Come the fall


A cloudburst blasts the window breached
by cricket ball that broke the peace.
Storm’s diplomats create a din
and bloat the papered walls for no-one’s in.

For no-one’s in. The plane unpacked mid-air
and scattered over fields like golden grain:
her floral summer dress buds on a branch,
their baby’s pacifier thorns entwine.

A conference of flies attend the fruit,
tomatoes on the vine set to explode.
We are the gardeners, but we cannot pick
the harvest nor the garden. We must dig.


Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of Pawel Kadysz,



A pack of razors – Bic (they leave me smooth);
those pink wax strips she likes (we depilate
together as a couple); One light bulb
(the one that’s in the bathroom stall has blown);
the sausages our dog won’t vomit up;
a tube of teething gel to soothe our boy;
the toilet paper that I will forget
in all the detail of my daily life
and suffer for. Why do I fail to heed
the simple rise and fall of household goods?
Each day I take down notes, and add new steps
on scraps of envelopes and torn-up bills
like playing Chopsticks but each day anew.

Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of Jake Melara,

Yet this, too, will pass



The summer sky began,

they sought to keep us out,

five kids confined to grounds,

white gloss paint on our hands.


Sometimes, a slipping starts.

The clouds delight the lost.

Where did it go, that time,

that sun-drunk confidence?


I walk the borders, mow,

maintain the privet hedge,

and fund horizons now

for taxmen, shrinks, and quacks.


Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of

In the style of … The Charge of the Light Brigade



Teacher week, teacher week
Teacher week trundled.
“We are that young girl’s folks,”
Said that sweet couple.
“Naughty, your daughter is.
Shot out her snot,” we said.
“Yes, she is ours,” sighed they,
Sighed that sweet couple.

“Naughty, your daughter is.
Expelled her yesterday
After a scuffle.”
We are in trouble now
We are in puppy chow
We ought to take a bow.
“Yes, we are Peach’s folks,”
Said that sweet couple.

Critics to right of them,
Critics to left of them,
Critics in front of them,
Harried and fuddled,
Suffering the hue and cry,
Hearing the groans and sighs,
“That’s not how we see Peach,”
She’s not the type to fight.”
Said that sweet couple.

Burned up the class report
Burnt as the papers caught
Classics her teachers taught,
Flicking her boogers then
At the class dumbstruck.
Threw out the teacher’s cane
Straight through a window pane;
Class pet and bully
Ran from this classy dame
Spat on and humbled.
“No,”They said. “It can’t be.
She’s our true double.”

Critics to right of them,
Critics to left of them,
Critics behind them
Harried and fuddled,
Suffering the hue and cry
Out came their stubborn pride,
That they would not confide
All for the love of Peach,
“She’s not the type to fight,”
All that was left inside,
Left of that couple.

Why can’t they simply nod?
Accept this child, their sprog.
All the world wondered.
Clean up the snot she flicked,
Clean up their daughter’s shit,
Not that proud couple.

Image: CC0 1.0 Universal (CC0 1.0) courtesy of

The ‘World’s Best Dad’ t-shirt of foreboding

Telefonerende vader met huishoudschort geeft baby de fles. [1961].


The legend, World’s Best Dad, in caps,

around a tiny globe it far outweighs,

machine-stitched in outstanding text.


As sure as Ahab nailing to the mast

the Ecuadorian 8 doubloon, I bear

a surety to parenthood.


As fast as Ahab to my aim I’m tied

though joints give way and veins stand proud,

what I?