Almost scratch

My apologies for the extended absence. Paid work has been taking up all my time. On that subject, here’s a new poem.



The woman

reflected in a window

long ago

Polished to a high sheen she

was misplaced, miscast


Time throws dust on

our mirages

Strips them of altered life

and the tease of



Where does

that leave our

Woman in the Glass

She of the

New Image


Too tired to push

like Sisyphus

against an




Facebook poster platitudes

never let up on

an insecure number

like her

Cycling away in endless optimism


But those who make

plenty of green on

their efforts

know who the

Real Artists are


The rest of us



guru Twitter feed We

keep our reflections polished.




Muddy Hands


A boy so young

His head as small

As the moon through a window

Holds the earth in his unsure fingers

Spinning it carelessly

Tossing it high in the air

Higher and higher still

Until it can no longer be caught


It slips away

A skipped rock

Past the clouds

Over the sun

And into the darkness with no end

And it’s gone


But he is a boy

After all

So he reaches into the darkness

And pulls it out just like that

Rubs the muck off on his wrinkled shirt

And rolls it

Rolls it

Back under his feet


Now he plucks the moon

From its dark curtain

With his muddy hands

And spins it carelessly