A small stream sings softly

to itself and the green world

as it turns this way and that

always down, flows fast and slow

around boulders and branches

always down

merging with the sea

always down

when were the choices made

Trump World

I have become addicted

to the dark of hand and voice.

Every day I challenge the limits

of my outrage

but it continues to elude me.

There seems to be no end

to my shock and pain

at the anger of the world.

Will the next nightmare

be the last one

Will there be a last one?

The language of distance

Photo by Dan Fraser


My tongue searches

for the language of distance

in the iron grip of near

inside out, turned around


my eyes naked fire in space

in the grip of distance

the very near distance


The slender path of words

Photo by Dan Fraser

Following the slender path of words

I see a misty silver line 

turning and twisting

down the rocky face in my mirror

do they whisper in the voice of stars

are they silent like the blink of eye