He kills,

While we are touching everything else,
Touch-screens everywhere,

Apparently God kills,

In Catholic Garb,
In Coptic yellow, in
Jewish robes,

God kills surreptitiously,

At sunset,
On bridges, through

Garrulous Muslims,

It is a mistake to believe that the only touch-screen around,
Is email.

God is a touch-screen.

We do not remember friends, we
Remember enemies,

We do not remember being appreciated, we
Remember being insulted,

Our thoughts on the environment create the environment yet our thought,
Is momentarily polluted,

We want intelligent whales and emotional elephants then kill,

We poison each other and blame it on God, where
God is not the problem, we

Instead believe the sycophant.


♦picture♦ Brian Snyder, Reuters

-evocative short poetry-






guru, meditation, india

Tie the thread to the farmer!
Marry the Bride to the Groom!
Arrange a wedding for five billion people,

We are approaching the end!

Road rage is the immediate,
And sudden reconfiguration of,

A prior expectation and we are doing well,
The old lady, the Guru and I,

We are making effort.

It is,
In this moment,
A crisis which kills on the streets of America, and
People are cruel.

Just off the ashen pavement, obsidian in the dark,
A boy is playing PlayStation, so –

Kurukshetra! Ping,
Lakshmi! Ping,
Mohammed! Buddha! Ping, ping.

The lady looks hypnotised,
I am cold,
And people are cruel.

They have left the Guru here and gone to bed,
Can you imagine that?

♦Picture♦ PJ Kaiser

– evocative, short poetry –



And suddenly there is life;

Cross legged,
Bug eyed,
Oiled and massaged in the temple,

Groomed by a priest in,
Orange robes and,
Fat, fat

Ghee smeared on painted plywood,

Frantic efforts to recall the past-times of,
Frolicking on Earth,

Right next to the toilet,
Near the paddocks,
In this life.

Planes punch through the,
Sky at the nearby airport,

More planes than it seems,
India has a right to;

And the man across from me,
Is fingering a grain of rice in his pocket,

Sweetened at the alter by the,
Guru’s tears,

smuggled through the airport check,

just so he can swallow it now,
as his flight number is called.

Photo – LotusSculpture

-evocative short poetry-

Love the sinner, not the sin


I go to church and sit at the back while you tell me I’m going to hell

I go to church and sit at the back while you announce the Dates for ‘Men’s Breakfast’

I go to church and sit at the back while you undress my sin, wanting to love me naked

Stripped, beaten, unrighteous, unholy, I sit at the back and go to church, every Sunday.

I go to Church.

I go to Church.


short poetry, God, felony, criminals, death, purgatory

You would walk into a quiet house,
In a quiet neighbourhood and,
Take a young girl,

Into the woods,
And rape her,
Leaving a father disfigured,

You would,
Take a husband,
In the middle of the night,

And break his legs,
And electrocute him,
Because he will not salute your
Blown up image,

You would,
Empty bank accounts,
Nurtured for years,

By elderly couples who,
Just want rest,
And something leftover for grandchildren,

You would dismantle life this way,
And bear no burden?

I tell you,

There were angels in the courtroom,
And in the playground,
And on the plane,

But I was not one of them.

I will find you and,
Eat you up.

Keep me out of this one


the lone yellow pebble bore witness
to the abduction that took place at midnight.

The man was bound and gagged and led away as
women wept.

Keep me out of this one.

Did you know that a bear needs twenty seven,
Square miles of forest, to live?

Keep me out of this one.

The woman cut the balls off the man who raped her.
Keep me out of this one.

-short evocative poetry-

Continue reading



They say that Africans,
Will have to fight for a place on the bus,

So I am pulling out all the stops.

I am burning incense and,
Turning out closets,
-exorcising demons-

I am fumigating my life,
Throwing out old clothes and,
Trying to curry favour,

-surely children were not meant for the streets,
Nor nations meant for war-

I have found sack cloth and ash and,
I intend to,

Gouge flesh with home-made irons
Flagellate until I bleed sin,
All over the carpet.

There will be gnashing of teeth,
And great wailing,
-effort must be made-

I shall identify,
Church pews with nails and,

But the spotlight keeps missing me,
And I manage to elicit only,

Splendid chuckles from my nephew.

Damaged goods


It does not matter that he does not listen to you,

That you’d rather he say your neck
Is as graceful as an antelopes,

Perhaps he’s not accustomed to lying.

If he bought you an expensive phone you,
Dropped in the bath the next day, would

In yellow,

Say he does not love you?


In the dim corner,
The shirtless man would prefer you love your neighbour.

♦Picture♦ Catholic Answers

-evocative short poetry-