I Poem

I demand my right to a verb.

Painters paint, singers sing, dancers dance,

Workers work – hell, even engineers engineer stuff.

All I want is my verb.

I’m not just a writer – I’m a poet.

Writers write and that’s all well and good for them,

But I don’t just write… I do something else.

I just don’t know what you call it.

Somebody wiser than me once said that

It’s not what you do that defines you,

But it’s who you are that defines what you do.

Salman Rushdie said, “a poet’s work is to name

The unnameable, to point at frauds,

To take sides, start arguments, shape the world,

And stop it going to sleep.”

And that’s fine by me – so from now on,

I don’t just write – I am a poet, and I will

Define what I do. – And I poem.

Digging in for Another Day

All around me are familiar faces,
oh, the band marched on in formation.
Racey days help me through the hopeless haze.

Blessed be your name,
dear Prudence...
we fall down.

Hey there, Delilah,
better pack your bags and run.
I'm the son of rage and love!
Go!

You feel bad
As I walk through the valley where I harvest my grain.

I must go on standing.

She lives with an orange tree.
My life is in you
fumbling his confidence.

Chronometrophobia - the fear of clocks - the fear of time -
I've got a black cat walking across my path,
every night I get down on my knees and pray:
how lovely is your dwelling place?