feet
the day not sure what to wear.

Better put the coffee on.

I feel like the foster child
hurrying to catch up.
(1) - 5:00 AM

CBC news clock radios me awake
war on terrorism words snag on webs
my mind wills out of the darkest corner
where the house spider lurks
he has been commissioned to eradicate mosquitoes


Afternoon (2) - Lunchtime

paperwork goes on and on     no end
I'll stop for a bite and a moment with sandy
four children now and another overnighter
this isn't what I'd hoped for from the day
robin wants a ride to get here     he'll stay
for a week and that's fine I'll find the time
to collect him somehow and tracey says
yes     she'll come to dinner please


mick says, "Do you want your man?"
i hear him call across space
to where you pick up.
My man?


We have read journeys into everything
talked about the values of rhyme
in poetry now
and met
others who were polite
and others who were delighted
and others, who, despite the coffee
did not appear
and now we must leave

go to lunch
munch sandwiches
drink wine.


my god, is that the time?

half the day gone
nothing to show for it
a letter to Tony Blair
on war, prevention of.

what a waste

(2) Noon

Noon passed and still no sun, still waiting for inspiration, started to
rain. Nothing on the news but war, or the talk of it.  Get up and go to the
bookies.  Chance the Happy Husar at 100 / 1 Hereford..  If I can’t write a
poem I can maybe make a start on my fortune?

NOON  - Work

 Thursday is National Poetry Day
 The weather forecast was temperate
 Though I still expect it to rain which may
 Spoil some outdoor events planned for this date
 So I hope the clouds break and the Sun shines.
 We'll write happier poems without dimmed
 Cold, wet spirits, for the Muse  has declined
 To dress nicely and leaves her hair untrimm'd
 Causing optimism, like her smile to fade
 But of course it's Autumn, and the Gods ow'st
 Us no favours for choosing Winter's shade
 Month over Spring when hearts, like flowers grow'st
 Giving me more inspiration to see
 More clearly why it is that I love thee

group of young people
learning a game
in a big wide world

a visit to a cafe
learn to order a coffee
nothing too difficult

but first we must learn
to use the crossing
wait for the red light
to stop the cars

young boy
dances with excitement
he thinks we're going to a party
1 pm

this afternoon I'm cold
the sun shines
but I am stuck in shadow
waiting for the ambulance
there is no poetry
in my pencil
only lead
Midday Liverpool

Songbird arrived,
albeit late,
after the squeak of the gate.
A different Cassidy,
Eva, caressed my soul.

(2) - at work

Learning about screenplays

The man said
it's important to remember:
Story - Plot - Genre - Location
Characters - Developing Theme Issues
Tension Building - Situation Realisation
Point of view - Restricted and Omniscient
Positive / Negative cause and effect

four hours later
and this character
has lost the plot
is getting tense
wishes he were in a different location
is developing a nervous tic
and realising in this situation
his restricted point of view
is having a negative effect
(2) Liverpool, Lunch Time

Allergy induced words
arrive from knowhere
12.05 pm 4th October 2001

I smile remembering
the children's faces
from an hour ago
four poems
a few questions
over in a flash
but the echo of their laughter
lasts much longer

now Maggie and Monty
fuss round my feet
trying to attract attention
while I think of afternoon
another school
TV and the library

in the garden
flowers bright after the rain
bags of pebbles
wait to look like
something Japanese

From Caldy Hill, overlooking the River Dee,

'Cautionary Tales
for Children'
try to remember
motherhood and
apple pie
but fail


One down
and one to go.
Hours of pointless chat
trying to reduce their tax.

12.30 M&S Douglas IOM

the sandwiches are slow
I used to make my own
but buying them prepacked
is more of a surprise
ques at the till
listening in
no one is talking about poetry

outside the salt air
speaks of the sea

on the news,

another day to fret about where we go from here

found in the Weekly,
the best title

We Wish to inform You
That Tomorrow We Will
Be Killed with Our Families

Philip Gourevitch's book about Rwanda

on the laptop,
Yeats connected
poet friends

and finally spam


>From Tokyo,
another pamphlet from Nihon
Kajin Club.
I still can not read it
anymore than last July.

12 PM

     I wipe sweat from my face
shut off lawnmower
The mailman waves a letter at me
He says if this is going to England
it needs more postage
     I take it into the cool house
Toss it on my desk
I don't think Arthur will mind
another day gone by
     It's time for a break anyway
I sit down to 112
pieces of electronic correspondence
     Heather comes home for a quick lunch
before she returns to her class
     I'll get back to work
on my grandmothers memoirs
or critique some poems
all the while my eye
strays toward the back yard
ears alert for the sound
of Mike's car in the driveway
     London broil and cauliflower
for dinner tonight
     Is that him?
No, not yet.


the day has chosen to wear her colored skirt
brown, russet, orange and flaming red
she decorates her falling hair with leaves
stands proud as golden rays reflect
her beauty across the winding road.

the chilled air has already nipped at my nose
sending my sandled feet
back inside for real shoes.

maybe when the sun stands tall
in the sky
he'll take the day in his arms
enfold us all in the heat of that embrace
maybe then I'll be able to crack open
the car windows
smell the day's new fall perfume
in the air.

(2) - 1:00 PM
lunch chatter bounces into tiled ceilings
I strain to link to my mailbox
for silent poems that spill loudly
Celia frets her husband who loves slam dunks
sleeps with basketball broadcasts

Evening (3) - 5:00pm

Moorabbin - Melbourne, Australia -

hey franky
can you get some onions and coriander
while you're on your way home for dinner?
everything's done you don't have to worry
the kids'll be fine and robin's not a problem
don't you love our house brim full of people?
lamb curry and wine with the video on
in the back room for the short ones
it'll be just fine you know


In the afternoon, at the town's festival of Sukkot,
a violin, clarinet and harmonica play cheerful
Hasidic tunes, people have just started coming in,
a wide eyed child demands to know whether it's the
ocean that I painted or the Kinneret, my daughter
calls to give me the news of the day: In Afula 3 people shot dead
13 injured, an airplane, O God, not again, 77 people exploded
in midair, drowned too, perhaps also burned. The child
touches my hand, I haven't given him an answer yet. I wonder,
can I?


5.00 pm


the list so far:

blocked ear
bad chest
runny ear
suffer ticket
cat died

six more to go,
then off to a refresher course
on bringing people back to life


Scientists discover a new white tailed species of bee and suspected
terrorist dies wearing 4 pairs of underpants in French chemical factory
attack.  My horse wins at 100 / 1.  Slow day’s turning bizzarre.  Night
draws in and  “The Mummy” is walking again.  Worse, she’s talked to the
press.  Swap her for Bin Laden, I say (and though they don't say it I'm sure
the Tories wish it)!

5 pm


 I'd like to have a nightmare that  could make  me scream
 But I barely ever seem to remember  any dream
 Which is bad  for  a poet hungry for inspiration
 For dreams   reflect having a  healthy imagination
 But  my dreams drift away. I  don't  recollect them
 The singer Michael Stipe provides my only R E M
 Remember the king  who dreamt he  was a butterfly
 And realised that no matter how hard he might try
 He couldn't prove he wasn't a butterfly  dreaming  that he was a king.
 I'm too  wide awake for either dream. I  don't think I'm anything.
 My precious Muse refuses to work the night shift
 Leaving me marooned, becalmed, alone  and adrift
Between  insomnia and exhaugsted  restless sleep
 Taking me from being wide awake to some place deep, deep, deep
 In the Sandman's dark blanket embrace
 Until the alarm clock brings me  face to face
 The day without poems already evolving in my head
 My dreamless nights are more like being temporarily dead
 So I feel like a child  who never hears  bedtime fairy tales.
 Even eating cheese on toast  at midnight invariably fails
 To provoke Morpheus into showing me  his video collection
 Though of course I may dream but   keep no recollection
 Of  the splendours and delights   I could so easily write
 About if dreams were not like Santa Claus on Christmas Night
 Only there when I am not looking out to see them arrive.
 I'm a poisonous swamp in which sweet dreams cannot survive.
 Coleridge got Kubla Khan  and Xanadu  whilst lying in bed
 He slept while the poem wrote itself  out inside his head
 Though he lost half of it when some fool disturbed him
 I'd  settle for that ! To dream up half of a poem
 But I have to  contrive poems without sleep's inspiration
 And this crap poem is one hundred percent perspiration.


second group done
another coffee ordered
another game played
another party

then home again
squeezing through
and red lights
(3) 6pm

Billy brought me home
left me at the outer door
it's quiet inside
not like an evening
darker than usual
more shadows
I switch on lights
turn up the stereo
to make it feel like
a place I want to be
there is no poetry here

I imagined fields of gold
in harmonic motion,
undulating as she sang.
I expected a lazy day,
until kids held sway.
The music changed.
Grandad let's play football.

(in the style - sort of - of Roger McGough)

walking home in the rain
I noticed how much chewy
there is on the pavements
a million multi-drab-coloured
pebbles worn flat
imagine what you could make
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
you could make a statue
of Carl Jung
or Wilfred Owen
even Gerry Marsden
but not the Beatles, again
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
you could make a pair of standby Liverbirds
in case the originals fell down
and as the legend has it
Liverpool was falling too
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
and rolled it out dead thin
you could make a
new translucent roof
for the Anfield pitch
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
you could make
lightweight waterproof shelters
for the homeless
and feeding dishes for their dogs
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
you could make a thousand
different useful household items
like salad bowls
cat litter trays
and stuff to stick
daft things on the fridge
if you picked up all the chewy

if you picked up all the chewy
I wouldn't tread in into my carpet when I came home

Supper Time

The refrigerator
fears a famine
the wine rack
fears a drought
why go shopping?
when I can eat out

5.45 p.m.

dinner cooking
we sit in the kitchen
talk about our day so far
as she speaks
I can't help watching
her mouth move
and I want so much to kiss her
she talks about her classroom
and her course
the children she is teaching
she talks about her day
and all the time
I want to kiss her
Still on the hill defending England  
The walls
came tumbling
new words

Should not be sitting here.
J in the kitchen
Still not fit
after her op,
but will not
let me help.


This afternoon the library was quiet
I sat and read some poetry
Larkin would have known
the moods of these shelves
the patina of dust
that stains the wood
watched paper decay
from finger acid
He may also have sat
wondering if poetry mattered

Packing up time
meet friends later
but regret
not taking the morning flight
to Liverpool


I pass the swan colony
and walk along the pier,
clutching an inedible bag of chips,
a memento mori, growing cold.

The wind is driving waves backwards.
I climb a low wall, almost swept away,
and pick up small, invisible stones.

The swans are the only source of light.
I look for a bin, or a boat
with the name of someone I know on it.


I walked the woods,
in a draft.  I found words
which may please my friends
and mystify most others.

Your words arrive late
though perhaps not for night owls.
San Diego,


still in the day?

here at the edge of the world
I listen to some in restless sleep
as here at the edge of the day
I search for a way to start
A Walk in the Woods

one foot in front of another?

(3) - 5 PM

     Rachel finds us at nap
takes the dog from between us
Mike gets brown paint
to finish the house trim
     Lawn mowed
fertilized and zinnia heads plucked
Small gardens weeded
seeded and fed
Barbeque dismantled
scoured and reassembled
     I've overdone it again
continue to snooze
with the next generation
of Star Trek drones
battling in the background
     Screw the london broil
it's Chinese take-out
or nothing

(3) - 5.00pm

unreal how a day can dissolve
lose it's shape in a split second.
Mom and I just in
from her birthday lunch
curry and rice pudding
retelling stories of when
we lived in Bangladesh
and I was a little girl.

the phone rings
my best friend,
who lives in Brussels
fell down a flight of stairs
this morning,
broke her neck
is having trouble breathing now

suddenly, so am I.

She feels a million miles away.

(3) - 5:00 PM
Mr. Lincoln rose is languid in my garden
rubs against coin brilliant afternoon heat
beneath my fingers velvet petals urge conversations
day drops into flowerbed dust
ISP sifts poems into my embrace

Night (4) - Cheltenham - Melbourne, Australia - 11:30pm

the kids must have really been tired
they went out like a light     four voices stilled
in a moment and tracey has a man in the wings
it's about time something like that happened
what a wonderful night we had     so good
to have children and friends in our lives
it's almost time to dim the lights goodnight


the day has carried everything away
night has bled its ink into the sea
and illness       with familiar hands
reclaimed me

I'm reading all this amazing poetry
I mean I read this amazing stuff

and feel like charlie brown
that time when they were watching clouds

and linus saw the martyrdom of st stephen
and charlie could see a duck.
I see a spider
beautiful spider
blue black head
never seen you before
dont know your name
you walk slow.
i like that in a spider
maybe you're cold
'allo? etes vous francais?

Night and we’re settling down to love at last
- a rare but welcome chance.  Our bodies'll
form the final verse and rhythm.  Four lines,
just.  I'm learning.

10. 30 pm 
Before I take a nap
I'm starting to go word blind
So does anyone mind
If I pack it in (readin and writin'
Poetry Bed's calling to me
Tomorrow we'll look and see
What we did tonight
What we each decided to write
So far I think we did alright
Goodnight goodnight goodnigh......


Line One -  just found something to write on
Line Two -  Just found a pen to write with too
Line Three - Crappy rhymes  hardly my idea of poetry
Line Four -  Crumple up the paper and throw  it on the floor.


Close of Day

Winding my way up the stairs
turning out lights as I go
fumbling in the dark
for a soft arm
a warm back

I whisper
of the day's happenings
of words that have drifted in
through everyone's window

I whisper
but you are sleeping

(4) 10pm 

National Poetry Day
was waiting for me
took me by surprise
a hundred emails
a thousand thoughts
a million memories
from across the world
made this day special
the room looks brighter now

Later I looked in on him
this child who changed the tune.
Not a peep, he was fast asleep
in the glow of a waning moon.

(4) - last thoughts at bedtime

Best Kept Secret

It's National Poetry Day
not that you'd know it
it's not in the newspaper
or on the telly
I haven't seen one poet
standing on a street corner
pouring out their heart
I've seen no adverts on buses
no posters on hoardings
no leaflets through the letterbox
no mention on the radio
they decided
it's best kept secret?

Two hours too late
as always.
Thoughts unfold
from a creased day
The memory of Jim Bennett
singing victims, that will stay

(4) - 11.45pm

I arrive home
greeted by the dogs
the day is nearly over
tell Hilary about the great night
of poetry at the Pilgrim
she goes to bed

I sit with toast
and wine
and plan tomorrow

(4) - 9pm

After poetry reading in which local children took part.

children read
of fears
lost loves

so soon

(4) - 9pm

A plane gone down,
and relatives in Russia,
and in Israel, weep.

And all that one can think,
Thank God it was not
terrorists, this time.

(4) - 11pm Douglas IOM

The cardigan
was Christines
she called tonight
and stayed

I told her it was poetry day
she took a pencil and
began to write

will you write a poem for me she asked
or is that just for your ex's
oh no I said
this one's for you

I'm pleased I didn't
go to Liverpool

(4) - Night

When my hands stop moving
the neat words disappear,
instead, there's small white stars, or molecules,
moving through darkness.

still half asleep
the walk in the woods productive

no poison oak
no wasp nests
a rock in my foot
and blisters

records fell
like autumn leafs
or clichés in a CBE

the M's record
Ichero again
and games to go

without that first coffee
the mail read first

a good day
to make banana vanilla wafer pudding

(4) 8 PM

     Damp from shower I powder
under breasts
arms and behind legs
I force myself not to scratch
poison sumac hands
Smear Calamine Lotion on
with cotton balls
Crawl into pajamas with a sigh
     I hear Mike's computer
holler in Age of Empires battle
Heather watches something
on the TV in the living room
Rachel leaves for Bruce's house
with seeds for Lourdes' garden
     I pick up the book
Give Me My Father's Body
settle down for a journey
into someone else's life
before sleep takes me
into my own

4) Evening

Lexington Christian Academy's varsity football game

what warmth the day was able to clasp
has slipped off my skin,
left me scrambling for a jacket.
perfect football weather.
the stands fill with students,
parents clasping stadium blankets
and thermoses of coffee.
we've only won once,
still we come to see
you wear your heart
on the outside of your shoulder pads.

your face is determined, lips set.
team's first year in the "A" division,
no bench, you play offense, then defense,
bracing your 173 pounds
against 320 again and again.
hard for this mom to watch
this test of you.

I realize the transformation I am witnessing
and weep in awe the birth of a man.
(4) - 11:30 PM

sunrise clouds in watercolour skies
nudge memories of morning and Fra Angelico
splattered  by hard rock noise spewed by late model
black car screech tearing into intersections
in the shower day's poems wash over me

PS Cheltenham - Melbourne, Australia

we do not have a national poetry day here
at least not one that I can easily discover
it seems a sad thing     only a very small sadness
not ranking with the great events of today's world
but there are few in this country that will share
a wonderful day in the wonderful lives
of a handful of poets writing their humanity
in places all over the world
and that is a small sadness     for me at least


It's all starting to fade now,
become a vast echo of words
still chiming in thousands
of ever declining whispers
on the air.

It is said some hear different
voices in their head
though these echoing here
begin with a phrase
for a beginning
as an encouragement
for the past to take on
make something more
from the initial music
to realise the full score
of words.

As the great outpouring
of yesterday fades
and the infilade of toad work
invades again to displace
the all day breakfast of muse
with milk and honey, ruses,
accidents and funnies
it all still echoes in thousands
and thousands of sound waves to infinity.


Square eyes
A day in the life of poetry
monitering mail
the quality of submissions


trying for connection
we made our tiny marks
in black space
the vast Earth turned

              Time and date withheld to evade Word Police.

The Walls Came Tumbling Down

ac cep
tac ci
dent all
yacco m mod at
I on ach
i e veacr
o ssad dress
ad equ ate ad
vert I semen
taf fect aggr
ess I o nag
able alot
ofa mon gapp
all in gapp
appe al
in gap
pear appe
arance arc
tica rg u ing
u ment
          Postscript: The Next Day

     Hesitant eyelids creep open
What day is it
Oh yeah
     I hear the shower
the bed is half empty
I have to throw in a load of laundry
   take a trip to the store
      bank post office library
         pick up wool for Granny

     Suddenly like a six year old
the day after Christmas
I throw off covers
scurry to the computer
even before the bathroom
coffee or vities
All other plans for the day
immediately scrapped

     I've dozens of electronic word-photos
from friends around the world
     In permanent grin it occurs to me
I'm actually afraid to delete
for fear of loosing
even one wonderful scrap
of this incredibly fulfilling
event of a lifetime  

NPD  Postscript

the day came
brought with it the innocence
of all new beginnings
started with a yawn
a pot of coffee
checking e-mail.

the day went
and with it the innocence
that could not hang on
til night could fall
and breath its prayers
checking e-mail
for the hundredth time
I let out a sigh
because you are still there
absorbing  the pain
today brought.

(c) 10-5-01
October 4,2001  Postscript

northwesterly wind wrestles leaves off branches
birdfeeder sends out multidirectional torrents
dove pecks through the bountiful spread
pods dutifully restrain imminent riots
poems in my head bloom montages


Other Single Poems

Grasshopper Arthur Chappell

Manchester, U.K.

Carol Sircoulomb Gary Blenkinship Bremerton, Wash Gary Blenkinship, Bremerton, Wash Gary Blenkinship, Bremerton, Wash Gary Blenkinship, Bremerton, Wash Gary Blenkinship, Bremerton, Wash Neil Defain
World Poetry Day

The earth yells


Arthur Chappell is fourteen letters long!
Rather cool. being the number needed
To compose sonnets, though they might look wrong
Having been contrived might have impeded,
Undermined and undone subtle word play
Reduced rhyme and rhythm to doggerel
Cant and bluster, because I've nowt to say
Having a good name isn't prefferal
Alas, to being William Shakespeare
(Poor bastard has eleven characters
Pah! That's nowhere even remotely near
Enough for gimmicks like this but factors
Like gorgeous language, and sheer genius
Leave me wishing I was Anonymous.
ctober 5, 7:30 am

so busy
back to work
after a long time
2000 e-mail
I read a few
thinking what I missed

an 81st birthday party
a daughters engagement
and a funeral
taking all of my extra time
11.09 pst

a full belly
potato soup from a can

radio talk shoes
curdle soup from a can?

time to mount
and fight the spiders

this their season
in control


a bit of lawn mowed
yards to go
i hate spiders
hate'm hate'm

arthur now part of yeats
homestead cooperation

a bit write, silly thing
#13 in the garbage collection
added below if you wish

likely the collection will be read
at a local venue
when we get to 33
the size of an average can more or less

still no
ben and jerry dumpster dive
you can suggest flavors
and be part of history
or not
2.47 pst

lawns clipped
though a labor for mower
and mowee

pears picked
though green as clippings
before they fall

tuxedo pouts
no poem about her
since summer

arthur naps
or at least wishes so
but chores beckon

two birds killed
with one over used cliché
the same poem

used to cover
workshop assignments
and a dialogue

the wally-tree golden
oak and peach scarlet
crows stay black


homestead acts up
yeats' stomach upset
from too many boiled mackerels

broken printers
impossible to fix

impossible to define

vote today
for Richie
ahead if this a game

all the same today
still half asleep
the walk in the woods productive

no poison oak
no wasp nests
a rock in my foot
and blisters

records fell
like autumn leafs
or clichés in a CBE

the M's record
Ichero again
and games to go

without that first coffee
the mail read first

a good day
to make banana vanilla wafer pudding
Nowt to say

Just too bloody busy
is all I can say
when the cameraman's
batteries run dry

A day in the life
of a boring old sod
who's too hectic
to talk to his wife

Just too bloody busy
though it's poetry's day
I've nowt to say just
too bloody busy for words