The race


Running, running in a race

Faster, faster feels the pace

Cut through the water

Over the blocked path

Breathless push now up the hill

Only a few miles to go

Nearer then against the foe

Positioning at the top men

Getting right beside them

Seeing the last klick coming

Concentrating on the running

Last few hundred now in sight

Powering home to win the fight



The Bridge


I did not cross the bridge that day,
Though stood and looked upon its arch,
Its mossy carpet, soft within the mist,
Lead to a wood of distant larch.

Perhaps with some regret, I might add,
I turned away from what I’d seen
And the future promise of a secret view
Became a thought of what might have been.

I guessed, as I listened to the distant sound
Of quiet thunderous waters fall,
I would one day return to that scene
And without the mists would see it all.

But in telling this little memory tale
My memory fades of that little track
And I can no longer find the bridge
And therefore never able to go back.


You asked me (straight)
to write a rhyme
about an itch I could not scratch.
I told you (straight)
I spent no time
writing of such things;
only feelings of love,
or hate.

Though inside my mind I have an itch
which signs its name as ‘dark’.
It tells me I stink (I scratch)
wrong things to think (I scratch)
leaves no visible mark as I scratch
and as I stretch and reach for it, it moves,
dangling love in my face
and laughs loudly at my fate.

free time blues

I heard that there were
under-dressed waitresses
but no floozies in the jacuzzi
all very strange stuff for you
so I’ve come out and see
you making up for lost time
and took an early arrival
to catch you out for sure
all alone in the wilds in
a log cabin in the forest
no jazz in the art gallery
no punk in the basement
just you strumming on the porch
singing out to the creatures around
I looked on and smiled
then I went straight home