Death to Delay

A not so serious one today.


I loathe thee, procrastination,
for all that you do;
for the walls built up around me
for the suffocating weight of to-be-dones
that is your doing.

One day, procrastination,
I will find you.
I will track you to the shadowy mind holes
    where you lurk.
I will hunt you down.
One day you will wake from your apathy
to find my fingers wrapped
around your cold grey neck.
One day, procrastination,
I will slaughter you.

But not today.
Today, I will sit here awhile
and read a book.

View From Inside the Kaleidoscope

What it’s like inside my head a lot of the time.


Where is “I”?
Lost in a forest
of frenetically firing synapses:
what is a glyptodon?
Dinner should be chicken.
Daffodil spray, gold on green and bright!
Music, music, music
comes crashing down around me.
Where were you
and where was I
and we were all together.
Where is Borneo?
Struggling on through thoughts
thick as Spanish moss in my eyes
and a noise of bees deafening my ears.
Muddy, muddy, can’t get through,
broken branches, broken promises,
music, music, music.
Suitcase full of musty mildew smells and memories.
Where did I leave my shoes?
The dog needs a bath.
Ruby red and liquid orange,
the smell of dish soap.
Story of a bus in trouble.
When did I fly?
And music…music…music.


Sunset over the ocean

I don’t write too many rhyming things, and when I do, they tend to be odd rhythms, like this. But I’m rather fond of this one.


Field of daisies
butterfly clocks
turn in time with the sun;
I am running to meet you
down by the water
where trails of light meld into one
which leaps ‘cross the ripples
and into tomorrow
where the waves reach up to the sky
and the golden of daylight
meets the purple of twilight–
we stand watching night drawing nigh.

There’s a hush on this moment
one golden moment
I am caught in a moment with you;
With my hand in your hand
we walk back through daisies,
asleep now–awaiting their dew.
The sun clocks have stopped
as though time has ceased:
we walk on eternity’s shore.
In the blue-velvet darkness
I am awestruck by beauty;
my heart is too full to take more.

Priorities (Poem)

Just a bit of fun this time around!


What is this “no time to read” you speak of?
My problem is different:
no time for anything else.
Dishes pile up in the sink,
in the hamper the dirty laundry expands and expands,
my carpet is growing fur.
But I have no time for these–
there are books to be read:
books and books,
e-books and tree books,
and more where those came from.
No time to read?
A fascinating concept.
You must tell me more when I have a moment–
but first,
let me finish this chapter.

On the Shore (Poem)

Since I’m in a slightly reckless mood this week, I’ve decided to do more sharing of my poetry on this blog, possibly the start of a weekly feature. Some of my poems are lighthearted and silly, some are a little dark. This one, written a few summers back, falls somewhere in the middle: appreciating and being touched by the joy seen in others’ lives, while still feeling a bit wistful about it. We’re only human, after all.


I stand on the shore in my solitary state
and across the water watch them:
distant figures on the far shore,
figures of mirth and peace.
The distance obscures,
but in my mind’s eye I see them as clear
as if I was in their happy company.
An old man, silver hair glinting,
stands, rough elbows bent,
feet in the sand,
in the dark sand at water’s edge
where a blonde child in red
builds towers to the sky:
beautiful misshapen castles
lumpy, bumpy, dripped mud and shell,
bringing beauty to ugliness
as only a child can.
She raises innocent eyes to smile at him;
two generations removed,
she is his own,
his future, his love made new.

I watch,
and am blessed in watching,
though I hurt:
for what have I been spared
that I am left lonely,
left outside the lives of others
touching corners only,
a circling satellite
adrift in the night sky?
Times there are when I wonder if,
should I be taken, now or time far off,
will there be any to mourn?
What mark have I left, and who
would mark my passing?
My going would be
like the drop of a pebble in these waters,
ripples observed, but scarce noted
before the calm waters smooth over again.

There are no castles on the shore for me,
no child of tomorrow.
Though perhaps it matters not in the vast world that is to come,
in this world, for this I grieve.