25 October 2009


I think I am done with my poetry cycle, I've called it Borderlands for the crossroads of memories of a suburban childhood, lucid dreaming and travel.
I am sleepy and I'm drinking coffee and wondering perhaps maybe I bit off more than I could choose.

Writer’s block

Cold, cold, cold
I’ve kept the window open for you Chagall
Klezmer music from a distance wakes me
Skipping in strains above wind rustling leaves

The neighbours are feasting in tinsel covered tents
Aeroplanes overhead going somewhere else
Low rumbles and tired eyes, cuckoo calls
It’s too quiet inside. I have no one to talk to

The lilacs are really black as night falls
There is a party under an ancient arbour
Where radish salad is served in a blue plastic tub
We eat watermelon and know all the words to old songs