I love to burn candles with matches
The box is always a thrill
The dead ones lie there so close to the living
It is like disturbing a grave
And the truly grave occasion
Is when none lie alive among the dead
– or No!, is that one there? –
And with horror one discards it into the rubbish
And grabs a fresh new box instead –
I love to burn candles with matches
The new box is on fire and I shake it
It rattles like a rattlesnake caught in its lair



Good Men At Large

(in the spirit of Leonard Cohen)


You see them in conversation,
With open gestures and open hearts.
They’re generous with their attention.
The talking flows: it’s no fits and starts.

The defences are done,
It’s a heartfelt sound,
This dialogue has no camouflage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re standing in their power,
Steady eyes and feet on the ground.
Their bodies are like a watchtower.
And their hearts they shine all around.

They’re sovereign kings
But they don’t need to bring
A bunch of followers or no entourage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

They’re speaking their truth in relationship,
Their voices gentle, kind and strong.
In their loving, it’s not a dictatorship.
They like to listen; they don’t speak too long.

They’re honest and open,
It’s what their women were hopin’
Was the truth – there’s no need for espionage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are generous lovers.
They like to touch, be tender, and smile.
They’re sensitive when under the covers.
And they’re straight-up; there’s no need for guile.

But they’re not P.C.
When they see a sexy
Woman, they like to look at her decolletage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These men are fierce, with clear boundaries.
They’re warriors and not a walk-over.
With a fiery spirit, they defend with ease/
With a spark, a flame, or supernova.

Like a spitfire plane,
They’re true with their aim.
There’s a tally of scores on the fuselage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

These pioneering men are changing the times.
You wouldn’t know it if you watched the T.V.
But if you’re out on the land, you would see the signs,
At the gathering: GOTC

Get Off The Concrete!
Don’t be a donkey!
If you’re thirsty, try it, it’s not a mirage. Watch out –

There’s good men at large.

Feb 2012


A – ambition to jump over the fence
E – the horizontal effort of the event
I – the stile side-on over which I stride
O – over I go onto the other side
U – the bump as I land down again

14 – 4- 06

Awakening to Memory (1980)

(Note: refers to a time when, awaking from chaotic dreams of medieval chaos and ruin, I recalled a happy memory to calm me. I remembered a time at the lights in Newmarket with my lover, when she asked for her ‘drug’, and I kissed her, thinking impulsively she meant ‘me’. Two guys in a van behind us clapped – such romantic spirit? My lover explained after that it was a cigarette she meant. In the poem this memory is translated into medieval garb from the dream traces).


Carrouselled past Shavian
Flowersellers, to days of when
Medieval knights and damsels
Fled from evil sights to castles,
And past bombardment of quaking towers
The last enchantment, for waking now,
My dreams have gone, and I’ve lost the battle,
And streams of consciousness now grapple
With thoughts of sleep and safety’s shore
For fraught with deep pangs greatly more
Of love and loneliness, my mind
A dove on a lonely quest to find
A memory
Of when we
Were carefree
And laughing
Reminisced when, on trusty steed,
The damsel was kissed, when just such a deed
Was requested of the prince, who confused the words
In the message rather, since it amused the bards
In the minstrel troupe behind, who clapped for more
And the damsel looked blind to what the kiss was for.
Not a kiss was the request for the task, nor a hug,
But for Turkish cigarettes when she asked for her ‘drug’.
And awakening to memory, I welcome reality.
In taking you with me in my dreams, you are in me.



23 Vows

To feed the little mouths,
To sexually arouse,
To be a good man around the house,
To keep my fury doused,
To stay with you til home come the cows.

To heal the bitter rows,
To fill the day with wows,
To keep wearing the trous’,
To convince you of my powers,
To be with you to wile away the hours.

To appreciate your vows,
To work on being good pals,
To be tidy as a mouse,
To forego the mood that sours,
To praise what’s inside your blouse.

To work to have what’s ours,
To remember to give you flowers,
To in your mind take a browse,
To make sure old skin sloughs,
To heal you of your ow!s

To in love-making nip your brows,
To show you now the hour is
To remake our mutual vows.



I remember the day,
Down at the site of the sweatlodge,
When squatting naked, I had the realization
That I don’t sit down in my balls.

It was after the fire was out.
Around the rim of the firepit, it was wet.
And going deep inside, I felt my cock relaxing,
But I still wasn’t down in my balls.

I was moved to spread my thighs wider open,
And really sit down on my haunches.
My knees pushed the muscles of my biceps wide
As I tried to feel down into my balls.

I felt like some long-limbed frog,
My feet feeling the suction of the mud,
As I leaned slightly back and nearly sat down,
And my balls touched the cold of the ground!

Electric eels could do no more!
But soon the cool mud pressed around,
And relaxing further, I discovered I was able,
Heels against the bones of my arse, to sit stable.

And the frog became an ancient toad.
I sat there for nearly an hour,
And pondered life on the edge of the pond,
Sitting down in my balls and my power.