Thursday, 31 July 2014


Some places feel comfortable
Almost in an instant
One feels no need here
For leather bound notebooks

Instead to scrape our names
Into the shoreline rocks
To chisel, as might a sculpture
The story of deep love

Within its sea, as viewed
From the cross on the hilltop

This poem is from the collection 

Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Energies Amore

A practical label; for the time and the place
That surrounds the beautiful cusps of sleep
Around the time of awakening

Again today such stirrings
Collaborations of line and image, half sounds
Forces, exuberance; sense of a distillation process

Unable to fathom, unable either to entirely recapture
Instead to write of trees and grapes, of soft warm skin
Heavens scent, chased wildly through open vineyards

This poem is from the collection 

Tuesday, 29 July 2014


Soon as you rise, so soon you begin to fade
The veil is drawn, drawn for self protection
In the pre-existence of the grey-green leaf
There was the rich soil & volumes of water
Let then the thief be taken by jade; runes
Of our own insistence; to escape detection

This poem is from the collection 

Monday, 28 July 2014

Two-Handed Shuffle

A night of cards
Old rules, once forgotten
Brought easily back to life

A clear leader emerges
He succeeds, despite the wilful
Acts of his friends & compatriots

This poem is from the collection 

Sunday, 27 July 2014


Half dark, half light
Enough of doubt
For your silhouette
To dance, unknowingly
Through the shadows

This poem is from the collection 

Saturday, 26 July 2014

Black and White

The arched palm sways; again it says I am triumphant
As if, within itself, it has found the very essence of flexibility

Such as aimed at by architects 
& constructors of the worlds finest
Bridges & most modernist recreational houses

Messages, airborne communications, indiscernible
To the discerning holidaymaker

Late afternoon; altogether warm
A wind that whistles
As though thoroughly broken teeth

The mosquito follows its own unique & clearly
Discernible, rite of passage

A wind that crosses itself
As though a fresh new pop star
On that Apple Studios zebra crossing

What then the consequences of an all out attack
On the inflexible sources of irritation

This poem is from the collection 

Friday, 25 July 2014

Forget Me Knots

Red tips of the strawberry boy
Serenade the fated rose
Her petals all but discarded
Her flourish of second youth
Heads towards a certain
And finitely definable end

It is evening
Early evening I grant you
But still evening all the same
The days wind has blown itself out
& the swimming pool surface is so settled
That the laburnum now reflects my true colours

This poem is from the collection 

Thursday, 24 July 2014

It is Sunday

Not yet night
Not much to do
No rush to do it

Empty beer bottles roll across the tiles
Roll into & under
The discarded laid back sun loungers

The last waft of sweet music
On the breeze of sweeter marijuana
Seems a substantially long time ago

This poem is from the collection 

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Towards Clear

The roar of the sea
Settles my disquiet
The warm wind
Fettles my cobwebs

No more the old stones that crumble on causeways
Here there are no walls for long forgotten portraits

Yes, we could join in
Set aside the words
But I am unprepared
Still there is a tightness

This poem is from the collection 

Tuesday, 22 July 2014


I will start with the cloud
If only because it is unusual
Then again, also because
It sharpens the horizon

Whose thin line
Of deepest serge-blue
Cuts straight across; divides the sky
And the sea; it partitions the sea and sky

Between the horizon
And my shoes there are many shades
Of blue, blues that merge
Merge blue to green

Which then
Through many shades 
Of greens, merge to white
Before the orange splash

Of sand; a soft colour
Very soft indeed, in sharp contrast 
To my luminescent, fluorescent
And super-phosphorescent, purple socks

This poem is from the collection 

Monday, 21 July 2014


That moment of joy
Over the sand dunes
Past the restaurant
Down the worn out steps
On to the sun-drenched beach
Skip freely on the sands
To the sea - all full
Of splendid waves
& the foam
As they turn and crash
Unrestrained, unbeaten

This poem is from the collection 

Sunday, 20 July 2014

In place of DIY

Less of a search for memory, we leave the pictures
Of distressed doors and windows behind

More in a hope for future self-expression
The thought is to create rather than buy

Although right now the plan is to navigate
Past Portimao, to the sands of Praia da Rocha

This poem is from the collection 

Saturday, 19 July 2014

Cortes Real, Paderne

Incessant chatter
Out among the dry trees
In the acres
Of interminable scrub

A life’s work: of space
Colours, hues; backdrops
Of washed-white walls
For giclée prints and
Idiosyncratic objet d’art

Above me, as a shade
A triangular canvas
Suggestive of the voyages
Of more adventurous
Portuguese artists

This poem is from the collection 

Friday, 18 July 2014


The blood blister is expanded
As though the pool of ozone treated water
Had infiltrated the final layer of skin, passed
Through the membrane to dilute the purple puss
& thereby facilitate its further hold around the finger

There are five shades of green; from lime
To grass, to fir, to laburnum, to mimosa
There is only one pink, that of the solitary rose
Planted, one presumes, with a certain purpose
Perhaps to the memory of a prematurely lost love

And so the flies land on the skin; drawn by the sense
Of victory, or drawn by the same death as witnessed
By the fallen and dried leaves of the bougainvillaea
An old climber, that trails haphazard over the pergola

This poem is from the collection 

Thursday, 17 July 2014

Long Player

Might I name this breeze ‘The scratch’
Like the sound of needle on vinyl before
The singer or orchestra make their entrance

The sound of the formula one racing cars
As they take that long corner at the far end
Of the two hundred miles per hour circuit

The sound of the sea washing the shore
Though we know the shore to be too far away
For the wind to carry the rush of the sea

It is the sandpaper in my own mind that generates
The internal sense of ‘scratch’; sandpaper which 
I would willingly rub over those f’ing mosquitoes bites

This poem is from the collection 

Wednesday, 16 July 2014


Beneath the skin a poison
An irritation, not life threatening
Yet a disruption nevertheless
That also spreads to others

The urge to scratch is withheld
A similar dissatisfaction
That I imagine for a hunger striker
Within the confines of a prison cell

Yesterday we visited the vast water
From the balcony at Amiera near Alqueva
We looked out on our own Lake Isle of Innisfree
But to live here, how am I able to contemplate

When my mind is focussed on the bite
Rather than on the refreshed vine plantations
Irrigated by the man-made dam that also powers
This sparsely populated, but firmly historical region

This poem is from the collection 

Tuesday, 15 July 2014


Sting, sting & sting again
Three stings
From yesterday night

Transitory annoyance
How not to have seen
How not to have heard

That certain little blighter
Who helped himself
To myself; more of

Myself, than I ever could

This poem is from the collection 


In the night I have been stung
Thus I am woken, not only by love
But also by the resonant throb
Of the mosquito’s poison

Now it is the minutiae that attracts me
As if F Scott Fitzgerald’s own despair
Was a fundamental part of this occupation

Founded on ants, this place named Algarve
Is throng with their movement
Only the water, of which there is ample
Only the water diverts their passage

This poem is from the collection 

Monday, 14 July 2014


I am sat inside
A warm breeze, spills in, through the open door
Tickles the hair on my thin bare legs

I have carried a song
Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Brooklyn Bridge
Carried it all the way from waking

John Berger’s Bento’s Sketchbook is by my side
I bought it four weeks ago, especially for this vacation
I am high with expectation; pray no disappointments

The breeze whistles in the chimney
It reaches here, after having moved with grace
Through the gently-swaying, flowered blue mimosa

On the patio, beside the pool, there is conversation
Happy voices, easy with their laughter
Talk of antique shops, in country villages, & the like

This poem is from the collection 

Sunday, 13 July 2014


After the afternoon shift have departed
The serious bathers set up shop

With sufficient words
To last
The all of summer

Enough bare skin to captivate
The most discerning of lookers on

This poem is from the collection 

Saturday, 12 July 2014


Scents of the sea
Sun soaked and shaded respite
Symphonies of waves, lovers at play
A nation, in conversation, within itself

This poem is from the collection 

Friday, 11 July 2014


Old sores poured over
Pavements lined with leaves
Perhaps the laburnum family

I kick my feet
On the surface of the pool
Create waved reflections
Of the open blue sky

Ever to have such certainty
That the angle grinder
Would surely have to grind
That as workmen, we work

This poem is from the collection 

Thursday, 10 July 2014

Sound Sea

As if the sound of Cadmium Red
Amid the drone of Shostakovich
Would improve the reflection

This poem is from the collection 

Wednesday, 9 July 2014

Set to Landscape

On this line, plunge into cold water
Roll back the excesses of yesterday
Be refreshed by a word; zest. Pen
Pressed against the ultra fine paper
Pathways through art & love & you
Tokens prescribed beneath the pines
In the hold of the breeze. In the hold
Of a need for a slight definite distance
As if the footsteps on the sands are the
Only waves that can break our hearts

This poem is from the collection 

Tuesday, 8 July 2014


Press the shutter
With a deliberate certainty
All of time thus withheld
From your creation

Shades and shadows merge
As do the layered conversations
Occasionally a quietness falls
Only to be broken

By those with a fear of silence
To talk of previous families
The development of generations
Each with their own closure

Some had stayed in the shadows
Odd ones had strayed to fame
Less found the unlikely fortune
Then of course there are

The ones we don’t talk about

This poem is from the collection 

Monday, 7 July 2014

Sing Up

History implies a gravitas
Though not for the karaoke bar

Whose moment in the spotlight
Whilst heavy with hope for some
Is, for the majority, destined
Only to be lived in that instant

This poem is from the collection 

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Cupboard Love

What took them to part
Stretched enough to break

Gold rimmed porcelain plates
Sign off those affluent times

This poem is from the collection 

Saturday, 5 July 2014


My skin is cleaner
I kissed your lips
You smiled, joked
About my person

My profile is ungainly
I nestle up close
Your warmth, welcome
About my person

This poem is from the collection 

Friday, 4 July 2014


Seagulls make their call
All over that old song by Procul Harum
How close then the sea I ask myself
What distance to the gleam of salted water

Bentos Sketchbook lays on top
Of the ladies golden-handled carrier bag
The bag is embroidered, festooned with brocade
I wonder at the time taken in its assembly

Tomorrow it will carry beach towels
Suncream, a few very personal nic-nacs
To give the day a surety of purpose
On Wednesday next we will go home

This poem is from the collection 

Thursday, 3 July 2014


Hesitantly I enter the pool
Take refuge on the inflatable ring
Paddle, with hands and feet
Side to side, end to end

Body and water become at one
I swim several lengths
First slowly, without cutting the surface
Then at pace; frenetic, wilfully insurgent

To be pursued, so I read, is to lose all fear
Thus encouraged I take a position at the deep end
Dive, or plunge; for at once I recognise
I am anything but a torpedo

This poem is from the collection 

Wednesday, 2 July 2014


As if more than the ether, sounds 
& methylated vapours evaporate
From the tables of nail varnish

Good vibrations
She’s giving me excitations

This poem is from the collection 

Tuesday, 1 July 2014


The water flows over
With a regular burble

Tonight it will be the cicadas
That we hear, but until then

To rub ones fingers on the lavender
Focus the camera

On the singular pinkish-red rose
That stands at the otherwise side

Of the sparkling, and inviting
Fusion-blue swimming pool

This poem is from the collection