laundry womb

 laundry womb

the washing machine

it’s innards gurgling

the room becomes a womb

then all at once 

everything starts spinning 

and thump jumping

as the waters break 

through the bent tube

i make my move

when prose says a word please

when prose says a word please

you wait for a word

then two come along

they are so full of themselves

no   wait

there will be another along soon

but soon is a long short

soon you will get it

says prosody

be gone

two words say

                                        be done

here’s one word for you

stupid  stupid  stupid

now look what you gone an done

so every poems repeats

soon   soon 

Gower Walking Festival 2026

Gower Walking Festival 2026

to walk release on the winds of breath

come rain or shine the euphoria of being led 

by leaning upon the words of a guide across

a palimpsest of paths freshly reappointed

   

from far and wide they converge 

upon conversation’s terrain to uncoil 

as a group along a line to where the 

sea’s amalgam sands the landed sky

drawn along in a pause we wait

for our ears to grow accustomed to

words that paint a picture within a picture

to be handed a seance of times bygone

funny sunny or bane of rain

heads lift   hearts sore

for a poem has captured more 

so much more than i can say

they say ~ ~ thank you ~ thank you all

more walks if you please

so that we can chat and stride

along tides and fields and trees

rambling along a rambling wave

time and again we say

thank you all

  from all of us

freckled

 freckled

tell me it happened

although i think no-

-one could endure that much

it’s like

a stationary wave on

a slice of wind

your summer freckles fading 

no no

oh boy

oh boy

it’s worth repeating 

that i had a winchester 

repeating rifle

a cowboy suit

  a davy crockett hat

    an overriding dream

                                                                        but 

like the cowboys and indians 

they are all gone now

riding off across a prairie 

wrinkled by the winds of time

into the fire of my last sunset 

sowing corn

 sowing corn

even a complete poem

is but a fragment of a life 

past present and future are but

dots in a corpus of thought

dots that time subscripts

to exclamation and question

marks

at why the final stanza is

but the title of the book of life

penned by pecking hens

looking for a worm of truth

the eternal maternal carousel

 the eternal maternal carousel

mother and child ambivalence 

seated on two concentric carousels 

spinning their undulations in different directions

driven by the man with the power lever

you pays your money

you takes your ride

are not the horses golden 

the neon and everlasting smile

spilling popcorn everywhere 

as we kiss at each parting