I’m half-poet, half-moon.The mythology of women.I’m half-poet, half-sun.The mythology of men. I wanted to be a poetsince I first read Shakespeare. I wrote poems for dead poetsknees deep in other’s wordsit’s not so much a dead poet’s societybut more of a cult followingfor the living. I found another muse—myself. Followed…

she seeks refuge in pastoral,promises of a safer passagewhere planes still fly over–but this time, the target doesn’tinclude her. still there’s nosolace, not for a woman witha sweetheart left behind in secret. she pines in whipcord breeches,hands blistered from a harvestpulled by the root for winter, thesewomen strong, not as…

One day they rose             up                  out of the primordial ooze, the new primordial ooze             of the wasteland which we had left             strewn over the earth, from shiny tangled places             of tin cans and value meal trays, slick with oil, squelching             and rustling                        over the carcasses             of dead seagulls                        and poisoned whales. Their…

They say the blue is underneath the brownThat the brown is only a coveringIs it true that the warm soup within your eyesIs skyAmidst the wilderness of the universe,Do they notice if a star is less milky                     Or does its destination lieBeneath the dark,To the wolfs of the blue. ____________________________________________________________ Agampreet…

there are days I remember  better than others.  most of them are here,  in this place,                                     in this spot—                                     with you. late night chats  over cups of overdressed coffee. my hands shook from caffeine and sugar                         or maybe it was from you. the memories of us stay imbedded in window…

War torn world— stripped of men- stockings turned wool withwhipcord breeches— muddy brown brogues— rooted earth.Your forest eyes fell me– tree at your feet. ButLand girls know their place. Hands calloused— fields tilled by feminine strength. Stilllipstick stains your coffee cup. My thumb brushesA wandering wish I don’t understand. But,Land…

As I sit here on the front porch— I drink a cup of coffee              alone and stare at the rocking chair your body  used to fill. The sun is rising and the colors should make me marvel but everything seems faded now. This cup of coffee no longer tastes of …

Sometimes I lie awake at night thinking about that mountain.Where foxgloves sway and I could spendall day picking wimberries with the others. As butterflies pass like floating charms and crickets bounce from nowhere into anywhere.  Lets leave our jam jars awhile, run like rats through the heather to the stile by the secret streamfull of newts.…

I was being followed by The Ghost of Christmas PastUntil I turned and enquired ‘What are you doing?’ He shrugged                        I awoke                                     (sound of twisting bone under his threadbare cloak) ‘Now look here, my good fellow,you know it’s not even December.’ He said               No, but it will be soon                                                     (teeth grinning orange like a…

A Haiku Sequence arch of sandstone            strange                                 constellationsthe same                                                    old moon my reflectiontravelling backwardsinto my past Hubble telescopeobserving the pastand the future *”my reflection” was previously published by The Haiku Foundation for the Window Haiku feature in April 2018 *”Hubble telescope” was previously published in Abyss & Apex in Issue 16 (2005) ____________________________________________________________…