New Year’s Eve Party

Hand on heart, it is probably a little too late to talk about New Year’s Eve! So, if that bothers you, feel free to think of this as a poem for 31 December 2023!

Dancing in the dark (to escape the darkness)
In the dark of night 
I wander through the city 
Searching for a light 
To guide me through the pity

I see the neon signs 
Flashing bright and bold 
They offer up their shine 
To keep me from the cold

I follow their sweet glow 
To the door of a club 
Where the music starts to flow 
And the dancing never stops

I lose myself in the beat 
Forget all of my woes 
In this place, I feel complete 
As if I've found my home

So if you're feeling low 
And the world's got you down 
Come on in, let go 
And let the music drown

All your troubles away 
Just for one sweet night 
In this club, you'll stay 
Until the morning light

So come on and join me 
In this place of joy and cheer 
We'll dance the night away 
And forget all of our fears.

Photo by Mauru00edcio Mascaro on

Sitting in a bar…

Last month I went on a short vacation to a tropical paradise. One evening my wife and I found ourselves sitting in a crowded bar, watching a band set up as patrons continued to arrive. The bar was small. Amongst all of this chaos there was a woman twisting and turning her way around the floor – keeping track of drink orders on her fingers. And always with a smile. We both observed that she seemed to love her job. This poem was written on a napkin in the bar.

Cyclone woman
Without warning I find
her blowing into my life
and I feel adrift
already missing
that cyclone woman
before she's fully arrived.
Nothing could ever be the same, 
I would walk through the debris
for a final kiss.
Cyclone Woman. Image created by Angele Toomey using AI Art Generator by tapuniverse, available through the Play Store.

Lunch time musing

It’s coming to the end of my working week. I have been spending a lot of time in front of a screen, so imagine my surprise when I spontaneously wrote this…

Computational life
Unknown user
System error

Spark (of life)
Blue light
to green
Update installed


Blue screen
Unable to duplicate
Coding error


On hold

No longer supported

Linking poet to reader

Here is a little musing I had after lunch today. It was inspired by thoughts about what happens to a poem after it’s written…who ‘finds’ it, what do they make of it?

There are barriers between us-
Time and space
Disconnected bodies
I wonder when you will exist
ang you will question if I ever did

Will these shapes running across
a scrap of paper hold any meaning?
Or will you find decode a digital cache that miraculously survived
the storm
before your dawn?

The illusion of permanence in a temporary world of
already forgotten
inventions and incantations.
I am caught in a march of time
into the invisible future of
your reality.

Woven together

This year has been difficult.

The words that once flooded my day have remained, more often than not, ebbed out far beyond the horizon.

But I am trying. And I will keep trying.

This poem is one I wrote earlier this year, but at least I am sitting here typing it out.

Woven together
The lives we make are like tapestries
woven as we live.
We cannot know what shape or pattern
will emerge,
the meaning of the textures and colours
sometimes only
revealed after we are far enough
away to see the whole.

Today I feel lost without you
wishing that here had been more
threads for you,
and I had more time with you.
But I know that you are still with me.

You are with me in the memories
I have of you
and in the ways the textures
of your tapestry
are reflected in the tapestry of my life.
My tapestry is richer because of you.
And I carry forward the best of your threads
so that I can wrap myself in
their warmth and comfort,
knowing that we are
forever woven together.

Photo by Los Muertos Crew on

Return of the pen

No doubt you have noticed that I’ve been absent from the blogosphere for the last 6 weeks or so. I needed to take a break, recalibrate some things, and overcome a sudden loss of words.

Every time I thought about writing I would feel a tightness in my stomach that overrode my ability to hold a pen. Although my brain was crowded with thoughts, none of them stooped to form themselves into words.

It’s been a time of intensive reflection and questioning – is there any point in writing and performing? What is recognition? Is external validation why I am putting myself ‘out there’? What would happen if I just stopped – put down the pen and walked away?

Spoiler alert: I don’t have any answers, except to say that the words are slowly returning and the thought of writing is less likely to trigger a dry retching response.

There can be no promise of the quantity or quality of my work, but I do know that the words are my precious friends, and I hope that they will forgive me and return home.

Passing by
The optical illusion of
solidity is a trap for novice players.
The road gives way to a stream
that flows freely under a bridge to nowhere.
Through misty rain
glimpses of retired farm
equipment catches my eye,
tears of rust running into overgrown grass.
Wooden fences lean into
their final resting place.
Folks don't come by here much anymore.
They are either tourists with a 
malfunctioning GPS
or are the sort of people 
who spend their weekends
on old trains exploring 
almost forgotten stretches of line.
They glimpse backcountry villages
whose names are heavy with
history but not anchored
in our memories.
Eventually the fragile threads 
of iron and wood
will melt away, leaving behind
suggestions of what might have been
Photo by Engin Akyurt on

Shattered light

The human soul is often depicted as a flame. The flickering that creates the light in our eyes and perhaps gives the universe colour. But what happens if the light breaks, distorting the colours and the human?

Life Colours 

Red for the anger 

That burns like fire. 

White for the fear 

You chose to hold dear. 

Orange for the bitterness 

Of wearing hard hits. 

Life's colours waft in and out 

As you weep, push and shout 
And your dreams fall away 

With each passing day. 

Fighting shadows 

Wherever you go. 
Photo by Mustafa ezz on

Too worn to smile

I think this poem, written about five days ago is pretty self-explanatory!

A study of my face
The face in the mirror
Is becoming strange to me
Not because of
the lines that come with age
or the wintering of my hair.

I can see it in my eyes
those cataract glazed lenses
seeing less of the
world and more of me.
A quickness to anger
unresolved PTSD
and too little optimism.

I am becoming hardened
more insular
as trust takes loner
and ill deeds register
more accurately, quicker.
I don't think I can 
maintain the ruse: smile,
even if it will make 
you feel better.
Photo by Thiago Matos on