This poem is for all those who find this life a trial. Keep on keeping on, as someone once remarked.

Buried in the Sunlight

Eleanor played the pipes as a piper should,

flying light with grace and flair and swing,

with airs like a wind band in the deep greenwood:

dancing her careless heart towards an Appalachian spring.

All who knew her, all for whom her life seemed bles...

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The Imperfect Gardener

Someone once said, long ago or last week,

that it's futile on a finite and populous planet

to seek a truth, or a finely polished apple,

in the still-life-on-canvas we daily behold,

and by such uncouth behaviour

we are mostly confounded, and fail to grapple.

So we're prisoners here, in uncounted millions,

unable to leap high or fast enough to...

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