Purple Spectacular

wake up in the morning;
walk a mile on the road.

i used to run; 
but now i walk

time changes things,
sometimes we wish
it was for better but

fear it will be worse.

breakfast is a bun
and egg; a treat
in many ways.

a coffee helps
to start the day;

we're trapped
by pestilence
and fire.

tomorrow we 
expect more smoke.

stay safe (as we know 

look for joyous
miracles, (seldom
ever found)

search for wonder;
in a mundane

stop looking when
it's right under
our noses.


Sandstone Hills

these sandstone hills,
i never wandered,

in my dreams or even
in my sleep.

but long ago,
far before my time
and yours,

something made
huge footprints in 

beaches were always
so beautiful,
a place for wading,

puddling in shallows,

finding shellfish maybe
and small crustaceans,

scurrying to feed,
hoping to escape all
dangers from above.

but bones were buried
in the seaside sand.

we are like that still,
but now the predators
don't fly above,

they are among us:
wolves now look
just like sheep.


tiny white flowers lighten 
a mood in a garden.

almost as fine
as a baby's breath.

helping brighten our 
sometimes drab world.

white is all colours;
as black is none.

white brings brightness,
while black accentuates
existing colours.

so i want both, and more.

there are those times
i want only 
black and white

because a picture
can look better 
that way.

today my world is
the colours of smoke

visibility is reduced.
my landscapes
look alien, 


Too Much Smoke

Too Much Smoke

went down to the river,
inspected the scene,

foul smoke spoiled
the amazing view.

flooding has eased 
water's going down.

chances are good
a drought is coming

(soon) and we must
wait for the other 
shoe to drop.

smoke obscures 
the scene in foulness.

ash falls everywhere.

driven inside, 
we wait for better air;

we'd like to breathe
again before 
we forget how.

BW Blue Thing

black and white,
or even blue,

how much
does it matter?

colour can be so
beautiful that

we forget what
black and white
can look like.

this one's blue,
but with colour
details are lost.

makes visible

what we can't see
because we're
overwhelmed by
heat colours invoke

we call it 
black and white
or greytones.

before colour, there 
were silvertoned 
pictures that
told our stories.

light fades into dark.

Imagine Faces

imagine faces
in the needles.

no faces there
(in this world)
for me to see.

look for faces
in the needles,

faces there
(i cannot see)
faces there,
ought to be

there is a puzzle,
i do not understand

tell each other:

you are growing
senile, too old
to know anything

no one will listen.

a thousand books
a poet has no time

to write it as novels 
or wisdom filled 

argument, ideas
carved in stones

ancient thoughts

i see no faces there.

White Clover

lost among blades
of freshly watered
lawn, a clover
holds a bit of water

(even in dry season)

a dry wind wafts 
down from a hill, 
recently ravaged 
by wildfire.

secrets from an 
unforgiving universe

unable to forgive
or even understand
humans and their
inconsequential works.

things we can not
understand or know.

it sends roots down 
and about, reaching
for water and food.

a tiny white flower
among the blades.

solitary blades
grow in a cool
back yard.

the clover is vastly 
outnnumberd by
green blades,

i won't step there
and crush a life

frail and outnumbered
by so very many
green blades

we too are
frail and outnumbered.

look at the stars.

White Plastered Walls

White Plastered Walls

white plastered walls
contain a doorway,

an entrance, perhaps,
into times and places

we have never seen,
people we don't know,

we barely know time
we've lived through,

remember to our
cringeing horror
things we wish we 
never said or did.

(a little whitewash
might help here)

a doorway reminds us
of a cave entrance,

deep in mountainsides
painted bodies dancing 
around primeval fires!

sweat rivulets running 
down dancing bodies,

ancient psychoactives
bridged between worlds,

(the land of spirits)
deep in the caves,

white plastered walls
contain a doorway,

an entrance, perhaps,
into times and places

we have never seen,
people we don't know

White Hill

White Hill

climbing the white hill
isn't easy by day's end.

as time goes on it gets
higher and steeper

at least it seems higher,

stone walls were once
plastered smoothness

cracked and broken 
when the earth quaked, 
plastered again

painted white,
all the rainbow colours.

looking at all the white,
i begin to wonder

does paint help
strengthen plaster,

does it help hold 
the whole thing up?

weak foundations
make weak walls.

consider what is it
holds our walls up
yours and mine.