The Demise of the English Language: from Geoffrey Chaucer to Donald Trump

Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.

To a romantic

We see, we see as he hails a strange bird

In joyful abandon, we hear every word

From broad, distant sphere she falls ever nearer

And into the soul of this brave poet seer

We hear his heart pound as she falls to the ground

And swims in the fountain of kisses and sound

Caught in this moment of bliss and beyond

We hear his sweet Skylark, we hear her sweet song.  

Another sphere

Summer straddles years

Old Winter dies inside

Spring brings in the carolers

Fall’s leaves drop and rise.
Words war on the plains above

Mute as dots on snow

Translated not for earthly love

But strange and distant show.


By heart

Perched on tiptoes, filled to the brim,
Then, just in time, the drawing in

Of milky heat and daylight din,

The birches, like old urns, displayed

The awful truth, cracked and crazed,

Of beauty to poem to memory made.


Is compassion wedded to memory? In a tangle of synthetic I hold on to the flashes of static when it’s too hot for layers and wonder if solitude is not the nurtured child of forgetfulness and pride.  Sometimes I need a jolt just to make nerves meet and remember.

And that was all.

Frost crept inside the mind
Of a desperate young man
Who craved some response
And over. And under. And moves
glorious whole-some-thing
Buck-like stag-startled
Deer-shot. Anything
But this numb-fear battle-ox.

For the buckeye the winds create less havoc.
The birds are lifted out of harm’s way.
Look, most of it will mend.



Listen to the whisperer

Who keeps a quiet vigil

Still loves you.

But the dog whistlers

Farm us into submission

alarm and raise our heckles

Til we crave our own blood

And weep with the taste of it.

Wolves we are in the whispering woods

Our guts quietly spilling

Through to the roots

We hear only the distant whistle

fear and crave its blood promise.

Earth’s fair

Dense is the cloud

The light’s  thrown off

And cold the sea

And rough.

Thrown into tracks

The frontwinds steer

The phoebes North

To South.

Caught up in net

The warbler lies

Like death in stitch

And throttle.

The ships on glass

Pass through the yard

The word less strum

And battle.


Tears are offered here

This place, our sacred stage

Where I give my name,identity

You offer yours in surprise aside

Our business, our status, what forces at play?

This prologue, these tragedies, these years brought forth

To day, this still gathering of mourners

Cry, greet, keep your lines and destiny

’til you are so familiar with them, and this strange other,

You cannot speak nor see him as anything but your brother.

With you, wherever

You say you’re here, with me

Wherever. You say what time?

I say, whenever. You say,

You need to know for sure.

I say, whatever, whatever.