Purple Toothed Grin

Month: December, 2014

Mail You’ve Got

Is it just me (or is it you too)
who feels oddly unloved with an empty spam queue?

Are my tags not seductive,
my titles not titillating, my poems not constructive?

I ask of you, Akismet, what can I do
to tempt the spambots – the illiterati – into loving me too?

With a black-and-white theme, words and no photos,
I consistently manage to escape their notice.

Here’s my conclusion, my literary coda:
I shouldn’t emulate poets; I should emulate Yoda.

Sitting next to myself on my couch

It’s lucky time can be rewritten,
there are many things I’d like to do
though right now my life is being unwritten
as I spend all my time watching Dr Who.

Just when I thought it finally over
(the light at the end of the vortex beckoning)
I stumbled upon the Torchwood cover:
my future (and present, by my reckoning)

remains but a blinkin’ blinking cursor
that will never become text
as every show is a precursor
to the show that’s coming next.

Another possible future:

The (Time) Lords, they have smiled upon me,
this addiction I may just have kicked
because Torchwood doesn’t appear to be
available on my Netflix.

December 24

Rain falls —
our white christmas dimples
and disappears.

A Frozen Landscape

There was a blizzard in my brain
and everything is covered in
white nothingness
and all the gates are frozen shut.

Wrapped up in a blanket, I
await The Great Thaw when some
bumbling brain cell finally rediscovers fire
and things begin to flow once again.

Until then, in preparation,
I’ll let the seat of my chair warm
the seat of my pants,
and, anchored there, I’ll find my release —

a once majestic glacier
shrinking in the open sea
or, it could be said, I think,
expanding indefinitely.

Home Alone

Baby’s at daycare –
I can still hear her breathing
through the monitor


Most days
my to-do list reads like 
the TV guide

Shadows of Ourselves: A Shadow Sonnet Exercise

You never saw a doctor as you
never saw the need but then never
cannot last forever, you cannot
forever dodge disease. To find forever

is, however, all we can do: mortality is
our weapon forged deep within our
cells: they mutate and mutiny, cells
conspiring to conspire, to conspire

against the brick-and-mortar you, against
who holds you under lock and key, who
keeps your feet planted as your soul keeps
lifting up — after years of heavy lifting —

until its arms are light as air, until
time, at long last, no longer need keep time.