Bring me no roses,
or sad white lilies
chant me no dirge,
or quiet tunes of deep respect
this is not remembrance
for it was never how I lived
or ever wanted to be
instead, bury me in colour
asters for my winding sheet
yes, daisies for my shroud
a stars and wonders funeral
and sing me out, real loud

Poetry is not spaghetti
you cannot herd, strings of complicated words
and hurl them at the page, one by one
to see if they stick, when the poem is done

I was a cutting
the empty shell
of what was always meant to flower
my somewhat withered roots
those tangled thorny barbs
were beaten,
crushed to powder
by the grinding heels
which pound life's highway
yet come the spring of middle age
I claimed the time anew,
and flourished strong
no longer swamped by rain
which fell upon my dusty head
it washed me from the drain
where life had placed my weary self
I found rebirth in lost but still familiar tracks
and a writer grew between the pavement cracks

Tofu tofu
it just won’t do
the box is pretty
with its dragon stencil
but it looks and it tastes
like it rubs out pencil

The artwork a face
a mirror the frame
no portrait the same

Spring you total ****
what goes with you
you promise much
teasing us with summer’s waiting arms
yet still you flirt with winter
and make us wait to sample all your green and airy charms
it just won’t wash, the rest of us have had about enough
I know you think it’s funny
now come on out and do your proper stuff

A pause for thought in sunlight
observe the flight of bees and busy nesting birds
hear the whispered words of a sighing breeze
smell the green of fragrant singing trees
today I cannot write, no drop of ink will flow
not a single solitary minim scratched across a waiting line
it is a feeling difficult to define, and not as I would have it go
no matter how much I would want it so
spring has stilled my pen