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 Road Not Taken


I wish this was

water under the bridge –


your choices are a constant drip,

a flood of tears,

a deluge

forcing me to back-track,

take a detour,

set up pylons

where a simple drain should suffice.

We’ve been down this one before.


next time,

we could try

the road not taken?

Snow Has Outstayed Her Welcome


She’s always underfoot,

she gets in my hair,

she smothers my sidewalk

and obscures the air.

Her habit of blanketing

my windshield in white

is no longer funny –

I think it quite trite.

She outright refuses

to melt or to leave –

revenge is my hairdryer

shoved up my sleeve…




are the wave

which crashes my shore,

washing my substance far off to sea;


are the wind

which batters my door,

deluging undertow, wearing down Me.


find it odd

that my road cannot bear

the weight which it should, and so you fume;


count it strange

that my countenance wears

a funeral pall, like a runaway tomb.


still deny

what your actions have done,

your heart, calloused over, waxes blind;


will still try

with your bullying run

to make sure that my path’s undermined.