My Poems’ Purpose

The title is my name,
the page is my flesh,
the letters are my fragments,
the comma holds my breath,
the words are my authority,
their space is my heart,
their meaning is my hopelessness,
their inadequacy is my striving,
the poem is my self,
the effort is my being,
the purpose, ah, the purpose,
is love.


Feathers And Flame

Your heat is immense,
forging my metal
from sword
to eagle.
I take to the sky
gorge myself
on your inferno,
swallow you whole.

Your flames
my horizon,
my wings,
the sun.

I pirouette
on your tongues,
you protrude, extend, reach,
meet me
in the heavens.

Your oath to heat
my freedom in flight
fuse into a planet,
a union
of feathers and flame.

I’ll Be Anything You Want

I’ll be anything you want, my love,
a grain of sand, a panoramic view,
the thirteenth bar in a twelve bar blues,
I’ll be your Mills and Boon, I’ll be your mews,
If only you will love me.

I’ll be anything you want, my love,
a fortune teller, your yoga teacher,
your secret agent in Argentina,
a roadie, a mystic, your opera singer,
if only you will love me.

I’ll be anything you want, my love,
Your coldest night, your warmest coat,
a buddhist monk, captain of your boat,
your water diviner or celebrity of note,
if only you will love me.

I’ll be anything you want, my love,
a megalomaniac, invader of Zimbabwe,
your weather vein, writer of your play,
a politician on the make, your DJ (remixed),
if only you will love me.

Flowering Fable

Fold me into your nook
like a flower pressed in a book
that we will always write.
Hold me like a phrase
that swoons across your page
and pollen bursts our night.

Kiss me like a poem
with words we use so seldom
whose power dethorns the rose.
Touch me with just one letter
like the simplest flower gets her
down the spine of our prose.

Lay me down like a petal
in our words, let me settle
naked on the kitchen table.
Caress me with your word play,
rhyming me until I splay
between the covers of our fable.

For Every

For every field of battle,
for every kilojoule in anger,
for every hurt out of love,
for every night of tears,
for every laugh to humiliate,
for every blocking from pride,
for every word in distrust,
for every deed of resentment,
for every lie – period!
For every shout from rage,
for every love that wasn’t,
for every glance in disgust,
for every lash from the tongue,
for every slam in frustration,
for every minute of bickering,
for every burst of impatience,
for every one who wasn’t you,

I’ll kiss her 1,247 times
and I won’t be counting,

I’ll listen, listen, listen,
then kiss her tongue,

I’ll carry her to our bed
and follow her instruction,

I’ll talk, talk, talk,
until she says I got it,

I’ll get down on my knees
and anything else she wants,

I’ll take her to the moon
on Sunday afternoons.

Now…where is she?


Potosi is so old, so tragic,
its history is forged
from wordless memories,
of voices so forbidden,
so buried,
we will never know its stories.

A silver tongue long raided,
its dignity smelted from flesh,
generations of silver crosses
praised in cathedrals
of indigenous bones,
monuments that will never talk
for all the silver in the world.




The Beyond Of My Atacama

You are the beyond of my Atacama.
The deeper of the blue of my sky.
The dark of the shadows of my clouds.
The sharper of the edge of my wind.
The heat of the dry of my desert.
The prehistory of the age of my plains.
The urge of the eruption of my volcanoes.
The capture of the rain of my lakes.
The weakness of the holes of my roads.
The rocks of the sand of my desert.
The promise of the shallow of my lakes.
The dreams of the land of my thoughts.
The water of the source of my rivers.
The light of the colour of my slopes.
The vacuum of the air of my altitude.
The path of the depth of my canyons.
The awe of the land of my travels.
The writer of the secrets of my stories.