I fell deeply in love with her, I
standing in a small jewelers shop
in Bangor Wales on a November morning.
In truth, cradling a small silver
Celtic cross in my hands
I knew then that I,
taken that plunge
within moments of our meeting
and recognition was all that remained.

We poets stood around the kitchen
slicing vegetables and words,
laughing at everything and nothing
and occasionally peering out
the small back window
across the yard onto the now
no longer distant sea.

In the sofa in the library
I wrote words that seemed
almost alien to my hand,
pulled by her smile, now
3,300 miles distant, under
the watchful eye
of the large orange tabby
whose gentle claw edited
my hyperbole.

We wrote haiku
walking the ramparts
of Castell Cricieth
on a dank chill morning,
staring down jealously
at the tea house
in the village below.

Lumsden drove out
from London to do a reading,
opted to stay on
a day, laughing as we,
in turn, drew the knives
across the whetsone
prepared the food for

the impatient, smiling cook
and the wine flowed
into the evening meal.

Down by the Afon Dwyfer,
at the end of the path
to his old house,
Sir David listened
from beneath his headstone
and had no arguments
to dissuade me.


On the train back
to Manchester I searched
for the words to tell her
how I felt.
Picking up the phone
words failed me
but she heard my heart
through the silence.



He had been searching for . . .
well it was impossible to say
for how long, even he
could not remember when
he began the search, but
he was sure it was some time ago.
People would seem him searching,
most would ignore him, either
afraid to interrupt the search
or afraid of him, probably crazy,
but once a small child
came up to him and tugged
on his pants leg, “watcha
looking for mister?”
the child asked with innocent eyes.
“I’ve been looking so long
I’m not sure I remember
what I am looking for,”
he replied to the child.
The child smiled, said,
“if you don’t know what you
are looking for, I am
sure you will find it.”
He smiled back
at the child, “I just did,
thank you teacher” he said
and walked slowly away.


She says the shortest distance
between two points is a straight line.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell her
that on a cosmic scale space is curved
and no one wants the short straw anyway.
She can, of course read him, a skill
she notes, reserved to women,
and one of infinite frustration to men.
She laughs and adds, as if an afterthought, 
there is a wormhole in the neighborhood. 
He has no idea what to make of her,
and this just how she wants it, for
she and he both know so very well
that the shortest distance between
the male and female minds is a leap
of logic only the most daring would attempt. 



Nature abhors a vacuum
a fact not lost on God, who spent
considerable time filling voids
and creating vessels, pots 
and the odd variety of containers,
some quite will suited to their contents
and others, man as a shining example,
illogical, and worse still, leaky
so that once packed with thought and emotion
it spends years dribbling itself away
until there is only a void,
and abhorred by nature, it collapses on itself.
I cast forth words into my own void,
trying to define its limits, to give it shape,
to circumscribe a piece of abyss, and once
offset, to fill it, to fortify it against
the intense pressures of entropy.
The work of creation is continuous,
practice until you can do it without thinking,
until you can do it devoid of focus,
for then you may master it, and no longer
need to continue, to press on, you will
capture it and pen it, there will be
no need to wrestle with it, it will 
exist in stasis, as it was in the beginning
before the tinkerer came along, as it was
when he rested, with no self-replicating systems
to fill the lapse when time was neither line
nor arrow, but point, jot, without dimension
and without content.


The moon etches itself
into the cobalt sky.
Orion rests on the margin
of too tall eucalyptus
that reach up to ensnare him.
Luna’s face floats
on the gently shifting pond
staring up at the moon
recognizing no one.
She wonders why the stars
move slowly as she
sits transfixed.
On the window sill
Shakyamuni Buddha
looks at me with
his gentle smile
and bids me goodnight.




Time folds in on itself,
the arrow bends, grows recursive
we lapse slowly backward
slipping into a protean state.
Our universe is neatly bisected,
the inner workings laid open
showing craftsmanship
far beyond our meager
comprehension, as we cling
to the surface, fear
sliding deep into its depth,
spiral freely in infinite
progression, slowing, approaching
never reaching the source.
We wash up on a beach, we are pulled
from the earth, and we dangle
from the neck of the sun.