Tuesday, December 28, 2010



The Potter’s hands
holds a body of clay
as young lovers hold each other’s hearts -

pumping the potter’s wheel,
round and round
like some clock gone mad.
A kiln, smokes in the corner of this room
belching black clouds of hatred
becoming hot, envious to devour
whatever enters its mouth -
stuck wide, flames for teeth ready to bite.
In time all shapes change,
becoming one, then the next
leaving only a fading shadow
from the kiln’s flame, ghosts
jumping in a second of light - yet
revealing nothing above a floor of dirt.
It is in the end
art becomes refuse,
old and broken
empty of the usefulness it once had
buried in a field of obscurity
forgotten as a  warm breeze wisps away its final dusty footprints.

Saturday, December 25, 2010



Love is just a word

made up by some lonely poet –

in search of more words

to describe his solitude.

Proof litters the floor

old rhymes, tattered round its edges –

fading ink and dried wine glass stains

to circle what thought important in blood.

And he writes from the heart

though such things can not be trusted –

as it gives way to his own empty words

confusing this love with lust.

Love comes from a man’s dream

of waning desires and growing anger –

escaping reality, day tripping forever

within every line he writes.

Love is just a word

just a word indeed.



The piano sits in the corner

silent, stained with music from years past –

each key frozen in timelessness

melancholy, veiled from the purpose it served.

And a shadow hangs tight to the wires

muffling their melody,

as I strain to hear the notes, faintly echoing

only to frustrate myself when forgetting the lyrics.

Years pass, and I still see you

sitting at the piano, bringing life to the room

filling the air with your scent – an audience of one

me, until you fade again from the room.