More words

More words of a creative nature can be found here:



More words


There’s a rhythm to everything
Or there is not.
It seems we are divided.


My every action, rhythmic.
Consciously or not.
Steps keep their beat,
Actions tied in
Atonal tune.


A very real sense of pain
To stop. Still.
Outside of the confines
Of my rhythmic


The Drop

The rain started slowly and then sped up.

Millions of drops, of all different shapes and sizes,

Plunged into the still water of the pond.

The ripples they left behind were all different,

But each was as perfect as the others.

A concentric circle, slowly rolling outwards.

Such is the course of interaction.

I am the pool.

Every encounter is a drop.

No good, nor bad.

Just ripples. Shaping the surface.

But once, in the middle of a downpour,

A drop falls,

No more or less perfect than any other,

And yet,

From that moment,

There will always be before and after

The drop.


The Drop


How life is adorned with twists and turns

And so,

After flitting for so long between this one and that,

You find THE girl and immediately she decides – to go.


Not disappearing from life, in the way of an end,

But still,

Leaving a yawning absence, a hole, a void,

And one that is entirely impossible to fill.


One longs for so much in this life,

Such as:

The food your diet forbids, the greener grass on the other side,

But never before have I felt such a gaping crevasse


Like an errant limb removed from you, or a missing quadrant

Of sight,

Barely able to shift the focus of my thought

And worst of all, the loneliness of every night.


When the presence of the pain recedes, after the initial,

Violent shock;

The profundity of the loss, the need to be reunited

Takes hold of everything you do – a crushing, agonised block.



An array of different people
With myriad faces
Tones and lines and shapes
Hark to their different places
That once they have called home
Before this segment of life’s journey.


Fresh off the plane or third generation
We’re one, but also many
Richer for shared experience, art and information.
To integrate and include all
It’s a delicate, fragile process
But count myself ever, as I do,
A citizen of one global human nation.



Have you ever wondered if there’s something quite wrong with you?

Friends marry, buy a home, have kids;

Why am I still here?


It’s not that I haven’t loved.

But it’s always in episodes.

Brief glimpses of one story,

Enduring epics of the next.

High drama,

Mundane predictability.

Unquenchable, burning desire or

Quiet understanding.


Have you never wondered if love might be at its best

In episodes?

Like fruit,

Ripe in the glory of its season

But eventually fading.

Only the seed remaining, containing

The key to more?



They say that home is where the heart is.

And what if there is no single home?

What if home is a fleeting moment?

Or an irregular chain of them,

Stepping stones through life’s tumultuous flow.


Can lives and loves and energies be spent

Within the scope or such flitting?

Movement, to and fro,

Restless energy and the need to know

Where is the next stop, the next home?