Fireside reflection one winter evening

I am sewing. I wonder whether it will

be of some comfort to know years hence.

The hours spent by the stove till

this record is shepherded towards present tense.


First a sweatshirt, then a blanket to pullover

the broadening shoulders by the fire side.

Each stitch a tie that pricks our regret over

a loosening grip; each badge a source of pride.


And tomorrow’s tomorrow, will they see

the same pangs or remain blind in slumber

– just as their forebears be –

until loss and longing fuels their hunger.







What is this dark foreboding?

A crescendo rising to crash our

very being.

And rest:

for once it has begun there is no respite

or repeal.

Run free

or do not run at all.

Climb from this descent.

Tip toe if you must

but charge



Build. Not a

wall but the means

to overthrow and dismantle

to forge anew;

challenge this brutal beauty

beholden to its past.

Scout Purple

“It’s not purple;

it’s Scout Purple,”


is it richer? 


Does it have more 


Does it dutifully 

denote our service? 

Does it practically 


our promise, 

our adherence; 

a simple signifier  

of our Scout values 

collated and codified 

into one 


expression of colour? 

the Scout Shop



“it is dis-



Against the wall

it’s like banging your head against the wall

that would not fall

but you did

as you slid

trying to flee

all that would never be

all that would stop you from standing tall

it’s like banging your head against the wall


Karma suits you

an invite

a tentative knock at the door

tea and toast and tears

and all those things shared through the years

if I could I would love you more

less flexible now and yet

still we remain




Day of the wren

No time for eloquence

to fall upon frustrated ears.

No Sanhedrin and no Saul,

the onlooker was but a call

away, shielded behind the safety

of the bloodied panic button.

A glutton for punishment

and conscription, was voluntary.