We know it will kill us,

But we do it anyway.

Huddled together,

Like this.

In this place of ill repute.

The townsfolk think poorly of us.

But I am sure

Someone in here,

Has read Rimbaud.

Written poetry,

Dreamt of Dante.

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The Glowering Mists of Autumn

As I travel life's journey I'm often-times struck

By a vision both novel and possibly true; that serenity

In a dangerous world without luck,

Is impossible; but is there a temporal divinity?

Perhaps the root causes of wonder and joy

Really are in the sky, or on Dante's fine peak,

Or my fireside, where the dance won't annoy

In the compa...

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This poem is about growing old.

The City Shadowed

I cannot remember my name. And

where I came from. Or when I came here.

I am not from this place, this city, and

its silent people, its pale-vaulted sky,

its black shadow silhouettes

flickering lightly across blank walls.

Here the bar staff talk in lilting Irish

cadences, and look straight through you

as ...

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(How many roads?)

Stood on the banks of a stream with forces amassed, looking on towards the journey-defining second decade of adulthood.

A man must have the presence of mind, the perspicacity to acknowledge himself and hence possess the ability to adapt. For consciousness of the need to change is assailed perpetually by deluge of implacable ego. The desire to be right is lazy and disingenuo...

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