If we are only ships that in the dark night pass,
that find each other for a while and then are cast
by wind and currents each on a different tack
drifting too far to ever steer our courses back,
then know I fly your name upon the mast
and carry your memory with me to the last.

Junk journalism, like junk food,
is bad for public health;
we graze on fake celebrities
and choke on others' wealth.

We snack on sex and violence,
imbibe verbal abuse,
ingest the latest additives
with boredom as excuse;

we substitute for wholesome fare
re-constituted mush;
our minds grow flabby from so much
re-gurgitated slush.

So is there no alternative
to journalistic piss?
Of course there is - you're reading it,
junk poetry like this.

Flyleaf

"This book belongs to ME"
and where she lives is noted here,
the flyleaf record of her childish glee
at doing something clever, logically
extending her address to England,
Europe, World, The Universe.

Silly to an adult,
out of place, but why?
For that child starts to realise
in those few foolish words
the journey of the mind
discovering worlds within worlds.

When will she see as clearly again
the logic leading on
to the inevitable paradox
of the place of Man?

Inward and outward journeys start
within that child's head -
the distance of the stars
and the bones of the dead.