Miki Trivia. I am Vegetarian. I also love and respect animals and disapprove of hunting. 

 Agnes Brown.

A 21st Century Tale of Woe.

Agnes Brown looked back on the pages of her

Long and well-thumbed life. It was the same old

Story and as she neared the end she realized that

Any wands that may have been waved had drooped

And failed. Her Fairy Godmother must have had

An accident because she never arrived, although

 Many years were passed in waiting. The prince who

Once found Agnes was not charming and he had left

Well before midnight. She always had two shoes that

Rubbed her heels. Serviceable brogues. Glass slippers

Were not Agnes’s style. She had made many wishes

 But none had come true, though someone had cast

A spell at some point for she was slowly transmuted

Into a crone. Her wishing well ran dry very early and

Her broom had done nothing more than sweep.

No helpful elves ever appeared at stroke of midnight

To ease her burdens. She never saw a Unicorn or a

 Golden egg. When she bought pumpkin it was just for

Soup and her beanstalks produced only beans. As she

Embraced the cruel trappings of age and loneliness,

Agnes Brown could tell you, without hesitation 

that life is not a fairy-tale.

 Black Eyes.


We walk Orwellian streets

Bathed in the bland gaze

Of watching automatons.

That perch on poles,

 Hide under eaves,

And follow our every move with

Black eyes grimy and glazed

They are not tempered by reason or

Gifted with judgement, they

Simply spy and relay.

Sharing our faces with

Anonymous digital databases.

Keeping tags, storing us away

For future checks and reference

as we pursue our lives

Wrapped in our ignorant innocence.

Miki trivia. For many years I played percussion in bands. My main band was a predominantly female line-up called the Dangerous Sisters. I also played sessions with other bands. 

 Dozing While it Rains.

 In the half-land when sleep has crept close

but consciousness still lingers. Images scissor.

There is a sigh of hem against stocking.

A wisp of blue smoke. A hand holds a cup,

little finger crooked in tea-time elegance.

And downstairs an old man shuffles.

The cardigan is holed. Wool is worming

out of frayed edges. His pate is liver-spotted.

He bends his neck to gaze into a meagre grate.

Picks up a faded photograph and listens

to the birds circling as he remembers the noise

Outside, reflections in a silver pavement

flutter against passing eyes.

The rain tumbles to glimmering windows

and the sleeper turns over to the rhythm of the fall.

 Drawn Back.


Brushed away by human hands

As a wisp of spiders web,

The lonely soul skimmed low and fast,

Dipping and spinning in misty spirals.

Searching, still searching.

The lake glacial blue and still

Beckoned in its glittering smoothness

Drawing her back.

She hovered, seeking the mirrored surface,

Finding the place

Where one last memento lay.

 Then, the wisp above

And the cold still face below,

Like image and reflection

Could merge as a breath into an open mouth

And the roaming at last,

Might cease.


Passing Through.

 This small town oozes grimness.

With poverty written into

Every shabby shop-front.

Charity shops display rags in futility.

Grimy windows cataracted by neglect,

Peer out at dirty pavements

And watch the litter that scampers

 Unimpeded along grey streets.

Opposite, stoop shouldered houses,

Carry the burden of existence.

Dispirited people move listlessly,

Held upright only by the force of hope.

They are empty. Soulless.

Ground fine by the mill of despair.