A Cold Companion


Forlorn, solitary, empty.

Staring me down, as I sat there,

All my truths to bare.


Up early, today was the day,

A promise to myself made.

A belief aglow, if only I let it flow.

Doubt at my door, stands steadfast,

Unflinching, unasked.

My aching heart, tears cease not,

The pen calls out, as it aught.

Long awaited this morning slot.

Screen, cursor a-blinking,

an enticing corral,

My ruptured heart, craves its Zen.

Carpe Diem, my mind cries,

Seize the day, says the twitching hand.

Dams shatter, throbbing fingers twinge,

A deluge unhinge.

Processor processed, machine absorbs-

precious outpourings on blank white pages,

heartbeats morph, anguish depletes,

Raw clamors cease, mind now at ease.



That vast house there,

Why can it not be mine?

Said the besotted dame,

Whose villa stood tall, lawns, and halls,

Admired, esteemed, a complex being,

Housing an eternal need.


Ah that flowerbed!IMG_20180116_073435

Those Dahlias, those daisies,

Those pansies, and

Those pink Lilies,

Why can’t I be thus?

Asked the Desert Rose.



Me, said the Mongrel,

I’m king of this street,

An alley Cat spied he,

Shudder he did then,

With a quiet woof, bowed on all fours,

Envy sneaked down his tail,

Why can’t I be this Cat, he wailed.





I want, I want, I want,

Swaying, sashaying,

That figure, that face, that Line.

She starved, she binged,

Between these two states,

She did swing, lithe Modelina,

Envy ate her every nerve,

Lined her every swerve.


Here she lies,

Envy of every aspirant,

Joy meager, enemies eager,

To slay, to slaughter,

The lamb she was.

Here she lies,

Beyond Envy’s strife,

An epitaph is all

One earns in the after-life.









Throbbing, immense,

That voice thunders,

I quiver, I hide,

From the bane, recoil.

Bent double,

‘Tis Ego that winces, and cringes.

Has me in its hold.

They say, I am no good,

Loud, hammering, relentless,

Yet I rise, march on,

Head held high.

Ego sustains,

The spine, Ego upholds.


The child,

Abandons home, runs away,

Want more, says he,

It hurts, I bleed,

Askance – why me?

‘Tis the ego that moans,

‘Tis the wounded mother’s ego,

A weary, sublime echo.


The child revisits,

Foibles excused,

Humbled, now timorous.

Relieved love embraces.

Shaken, not forsaken,

Ego without its ism.



Friends stay, they go,

Places arrive, disappear,

There’s sea, there’s sand,

Rivers, their beds,

Iridescent valleys, mountains,

I ride them all, Ego rides along,

Stand by, on a night halt.

Rears its head, every once,

Held aloft, I dance.


Quiet when unneeded,

Restrained when unheeded,

When and where,

I learn, it watches,

I watch, it learns.

This Ego, is it me?

Or often, am I, Ego?

The Quarry – a SafeHouse


Return my love, he pleads.

Tis dark and damp, a Safe House.IMG_20171227_154445

O that summon again-

Perfumed mask, unholy armpits,

Bohemian stubble, vagrant deviant,

Heavens explode,

Drizzling light into this chasm.

Must I stumble, forage,

Somehow graze?

This is my safe house,

This sombre quarry.

A stone heart embittered,

Fears love, its myriad forms.

A Safe house, pity disarmed.

Where it rests sans hope,

No notion of a future,

No past, no forecast.

Let me be, I barely am.

Leeching blood, quarried.

Leaven me when a fossil,

A Specimen, a study docile,

A prize unearthed.



I Want to Be That Person

quiet flows the Hudson



I want to be that Person who

Is affected not,

By gale nor storm, thrills nor curse;

Aggrieved not by mislaid treasures,

Or an empty bag, devoid of coins.

I want to be that Soul,

Who sees wealth as but a means,

To see Peru or

The Great Barrier Reef,

To travel distant lands unseen.

Oh I so want to claim that Being,

Every merchant’s dream:

Gullible, wide-eyed, foolish,

Reasons not, easy to sway,

Quick to purchase, and cherish,

Most wares on display.


Knows she is not unique, 

Yet bearer of a force,

 Isolated from the feeble, 

That none can annul. 


That Presence who,

Is both ready, and startled,

When hurt, weeps-vulnerable, exposed,

Yet is neither defenseless nor weak.

And is so much more.

That whole person within,

Is who I seek. 

Missing Mother



She sang out to me, that youthful mother,

Sweet melodies, ‘twas alchemy.

Bought me lollies, many dollies,

For laughter-filled playtimes.

She drove me here, she drove me there.

The parks were full of mothers like her.

The seesaws, those jungle gyms,

Abounded with little hymns such as me.


Those days, they were,

More presence than absence,

And moments, days, and years,

Dripping in youthful bounty,

Like two gladiators we rode them,

Striking friendship with

A million joys, a few fake tears.


Now rests but a muse,

A shadow reminder of missing mother,

An aging symphony, missing harmonies.

Her world is dark, its beauty all but gone,

More absence than presence,

And moments, days, and years,

Must be lived, with unknown fears,

Laboured breath, strange voices,

Streaming out of a robot box,

More familiar now than those that were,

Once deeply beloved.


The missing mother’s adrift,

In by-lanes of her own making,

I contend with the defaulter,

Straining, trembling,

I cremate the absentee.






Lost Childhood

IMG_5496I loved, and I birthed,

A child, a childhood.

The child, he is, forever I thought.

I dreamed, I sang, I breathed,

This child, he grew, and sang along.

He played, he cried, he hurt, he longed.

Then, from child to adolescent,

He stood, swaying hither, thither

A threshold of sorts, a line to be crossed.

The mother- a woman who saw,

A childhood aside cast,

Emerged a lad, whose strength lay,

Not in me, not the universe,

But a tempest that held his sway,

For himself he created a turbulent ocean,

Tossed here, tossed there,

Became the name of the game,

Preferred the rush, the high tides,

To a tranquil home, and gentle rides.

A lost childhood, an end I daresay,

To times that were sweet,

Innocent, blameless fair play.

Matters not, cause all childhood must stay,

Where they belong – so long.

Replaced with matters that shatter, yet

A need arises for order to sustain,

A future of memory that doesn’t stain,

This lost childhood.