This Path


I walk This path Empty But for dust balls Of shame I have prayed For redemption But from what? I am Still unsure The rosary Of my prayers Countless And still Unanswered Silence Shadows me As I walk This empty Dust filled path. Pray, they say God answers. Wishful thinking Made powerful By repetition. Yet in the Silence that surrounds me No answer Is given And I walk This path, my Path of shame...

We are the silent sons


We are The silent sons Of silent men. We were Not born This way, But have Grown so. Slowly silent A severity, We were told For our own good. We climbed Our fathers Mt Moriah, To find No sacrificial lamb But us. Our father’s God, Content to sacrifice His sons. To bleach their Bones, on the Alter of respectability. Grey suits Crushed into Conformity. I am the Silent Son Of a silent man, Yet silent...

The Loner


A lonerStigmatizedBy isolation I long For the lonely Isolation A modern day Leper Cast out To have the Space to hear The symphony of silence A loser With not Enough selfies The lilting Melody of Stillness The scent of Shame scrabbling at His throat The in breathing scent of Serenity Sitting unseen On the Sidelines To sit unseen In the tranquility Of timelessness Life’s perversity Hating what...

To my Grandson


You loped down the stairs, The outline of your Boyhood receding Like mist In sunlight Your body stretching Into manhood Unknowing and With nonchalance You carried the Shadow of Your uncle You are the Man, of the future That strange amalgam Of your father, Grandfathers and Great-grandfathers Fears and insecurities. Their hopes and graces. And lessons crystallised We men, we spend Our lives...

I woke at 2


I woke at 2
Startled by
The silence
That crept
Into consciousness

And the wind
Held its
Breath, awed
Into stillness
By the silence

I lay motionless
Caressed by
Stillness, waiting

Stars with
Mute disinterest
And cold
Waited as I waited

For my dark lover
To enter and consume
Me, as I sunk
Into the

This Heart


It’s been around This heart Patched, Parts stitched, A tapestry Woven, still Weaving. A tapestry Of colours The grey of grief, The gold of grace, Passion’s purple And love? Its blush? Now I am Realising, I have Crossed the line, The threshold Where I crave The silver Of silence That space Between words That pause, before Your kiss That moment Of suspense Before release Time, stilled Suspended...



I am a Libran

Do not forget
Behind my smile
You are weighed

Do not mistake
My politeness
For liking, for
You are balanced

On the scales
Few there are
Who balance them
And fewer still

Who tip
The them
To their favour
And fewer still

Who have
The wisdom
To know
My smile

Is my mask
My social grimace
Behind which
I watch and wait

I am a Libran
I weigh
I wait
While watching



The pressure of his hand Anxiously uncertain The sinewy sensuousness Of quadriceps rising To kneel in Supplication or adoration Ambiguously unknown The warm toxicity Of breath Eyes searching The boundaries Of the face, For some tenuous flare Of recognition Time eclipsed In the masked ball of reversed reality Where nakedness is Revealed but not The intimacy of Our name Moments, Fragments Of time...

Requiem for the other David


I am his Namesake, an Unknown uncle This other David He had Long gone By the time I arrived His life Compacted To a phrase Died of war wounds And I Wonder Who he was This man Committed To oblivion No grainy Black and white To give his Features visage His presence, Forgotten But for Four words Died of war wounds I wonder What were his wounds What was his war Did he have time To love His spectral...