Over the water, in that direction

is land, a promontory, mud and growth.

Edged by waterways’ lapping affection.

Threatened with flood where water surges most.


It stands, not easy to negotiate.

It’s the outpost by which there’s an inland.

From the watery mass, appropriate

an area like a reaching out hand.


To walk there nimble feet sink or get stuck.

It’s brown wetland too inhospitable.

But waters edge birds can land; not get stuck.

First colonists; the rest made possible.


A diff’rent nature emerges at edge.

No longer submerged. Drier future’s ledge.


There’s a lovely tree that flowers yellow.

Bushes pink and blue amongst multi green.

Variagated with sage and mallow.

And colourful birds which chatter and preen.


I’m thinking there could be a tanager,

euphonia, purple honeycreeper,

and as I’m a flying imaginer,

a bananaquit, green honeykeeper.


Is that a crested oropendola,

perhaps an oriole and hummingbird.

Would not be here if climate was colder.

Be unseen as elusive Mot Mot bird.


In lush landscape, birds of mind go flying.

Asa Wright rainforest was inspiring.


1,2,3,4. What are we fighting for

with nation’lists; Iraq, Afghanistan.

Next role, interfering in civil war.

Before over, start again in Iran.


5,6, sev’n, 8. Open up pearly gate

for the dead; innocents, milit’ry too.

Atrocities and torture for disgrace.

Yippee, we’re in there with the gruesome crew.


9,10.  Politicians don’t give a damn.

Carnage and chaos, but Oil’s in their hands.

Ain’t got time to wonder why; it’s a sham.

If die, sincerity and mil’t’ry bands.


Not learnt from earl’er stop in Vietnam.

Monsters repeat it again and again.


Angel of the North.

My wife – northern origin – informs me

the south want their own angel of the north.

Intimates to me she thinks this silly.

It belongs fair and squarely to the north.


I agree it seems little more than theft,

but think there could be something for the south.

Maybe Christ, with Mohammed for the west.

People advised to see by word of mouth.


The east, a Buddha. The midlands, Moses.

Swap them all around geographic’lly.

Compliment  North’s angel. Their own poses.

Icons of goodwill elegaic’lly.


Symbolic of a form of attitude.

Religious?, or art’s spirit in statue.

Lost Bride.

Lots on the move despite heat of the day.

Then along comes the bride hot and bothered.

Still trying to put on a great display.

All in white, most of the angles covered.

Voluminous quantities of dress cloth

for her to gather up and carry on.

In wrong place in this busy square of wroth.

Vehicles stop, start. The masses move along.


Doing her best in these circumstances.

Could be she’s lost, crossing in bridal wear.

Through the traffic all around, advances.

To think of her as Bridezilla unfair.


But do. Creature with natural purpose.

Pitched against urban nightmare. Her church search.


I fully admit that I’m a monster.

Dark side turning me into a grotesque.

Soon eligible for corp’rate sponsor.

Even my enemies will be impressed.


Suck blood to not be pale apparition.

Waste the world whether ghostly or ghastly.

Evaporate in macabre rendition.

To prove that I’m well and truly nasty.


Appear in dark corners of the city.

Emerge triumphant even from sewer.

As exert will, show less and less pity.

Consequence. Pain; for others to endure.

Who am I? this monster so sinister.

Cruel. Unflinching. Government Minister.


Resplendent in colours of style and grace.

Finery for fine-ness of your figure.

Blessed by gazing on your beautiful face.

All of which acts for me as a trigger.


Gold and black and orange, patterned perhaps.

Suited to show sweet curves, not straight flatness.

Lines important though. Places on a map.

In the geography is happiness.


Strolling roy’l’lly, swishing, swaying, stylish.

Fashion-able. Dressed for show this moment.

Best in show. Certainly raising eyelids.

Have eyes popping at such glam’rous event.


Pulchritude, the focus of attention.

Can still see dressed women on a pension.


Hauled away into the night, by rude force.

May well not be heard from any time soon.

They’ll comply with the rules, they say, of course.

But once gone, won’t be seen in a blue moon.


To disappear, must be a good reason.

Someone’s suspicion of something no good.

Could be threat to the nation’s cohesion.

Not our problem; not for us to intrude.


We’ll get the full story in time to come. 

The tabloids will tell us what to suspect.

If tortured, made mad, to confess what done.

It’s all been approved by those we elect.


Locked away, why the sensitivity?

For long without charge, takes a liberty.

4 Haikus in one Sonnet.

Sing a haiku to you in my love song.

“My love knows no bounds” I tell you proudly.

“Unrestrained in my passion” and it’s strong.

“Affection ungagged”, so expressed soundly.


“Change in how I think” starts me off again.

“Mind thoughtful of new ideas” to speak of.

“A Paradigm Shift” goes against the grain.

But thinking so much of you must be love.


‘Start with how I feel’.   “Keen to be with you”.

“Eager for your company”, stated raw.

‘My emotions now engaged’, coming through.

“Together us two”.   ‘New depths to explore’.


Four haikus in one sonnet is clever.

About Love one hopes could last forever.


I’m told somewhere in the Pacific trench –

the deepest expanse of water on earth –

lives a fish like a whale, but much more dense.

Never seen, rarely heard, with massive girth.


Think exists by response to sound echo.

Bleep becomes boyng when something encountered.

At large, swimming where no one else can go.

Deep waters, but I don’t want to flounder.


It’s the feelings I could access for you.

Symbolic of their depth and breadth, this beast.

Waiting for your signal to prove, this huge

love for you exists and could just be reached.


Blabbered on with this fishy metaphor,

when boyng of my heart is close to, ashore.