Tag Archives: Poems

The Untold Tale Of Tom and Zellandine

While the beauty slumbers

Comatose but rasping

With ursine bravado

Aphrodite calls on our prince to pluck

Her precious fruit from the slit of love

To wake the maiden (and silence her plaint)

Innocent that he is

Our Trojan searches high and low

For an alcove, crevice

Or even vitré armoire

Deciphering neither ripe fruit

Nor ready container

He cries to the goddess

Who outraged by virginal tears

Inflames his passion

The doubloons drop


Taking his awl in hand

He plucks and plucks the promised pear

Threads the gimlet

Breaks the caul

Until the damsel rouses

All sticky from sleep she cries

What is this palaver?

Oh Sleeping Beauty, I am Tom

Tom Thomb the Piper’s Son

The Goddess has bid me wake you thus

To break the curse and win the prize

From whence you rest

All slumb’rous as a cadaver

From eternal sleep’s great death

With la mort by comparison

Quite little

Well my lad you’ve tried the bacon

Before you’ve bought the pig

You’ve played the pipe

And played the fiddle

And played a song more tune than riddle

Hey diddle do

Hey diddle diddle

While we wait the nuptial cake

By such swordplay you’ll be king

My black cat is lamenting

And requires more of such attentions

A little stroke a little milk

Will give the purr to the pretty thing

While my father is a piper and my mother is a beast

You’ll find I’m just a common lad

Travelled from the east

Just a ‘prentice shoemaker

Neither prince nor pauper

And while that ermine looks best pleased

I’ll be howling down the streets

But if you harken

To that clipper clopper

A prince with shining hair

And gleaming teeth

And a horse probably named Philip

Is coming hither

I can see him from this tower

Through the wind-er

Instead of using the garden path

He is cutting his way mightily

Through thorns

I’m sure if you turn again to slumber

He will prick you from your sleep

With a little kiss

For the none the wiser

Do not wear horns

You avail yourself of the window

I will unprick my thumb

And rest this sweet cherry on my lips

To fulfil the Goddess’s wish

And slumber some

I hope he’s not too long

I’m kind of peckish

If you ever need a boot

I am skilled with finest vair

Or just a wooden clog

You will find me at the fair

I can spin a slip of glass

That will unbreak itself

And after all the wedded bliss

All the feasting done

Dear Zellandine upon her shelf

Collected shoes of every kind

Blessed by the Goddess every one

Made by our apprentice

Fate’s accomplice Tom




The pavement scars my drunken face in gravel and

her cursing bitumen eyes the houses of her face

more derelict than distraught in their abandon

to an unrelenting season of heat cooled

only slightly by the calming storm

wetted and bedraggled by the rain runnelled gutters

and the debris it casts a dirty city’s jetsam about

my damning atolll whose birds are all dead

of some falling sickness as heavy as gravity and as inexorable.

Such is my defiance that I rise only a little above this earth,

an escape velocity to the first power of c, required,

is beyond me.

The wings of her simple joys, the cathedral of her face,

flies me so high above the accusing fingers of her spires.

Soft with the cumulus, a mist in nimbus,

From here the pavement reviling the footprints

of its billion erosions

is static as a map.




I love the scar across your face,

It speaks of dissonance,

She says all malmsey and refined.

It speaks of moments,

Splayed like a windblown leaf,

Pale limbs bent back,

The mask rent,

Bone laid bare.

It speaks of gravel and splintr’d glass,

And metal buckled and mindful,

He says.

Her grimace is gentle,

Bare like autumn.

Cast away,

Her face lapses and is blunt.


Ear Ache

Bare broken loaded and bent,

Weighted, disturbed,

Borne, attenuated,

Careening unbound,

Trammeled, wrecked.

To return, to go back in time

To strew my hair with yellow flowers

To unbind my eyes of violet neon

To not hurt so much.

Turn slowly, rue and stare, broken,

Horizon, stained salt, charred eve,

Stinging coruscations,

Dust cooled in night’s sloughing tear.




A glass heart filled with black blood,

reverence unspilled,

broken and gleaming,

a sup from which blooms crystalline, emergent, sublime,

moments, wisps, ether,

solved but not answered.



Poetry is a little like ventriloquism, it involves finding that voice that both is and is not you. It is a voice above the everyday. An observer dancing on lights of meaning.  As practitioners in both fields have learned, following that muse can lead to madness. And even when put away, it is still there, merely quieted, invoking it again is just a sideways thought away.

As the Sufis have it, it is to speak with and to the voice of God.

This is your own voice echoing off the walls of God. Rumi