A Collection of Poems

I’m poleaxed by sleeping So tired that I’m weeping Stuck here in these stones I won’t be escaping

I died But my heart still breathed

It is not the leaking roof Nor the singing mosquitoes In the damp, wretched cell

I was born in 1942 if for some reason my mother has not lost her memory.

Hearken, child, unto a story!  For the moon is in the sky,  And across her shield of silver,  See! two tiny cloudlets fly. 

The wind screamed, the wind howled its rages, The ocean leaped the length of the cliff And my soul, faced with those surges Of black rolling...

Oh, down by Millwall Basin as I went the other day,  I met a skipper that I knew, and to him I did say:  "Now what's the cargo, cap...

Holy Spirit, giving life to all life,

Wild thickets thorn hedges bar your way wayless.

While you decline to cry, high on the mountainside a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.