Willow dreams 
turned to Ashes
On patches of 
packed earth
Down under

While hope pitched up 
On treacherous sands 
With fiery wingtips
In the ceasefire acts 
of a Bondi Bond,
who goes by another
name, that on most days  
prompts virtual outrage 
and random searches 
(That’s what’s in a name, 
Ye old rhetorical Bill,
the gulf between an ex-pat
And an immigrant
that no small boat can cross.
if you really must know)

And yet, as pretend lines
are crossed on this spinning 
Orange, my papers change 
colour though mine remains
the same, for
I never thought 
I had a certain hue, 
until sterile square boxes 
on White paper ticked me
into one to know my place

Home is a place where 
palm leaves fan paddy fields
Where singing Santas come
With pasty white face masks 
and skinny brown arms
Where festive season is 
every month with different
colours that can
always bleed to Red if
not handled with care

Home is where the return 
ticket takes you now,
Where the inbound flight
moved you in time lapse,
Into the EU queue,
and then, 
out again

Home is where you 
buy houses and fill
them with trinkets
and people to make
them homes, leaving
just enough jostling
space on a dusty 
garage shelf 
for other hats
you once wore

Better than the crown 
for that carpenter’s Son
who wore a darker shade
of pale than faith allows
for some 

Did he build things of Great
Beauty with his father’s craft?
Or is Faith all that he crafted,
wrapped, of all things, 
In Hope

Faith is whatever it means 
to those who have it 
And while it elevates some 
Into divine grace 
I choose to have it in 
Mankind, with the will
to change worlds before
they too fit into urns

Ashes to Ashes 

Seasons greetings 

one and all

A-musing

‘It’s like I’ve got

a handful of metal dice 

trapped in my skull,

rolling about in a biscuit tin’

I said rather desperately,

trying to explain my

distracted restlessness 

‘I can’t concentrate 

until I see what numbers 

they land on,

and scribble them down

to decode them into verse’

She could have sliced through 

the silence that followed,

but chose not to, her paring

knife returning to diced carrots 

‘At least I have 

my Constant Muse

by my side’

I added hastily,

with a Cheshire Cat 

grin for good measure,

trying to get back 

into her good books

The Muse didn’t say a word

Just looked at me funny

And walked out of the 

kitchen with an eye roll,

that set off the dice 

All over again 

Smile bringers
Hand holders
Mitten lovers
Earmuff paraders
Song bearers
Piano wranglers
Ethereal tune hummers
Ladybird chasers
Stuff-toy traffickers
Alpaca lovers
Dead flower hoarders
Pocket-lint makers
Master elasticators
Wrapping 
Clumsy fathers
Around dainty
Fingertips
Little girls
Power houses,
Lighting forever
fragile filaments
In silly daddy souls

Evergreen

‘They are all good’
She says, ever faithful

‘But pick one’ I insist
Handing her my phone 
full of random scribbles
and after-thoughts

Scooped out in clumsy 
handfuls from the 
twisted folds of my brain

I gently reverse out
around the green 
wheelie bin

On our way to her
early morning train

The car hums 
as it pads softly 
past sleepy driveways 
Trapping the waking sun
in its offside mirror

On the long stretch
beneath those 
gnarled branches 
arching across
to hold hands
A soft breeze whispers
to the stirring leaves 

‘Do you not know?’
I wonder,
‘that I write down
only what I steal
from your 
Evergreen Smile 

framed behind 

my ageing eyelids?’

As thoughts of love
gather in wrinkles 
of time and skin

Memories float
gently down - 
moon daisy petals
settling softly into
our smiles

Our old selves
huddle close 
around campfires
making room 
for new faces 
oddly familiar 
behind masks

Let us rejoice 
drawing lines 
In flowing water,
slowly wearing 
our soul stones down 

Let us fill 
a lingering moment 
To look both ways
in our hall of mirrors

Pondering the
End of old beginnings 
And the beginning 
of new ends 

Let us aim to 
Be less human,
better, kinder,
Less selfish perhaps
like other animals

Running wild and free

Until we pause again
To review,
reassess,
recalibrate,

Let us remember 
Looking out from 
Our little bubbles, 
Our non overlapping
Venn diagrams,

In this world
of us vs them,

there are no others 

Sunny boy

‘But mother, please,
Just another minute’
Said the sleepy sun 
to Lady Time

‘I love my fog blanket
And my cloud pillow,
And surely the world 
can wait a while’

‘If only, my child’ 
said The Mother 
of all the 
has-beens 
and the 
maybes,

‘See that waiting tree
Wishing to be green,
And that tiny flower
Dreaming of yellow,
And that weary path
Longing for a journey?’

‘None can start 
without you,
nor do I hold 
any meaning,
elsewhere in my 
Eternity’

‘So go out and shine,
In blazing glory 
It is a good day
when you are around’

————————————

There is no hate in this world
Except in the hearts of men

Blue skies

‘No time to waste’, mumbled 

Samaya the serpent,

Mother of all there is

and ever will be,

rubbing her eyes

She took her 

Blue sky-bowl,

fluffed up some 

egg-white clouds

and threw a green

dishcloth over it

When along came 

a naughty man-child

clip-clopping on his

dirty hooves,

and knocked over

Her favourite 

Blue sky-bowl

Samaya grabbed

naughty man-child

by the scruff

of his mane

and tossed him 

Into the upended 

Blue sky-bowl

‘Stay in there for now,

Under my blue sky-bowl

And my egg-white clouds,

And go to sleep 

on my rough dishcloth

I’ve trimmed your mane

And clipped your hooves,

But worry not -

for I have scraped off 

all the dirt, and filled 

your soul with it

See how you like it

Trapped under my 

Blue sky-bowl 

Forever more’

Little did Samaya know

that this is all we need

Ugly men with grimy souls

stealing a glimpse 

of Eternal Grace

Under her blue sky-bowl

If I gather

All your smiles
And stolen glances

Your gentle hums
nuzzling
in my ear

Your scratchy
scribbles
stacked away
in musty attics

And those stealthy 
strands of grey,

Scoop them all
And toss them up 
into the
infinite beyond

Shining brighter than 
All those stars, 

now burning
with jealous rage
before they snuff out
and drop, leaden
from the skies

But no matter,

The world is alight

With thoughts of you
spanning parsecs
Into eternity   

Gossamer strands

In those fleeting moments 
between sleep and wakefulness,

as my soul crept back in
to roost after its 
nightly ramble amongst 
temple ruins beneath 
the shifting sands of time, 
their altars built in vain
In the name of true love,

It brushed past
something sublime 
And yet familiar,

Like your fingertips in my hair
Or your arms around my grief
Or your face in every song

And my first thought formed,
drops of quicksilver
thawing in the quiet dawn:

“Be still my soul,
for your true purpose
Is already here”

If only they built
those temples
around your smiles

Hunter gatherer

Perched atop the
bedside draws
where the lonely 
Bible sleeps alone,
lime green pixels
quietly count our
excess bagfuls of 
trans-Atlantic minutes 
well into the small hours

Little heads sprout  
from under the covers,
two button mushrooms 
blooming In the dark 
as she tries in vain
to cuddle sleep back
into the pair
‘We’re hungry’
goes the chorus 
united for once, 
sibling rivalries
tucked away inside
crisp hotel sheets

The two coffee bags 
and sachets of sweetener
hardly meet the RDA 
for the pre-teen duo,
now creeping around 
the room waiting 
for daybreak

The time has cometh
for Grumpy Daddy 
to go hunting 

A middle aged gilet,
battle worn from
supermarket skirmishes 
and mistimed school runs 
ventures out into 
an alien landscape 
of upside down
light switches and 
oddly labelled
lift buttons
(Elevators to some)

to find sealed cupfuls 
of Multigrain with the
ubiquitous promise of
high-fructose corn syrup

Back in the cave
with milk and cereal
under his arm,
this caveman is greeted
by upturned young faces
bathed in a soft
Netflix glow, 

much like
the flickering 

campfires
of yore, keeping 
sabre-toothed
tigers at bay

Unpoem

Nothing to see here
Just a familiar face
beneath that beanie with 
the purple flower
Or stencilled in
lambent moonlight
slipping between
curtain folds 

Nothing to hear 
Apart from that old
answerphone message
promptly replaced with the
sensible one, and yet
On endless repeat 
In my head 
That older young voice
from the days before 
this younger old voice

Nothing special 
about those eyes that
smile from afar
And those fingertips
running through
rogue strands of grey
The snippet of a hum
between hair dryer blasts

This is all mundane 
And generic 
Not worthy
Of poetry

Trite and old,
this feeling 
of not being
alone, 

just like
all those other 
familiar strangers,

Carving initials in
tree bark

Throwing pebbles
at window panes

Cutting ears off
with razor blades

Strumming badly
tuned ukuleles

Not worth a detour,
this wide place in the road
Nor a dropped pin
or that brown 
touristy sign:
‘Turn left  
for the ruins 
of another fat
stressed halitotic
petty little man’

who was blessed 
nonetheless 
with an undeserved  
Superpower 

Elemental magic
to conjure up

Her face
on a billboard 
only he can see

in every song 
and every sunset

Statutory declaration

As you fill your Hello Kitty 

school bag with your flowery hat 

and your giggles 

As the house overflows 

from too many vague 

animal shapes and squiggles

As you look at me - your 

pet Gruffalo with an air 

of bemused curiosity 

(For I am still more a clown 

than a hero 

and perhaps will be 

- quite happily -

for ever more)

I think of the days 

before you

Before I knew

you were a part 

of my whole 

And let me assure you 

and all else who would listen

You were preceded 

in this world 

by a love story

Hand in hand

The engine ticks quietly 

in the cold,
As we wait at the 

sleepy station 

for mommy's smile, 

a small voice floats up 

from the back seat:
"Daddy, I haven't 

told you this before..."

"Yes, sweet?" | mutter, 

half-distracted 

by the daily grind 

rattling in my head

"I feel really safe 

when I keep my hand in yours"

A frantic thought escapes 

my unwitting lips, hope 

or fear or both perhaps:
"But is it going to be 

big enough for you, sweet?"

Her reply rides 

a gentle moment 

fluttering softly to the ground:

"It will always be big enough, Daddy"

A head butt …

… of affection

Is all I get 

These days 

No hugs no more

from the unexpected 

package Santa sent us

15 years ago

Slightly early for the

Festive lights

And yet she lit up

Our universe leaving

No dark corners behind

Eternal smile bringer 

With a little hand that 

No longer slips into mine

An eye roll 

Is all I get

These days 

A well aimed sock

Bounces off my head

‘Attack!’ comes the

Squeaky war cry

While exploding giggles 

Oil the gears of

Our laundry war

Sensible demure

sighs of restrained

exasperation

Is all I get

These days 

Fifteen is when 

A new friend calls,

Inviting you out

Into the darkness,

Anxiety, bringing

Their hooded 

buddies along

Fear and loathing

And ennui perhaps

With a long list

Of what’s wrong

With this world 

full of

Old idiots like

Gruffalo daddy

It is all unfair and 

It has always been so

And we did try, but

Not hard enough

And it needs your 

Sense of fairness

And heartfelt outrage

And innocent sincerity

Radhika

You free radical

You super-powered

Superoxide

———————

I step 

- rather gingerly -

off my soap box

To no applause 

The silent treatment 

Is all I get

These days 

Partner in crime

Sandy Denny’s
human harmonica warble 
wonders where the time goes 

The rhetoric ricochets 

around the car 

crawling towards 

the station 

where she waits 

phone in hand 

Zoomed into the 

last meet of the day

Time flows in 

leisurely arrogance

from everything 

to nothing

And back again

Sloshing around 

in reckless youth, 

carefree giggles hiding

furtive glances thrown 

at her, hoping for 

attention and approval

Trickling slowly 

in endless waits 

hunting for the 

promise of hope 

in the shadow

of despair 

Seeping into the 

pavement cracks 

on a random street 

where sprouts 

new things to do and

new places to go

Clinging to 

sweaty icicles 

on days when

the cold inside 

is too harsh 

for the frost outside

Swirling around those 

strands of grey 

peeking through 

sensible mommy hair

Trying in vain

for a foothold

in those faint outlines 

stencilling her smiles

Sandy Denny, I know 

where the time goes

From one soul 

to another

And back again

While stardust 

takes our shape 

for a brief sizzle,

before time 

steams away 

when it is

time to go

Happy anniversary 

My partner in time

The buttercup

Radhika told me something interesting the other day.

If you pluck a buttercup and hold it up under your chin you will know if you like butter or not.

If the sunlight reflects on your chin you like butter, and If it doesn’t, you don’t.

‘It is a silly game we used to play when we were little, Daddy’ she hastened to add.

I was very intrigued of course. Any opportunity to learn form your children is not to be ignored. 

I had never looked closely at the buttercup before, and sure enough when I pay attention now I see that it has shiny petals!

As if someone had carefully spread butter on them before holding them up to the light (oh, I see how the name makes sense now).

But why? came the question bubbling up from the depths of my mind it it’s annoying little voice as usual.

Apparently there is both a why and a how.

How first (in a tiny bite size):

There is a layer of epidermis in the petal, beneath which lies another layer of airspace which acts as an optical distorter, essentially reverberating the light that comes through, aided by an irregular deeper layer of starch granules to scatter it.

Details here:

https://royalsocietypublishing.org/doi/10.1098/rsif.2016.0933

And why?

Evolution and survival of course as usual.

1. The reverberating sunlight makes it glossy and attractive to pollinating insects from a further distance, better than other small flowers can achieve.

1. The satellite-dish shape of the buttercup makes the reflected light ricochet off the parabola of petals to bounce back into the centre where the reproductive organs are, again making it a more effective flower on cold spring mornings in temperate climates where sunlight may be sparse.

Apparently this layer of air tucked under the epidermis is not a big deal and is a common mechanism by which butterflies get their shiny wings.

What is interesting though is that the humble buttercup is one of the very rare examples of having this air layer in the plant kingdom!

None of the highly sought after, rich and famous celebrity flowers have this special feature.

Fascinating as always how nature beats mankind at every turn and how science allows us to acknowledge our irrelevance. 

 

I guess at least we have appreciation of beauty as the lone saving grace for our species:

https://youtu.be/FvluBVhfGcw

The heart of the matter

The visceral pericardium
is adherent to the heart 
Peel it away and the heart bleeds
And bleeds
And bleeds
———————————————————-

As it plunges head first
through life, often into darkness

The heart is peppered 

with scuffs and marks
Cuts and bruises and
The occasional 

round house kick 

Skewered and stabbed,
sometimes from behind
Wrenched and ripped 
from its moorings

But then, in the lull
Between storms
It pants alone in
A deep dark hollow

Licking its wounds 
Looking in detached
curiosity at every
pockmark and gouge

It tucks away
Memories of pain
Ripping through flesh
Raw and visceral

In the space 
between thoughts
Wrapped in cling film
For future use

Only to be brought to light
If you bother 
To get close enough 
————————————————-
The visceral pericardium 
is adherent to the heart 
Peel it away and the heart bleeds
And bleeds
And bleeds

Empathy

The grief of others

Is a pebble 

you chance upon

On your walk in the park

Under the cherry blossoms

Smooth and worn

And glistening softly

In dew,

or tears,

quiet and irrelevant 

Until you pick it up

when it turns into

a minor asteroid

Crushing your hand

and heart

And yet, as you hold

that molten lump

burning a stranger’s

soul shape

Into yours,

you wonder ...

how long could you bear

this bottomless thimble

of painful synonyms

brimming with

searing, burning, 

withering, sweltering, 

scorching, blistering,

exquisite agony  

To see if it wilts,

and droops,

and stains

your soul with

self-inflicted,

guilt-ridden,

yet carefully titrated 

Empathy

Until Selfishness 

kicks in and you toss

that impertinent stone

back into the undergrowth

What difference does it make

to know the name of the child

lying face down on that beach?

Or the limbless dreams 

drowning in sunken eyes 

in a land far far away?

(Now available in 4K Ultra)

What difference does it make

when a man in his twenties

tells you in a matter-of-fact tone

(his pain thankfully contained 

behind his mask),

now that his wife is dying

he does not have 

a Home anymore?

Let me pause -

an irreverent moment 

To drown another rock

In a deep dark pool

Somewhere only I know

To join that other one

Still whispering in my ear

After a decade 

A teenage daughter’s 

Question gone begging

‘Who will walk me 

down the aisle now,

Doc?’

The grief of others

is the promise of tears

that never break free

Ominous shadows 

under the waves

around your 

Paradise Island

that you choose 

not to see

Wrinkles

The ground sighs 

a green stick fractures 

underfoot I look down 

at puddles of sky

where schools of 

shadow leaves 

swim up to meet

their falling kin 

riding gently down on

air that smells of stale

raindrops clinging 

on for dear life to 

my old umbrella 

with ribs that nip 

at stray strands of

grey smoothed down 

by a careless left hand 

while Adam counts

colourblind crows as 

that red crest twitters

heavily down on a 

branch scribbled in shades 

of green slowly folding

into a scrunched up 

memory of a random walk 

curling up for the night 

into a coarse wrinkle

in my wandering mind

Genesis

 

she looked as him

As if he mattered

a tentative wish

fluttered down 

Seeding a shy nook

In his soul

If only he could  

Hold her hand 

To gently trace 

the turn of her fingers 

Forevermore 

Under this blazing maple 

Where once landed

A little whirligig

Of love