Finding Gravity


Ever watching
protocol, procedure, posture
(like the fair lady ‘liza),
there’s no way in
the in crowd
and no way
to guarantee

is the only answer
that echoes
through the empty skull
no matter,
she keeps knocking
her head
against the door.

to march
to your own drum
(they say),
a chill is all she gets.

The moon cries
second fiddle
(the cat’s on top)
to Sol,
around whom everyone revolves.

To be
always the passenger,
dragged along,
reflecting days gone by,
is a place of

she has a singular name,
engraved on the palms of a promise.
If she dares
to train her eyes
on the hands of the master
at the core of the charming quark,
she’ll find her gravity.



No popping machine guns.
No ear-splitting bombs.

A microscopic,
completely silent

Would that this threat
might unite us
in a common fight.

But we spend our days
about masks.

To Weigh Us Down


He walked with rocks
in his pockets
to keep his feet
firmly on Terra.

But last Tuesday
he forgot
(like so much negative mass)
by the time he’d touched
cumulus nimbus
he’d reached escape velocity.

We hope to catch him
on Hubble highlights
next Friday.



A wee bit of silliness.  (Although we all know someone with their head in the clouds!)

Fifty Years Ago


Fifty years ago
youth was eternal.
Gramma moaned about sore joints,
said “To hell with calories”
and napped whenever and wherever she’d please.

I caught her reflection
in the bathroom mirror.

Today the grocery clerk asked
if I am a pensioner.

I’m eating chocolate and sleeping in.


They say time flies when you’re having fun.

Changing Season

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How hastily
tumbling through days
(filled with cold cider, salty chips and cheery chatter),
leaves us.

Seems but yesterday
we bemoaned the onslaught
of heat and biters
while praising the scent of rain.

Now he leisurely packs his bags,
clothed in a beguiling smile,
preparing to go.

Forgive us our impatient rants
and know this:
we only miss you
when you’re gone.




romping words tumble and giggle

and fill the atmosphere with wonder

and weightless joy;

everything sings

and the chorus is easy to join.


Other times

(like now

and yesterday

and yesterday’s yesterday)

a dry brittleness permeates

even the bones

and breath is heavy as lead.



there is a beauty

in the blunt, black fingers of the dead giraffe thorn

that claw at the cold grey heavens.

There is sanctuary

in the still vastness of winter veld.

Though the sky is rigid

and the ground impenetrable,

there is quiet life

in the space between

earth and firmament.


There, in poverty, I discover my heart

and hold the hand of God.

Time Out



when heaven is closed for lunch,

I find Jesus

sitting on the curb next to me

asking if I want half of his sandwich.

In All Circumstances

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Each day a remapping of facial contours,

shifting sands, creeping moss.

I must learn anew this terrain

which once seemed so familiar.

But with little to grasp

I find myself a spectator

waiting for the evening train,

learning to be content

in all circumstances.

In My Father’s House


When I leave
do not speak of me
in the past tense;
do not offer saintly eulogies.

I was here,
but a daisy in Namaqua season,
face to the sun,
partaking in offered grace.

Tell rather of the one
for whom the heavens sing
and remember me
in my father’s house.

An Old Man Named Michael Finnegan

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Like Mike learned
(mostly the hard way)
(according to Perl)
persistence will eventually pay off.

John tried to explain to Mike
that everything will be okay in the end,
and if it’s not okay,  then it’s not the end.
But Mike just wanted to get to that conclusion.

Fred said there is eternal recurrence
which made Mike scratch his head
until Tom explained
that life is a circle
(Pooh and Piglet
going round and round the spinney
after Woozles).
Gilbert said that is sheer nonsense.
and described concrete beginnings
with well-defined ends
(Chris was in the branches
and brought the hunt to an end).

Mike said he was getting tired
and just wanted to go to bed.
“Exactly!” said Elwyn
(not sure just how
he’d been pulled into the discussion).
“End the day now
and tomorrow
you will
begin again.”


PAD 30 in November

For today’s prompt, write a “the end” poem.  You can reach the end of a book, journey, or conversation. 

Beginnings and endings.  Within this little piece are the philosophies of Lennon, Nietzche, Mann, Chesterton and White.  A little nonsense for the end of November.

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