Poetry

Circling in time’s devices

 We are older than the sun 
 and moon of course, it’s only us 
 who are aware, have eye and voice 
 to see and state time’s passing
 and think it matters. 
 
 The kingfisher on the gate 
 isn’t waiting to be let in. 
 Doesn’t hear me say: “Come, 
 come into my garden.” 
 She eyes me blackly, shits 
 and flies off. 
 
 Made me smile though, 
 to be visited by sweet Artemis, 
 who’s as ignorant of time’s devices 
 as the vacant sun and hollow 
 moon. Bless her...
 
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Poetry

What are you protecting Cicero?

 Your oh-so-distaste 
 for Tribunes who incite the popular crowd,  
 what are you protecting Cicero?
 
 Your ballsy support 
 for the latest drone deployment in Thrace, 
 what are you protecting Cicero? 
 
 Your polite way 
 with handlers and a word for the homeless, 
 what are you protecting Cicero? 
 
 Your dream 
 of heroic iambs on the steps of the Capitol,
 what are you protecting Cicero?
 
 Your hosting 
 of lavish dinner parties for the argentarii, 
 what are you protecting Cicero?
 
 Your blood-clean 
 sacrifices in the race for everlasting life,
 what are you protecting Cicero?
 
 Your corpse 
 in a vault with a tag on your toe―too late, 
 what were you protecting Cicero?
 
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Poetry

Fishing a calm sea

We look into the water, 
the absence of wind and swell 
has flattened its surface, so the low 
setting sun cannot bounce light 
into our eyes, there's a rare dullness 
that we can see ourselves in
and to a few arm-lengths below. 
Our faces peak over the boat's rim 
like two cherubs looking into a well. 

Our bait, whole piper, wallow 
in the visible zone, swinging 
a lazy rhythm between two 
bobbing heads. Such tranquil sorrow 
where no tears are shed 
at the looming blackness of it all. 
Our view is narrowed, 
we don't see the cliffs flipped over, 
ascending from green to orange clay, 
to rocks above
                 —a snapper torpedoes 
into the bait, a rod slams 
downwards, the line whizzes, 
the mirror smashed. We’re ejected 
from the sea and plonked 
back in our small boat, father and son, 
winding in the world we know. 
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Poetry

Untitled (from Big Love Songs)

Like a Connery I flower late,
improving as the sunspots 
travel across my face, 
and more of my scalp
shining in the moonlight. 
 
 My act I've perfected, 
 the parts I choose within my range,
 which is the trick of mastery. 
 No one can resist my grin. 
 
Don’t pity me my limitations, 
I’ve enough to woo them still.  
The sun is warm and my plants 
are thriving in their Bahamas home. 
 

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