A Nod to Punctuation

poppy seedhead


She’ll pick him an asterisk

or a comma or two; full

stops, ideas tied off in

neat packages, have always

eluded his dialogue,

circumvented an outcome.


Her dreams have become dangling

participles, unfinished

pages with Schubert’s flavour,

unable to hold hyphen’s

place – waiting, always waiting,

a watched pot that never boils.


Phrases, nuances, shadings

of meaning get bogged down, dragged

through the spittle of run-on

sentences; she slams the door

on the argument, her shoes

leaving angry editing

marks on the stairs. Period.


The Storm is Brewing

The storm is brewing, I feel its glare

In the words unsaid, in your stony stare.

A hush descends, a quiet brood

That penetrates my stormy mood.

Unnatural calm, in stillness thick,

Lies heavily, as nits we pick.

Unsettled, each mind changes pace,

Recants, and brews, and can’t save face.

 Oh, for torrents wild and wet,

Appeasing stormy weather’s threat!