These newborn eyes of bright surprise
blink fresh and wise
on a world that’s
held its breath
for her.
Each shell ear,
hat wrapped,
set to hear
the call of an unmuted universe,
that whisper of potential
yet to be dreamt into reality.
She is a love-chalked slate
marked on this date by
joyous welcome
for a little girl,
a brand-new soul,
whose eyes of bright surprise
are already awake with life’s promise.


For a new little friend and the beautiful road ahead of her xxx


My identity is
meant to be an
open book,
there for you to
take a look and
judge me
(if you will)
because I’m not supposed to mind
if you don’t find
But I hide behind
my nameless blog
and, shameless, slog
to get my ideas
and hopes
and fears
to cooperate
and operate
as one cohesive chunk of writing
that might be exciting
to a reader.
For shame, I attach no name
to my imperfectly honest soliloquies,
though each one of them
frees me
from my fear and reality.
What if some of my thoughts
are not right
to be
the kind of stuff
I want others to see
of me?
I, as Miller’s Loman,
am desperate to be

Well Liked

and, fine,
if you’re unreasonable,
it’s feasible
we won’t get on
but this pen is
not yet ready
to speak direct
to those I respect
for fear that they will
lose their respect
for me when they see

what I am

who I am

who I truly am

when I am me on paper.

Weeknight Fare

She drops her bag upon the chair,
And talks to him of work concerns,
As he cooks steak, hers medium rare,
All apron stripes and finger burns.
This love letter in weeknight fare,
He writes her for when she returns.


Written for a couple who really love their food xxx

Rites of Passage

This passage of rites
though which she walks – accomplice –
is burgeoning with echoes
of memories she’ll never have.
The footsteps resounding
are those of her loved ones,
for whom she
holds the train,
it’s weight of expectation
dragging at her resolve.
She grieves for all that she
and her loss of certainty
is her greatest loss of all.


Awake, the souls in the beat of our feet
and the new sweated skin of effort and dust.
In the confluence of our Ways,
self-doubt wears with the tread of our boots
as we walk this ancient path,
we part with parts of singing hearts,
knowing they’re in the safest of hands.

This one is for Kathryn, who’s my kind of people xxx