My dad used to read poems to me when I was a kid. When I was nine I stole Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses from a bookshop. I got found out. My dad was both angry and delighted. Later I discovered Dylan Thomas, T.S.Eliot, D.H.Lawrence and W.H.Auden. I like a lot of poets. I won’t list them because it keeps changing. I’ve been writing poems for over half a century. Mine is a minor talent developed to a craftsmanlike level by practice and experience. I enjoy reading my poems to audiences. Coffee bars, art centers, classrooms. I particularly enjoy working with other poets, musicians, dancers etc in multi-media shows. My publishing history is thin, but I’m working on it.

This website shows something of my range.  It includes riddles. I’m a riddler. And a photographer. Also, I work for California Poets In The Schools, teaching poetry writing in the classroom. Elementary through high school. I’m a Gemini, from England, living in North California. Married, with a daughter. Subud member.

I think that’s all you need to know really.  I hope you enjoy this website.


        The poem

Of all the poems

in the books on the pages in the ear on the tongue

of all the poems

with their wandering pathways their minor discoveries

terrains where the footprints are everywhere

of all the poems

written rewritten rejected and cherished

only one 

will be remembered.

There will be a mountain in it

and a tree or the feeling of a tree

a small bird singing by an open window

although none of these may be referred to specifically.

As you read it you will hear your voice

as though for the first time

singing as once you sang

laughing, crying as you used to.

There will be an ocean wave in it

early sunlight on wet leaves

the sigh of someone who has reached the other side of pain

although none of these may be referred to specifically.

And there will be elements in it

that only you will recognize

and that you may not be able to elucidate.

After you have read it

the poem will linger in you.

When all the conversations are completed

when the unspoken thoughts dissolve into silence

along with the dreams the memories

the aspirations and the passions

the poem will whisper in your ear

like the song your mother sang

when you awoke alone in darkness

like the light of a star that you looked at

before you forgot to look.

Somewhere in the house

where you have lived since you were born

a door will open

that you never knew was there

and everything you see

will tell you its name

the rocks will all open like mouths

and the springs they have ached for so long to release

will ripple and sing in the sun.

Only one of the poems

will be remembered

to write it

I would give my life

over and over again.



Welcome to my website

If you look

at the world

and think

about your life

you are not looking

at the world

the first tree


for forests


I huffed and I puffed

and I blew a balloon

as big as a Boeing

as round as the moon.

I love you was written

all over its skin

and I sealed its mouth

with a silvery string.

High in the heavens

it floated and flew

following breezes

that led it to you.

Into your garden

as gentle as breath

you took out a needle

and stabbed it to death.

The pool remembers


the sea remembers


on the tongue

of the Indian

tastes of curry

Chinese Encyclopedia

Somewhere between the wheels of disaster

and the foliage of dreams

Somewhere between the biographies of driftwood

and the mist of buried cities

Somewhere between the fornicator's last confession

and the scumblehunk's first unsteady steps

someone will be thinking of you

someone will be wondering

why you did what you did

and why you didn't do what you didn't do.

And somewhere between the breaking of the wave

and the breaking of the wave

Somewhere between the first experience of purple

and the last squeeze of the toothpaste tube

Somewhere between the unanswered letter

and the forgotten lullaby

someone will be thinking of you

someone will be wondering

what's going to happen to you

when the going gets going and is gone

when there's nothing left of summertime

but a handful of broken shells.

And somewhere between the beginning of the circle

and the end of the Christmas sales

Somewhere between the seven gold keys of the twinklebox

and the grandmothers of Kentucky

Somewhere between songlight

and the moon of the fallen angel

Somewhere between here and there and now and then and impulse and regret and the smells of Old Bailey

someone will be thinking of the promises you made

someone will be wondering what happened to the dinosaurs

someone will discover your reflection

in the undiscovered pool

and the golden bells of Magnolia

will never sound again.

Click “Play” button  to hear this poem

Music by Dirk Campbell