Poetry is about freedom.

behind the Roman ploughmancrows and sparrows competeto see what the blade throws upfrom this red soil like ancient pots;the horse, its patience godlike,knows when to turn withoutthat hoarse, brief, ancient shout.The old typewriter rattles on so fastyou cannot tell whether she is happy in her work;again, again, the bell rings, telling herit’s time for carriage…

coined out of some personal conceitlike ‘magisterial’ some years backor ‘superbabe’ or ‘uberdiva’to indicate a class beyond classbut though, yes, ikons follow you with their eyesround the room, like a B-list babe spottinga press photographer –once done, they’re copied for centuriesby wannabees andless and less well, untilsome hep-cat thinks up something new..so, mmm, I’d quite…

Boon and Mills, Boon and Mills,steam my specs with bedtime thrills…(M&B – publishers of bodice-ripper romance, with strict rules for their writers)

a poem waiting to be formed;and there followed, that strange mixture in the mindof awe, surrender, thrill, and wonderment;and as the mind, now as obedient servantbeyond the asking, brought the building stufffor this new, strange construction (though not, I noted,in the order that these would be used) –after all this, and the poem now on…

a little too overgrown – but Monsieurprefers it that way… you see him down thereby the lily pond, the nymphées?He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all dayand nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,je crois; and though there are some who laughand say, his paintings are nowmere daubs, when I see themand…

with respect to these holy, mighty mattersyet with the open mindwhich He has risked mankind and me with,whether He keeps a tallyor even an annual journalof mankind’s cavortings around God’s Christmas…and how mankind approachesGod’s seasoned, ordained New Year,His holy, spirited Hogmanay.Does He receive intelligence,flights of angels pushing their way –or unaffected, for who knows? –through…