I’d hoped for stars but after all that you denied
outright knowledge of their names.
I tested you, what’s this or that, pointing out bright
patterns in black sky, fingers glowing
moonish magic and pure expectation only to be
grounded like those garish toys in your garden
where the vegetables failed without explanation.

I know you lied because you said that you could not,
your fury at the garden was irrational, contrived.
Rejection of each star was worse.
You knew every one but refused to share
anything that might shine too close;
like the photo on your dresser,
just another nameless piece of spinal pain.

intimately unknown


The moon is hanging there with that look
like I should know – alone and wild –
she’s a blinding mass of ancient art, forgotten.

Her dark side’s vicious, grave with dream
debris and angry space.
Next door, savage voices power-up
fire shots at what their coupling means.

That’s my point       he shouts
what’s it to you            if I get smashed?
Beautiful and still     she’s a bell
in-toning          when struck hard enough.


Adam’s precious rib hangs there, a mystery
with that look – like I should know
but gravity’s a blinding mass of ancient art
and I’ve forgotten every star-story.

Savage voices next door power-up,
fire shots at what their coupling means.
That’s my point     he shouts,
I can be out less time and still get smashed.

There’s lightning on the moon, some say,
hiding fear in hollow laughter.
Under veils of dusty lore she’s a bell
in-toning when struck hard enough.

reach …


I am trying to climb, trying to heave soil,
hands – curled like cups –
ache and sting below birdsong, among roots.

Crows wait up-there, patient sentinels at ease
with accidental chaos;
the car is inside out, one wheel spinning air.

Sparrows calm down-here in the muddy ditch,
their flighty pitch a somewhere
I might reach, a chattering of  hedgerow

life that might mean nothing, tiny pointers
whirling giddy sound.


written by way of an image challenge from Magpie Tales


the last two lines aren’t right but i’ve lost the plot so they’ll have to wait for now *lol


Are there more of you and me, pissed-up
in a few dimensions, wondering if this
thunder strums each sky the same as now?
Whatever, I am not about to lighten up.

Later you will kill for dinner and I’ll watch,
awed that life can boil so fiercely –
pray those crayfish reappear
in a world that you can’t stake or drown.

Let’s forget about the ring you found for me
while you teased another girl
in the cemetery – she’d have liked to die
but you had no urge for idle merriment.

We won’t talk about that I don’t like it
moment – words set in
obsidian against silver  – turning.



My thanks and apologies to everyone who commented on the drivel that I posted late last night. I had to send it into trash. This is a re-write. Possibly just as bad but maybe not as embarrassingly so lol …

the moon’s not dead

shaman wolf by Susan Boulet

exile made ice-work of all caress

you couldn’t bear to be touched
so i kept the tide low-key,
waned almost out of reach, love
knew you would not drown
my intuition
that you were hollowed ground
scrying craters, dust and loss
for the times you killed

yourself and felt better for it

on the rocks

2014 rewrite:

No matter that a gull screams
yet another invocation,
tears the rain apart,
dives at my smoky silhouette

spinning into distance.
I am a simple thought,
drifting in the wild
crazy flowers, colour
reaching for a sky to climb



out of time’s disguise i’m not on the rocks,
no matter that a gull screams
yet another invocation, tears rain apart,
dives at a smoky silhouette

spinning in the distance; i am always just
a simpler thought – drifting
in wild-crazy flowers, colour reaching
for a sky to climb