Monthly Archives: August 2011

Missing Notes

Missing Paperweight

Corporate and lonely, whistling a three-or-four note tune,
in metal. The logo that identifies him is a sheep, a small drum, a broken gate, a trumpet to be played in an expanse of field, and…
does buttons up and down in his preferred sequence.
Loves, laughs and thinks.

A goldfish is floating, outside the window of the fish-bowl, saying “OO, O, O, O” to a three-or-four note tune, and stays there for the rest of time, looking in.

In the fastest-growing economy, he has friends at parties, an interest in architecture, what heaven is like, and Chinese culture.

Could stay awake,
spending life, travelling with eyes closed evenly on each side,
thankfully, in a tightly-woven boat,
down the motor-river,

oh, cotton sleep fallen from the tree.
Yellow passenger lights go by;
illuminated no-smoking signs overhead.

I’d like to wear this jumper
in gale-force winds.

Call me in the morning
on the eve of a holiday,
holding a lucky bag,
a colouring book and crayons


When I count every day, I am missing every monkey. I count every cute planet-ruling simian who soon meets, fights, plays, and speaks. With a smile and tumbler-handle ears.

He wants nothing yet but a banana. I might like more than a banana, but would be content with one for now.

When I walk up the beach, chasing monkey. Chasing the difference between an inflatable and the fruit banana, and monkey knows me, from his throne in India, Malaysia and other places, and beach hut in trees.

no sunshine (“La Bamba”)

Without the sunshine
that someone put back in the box
saying “time to put away your toys”.

So it was dark;
we called it night.

Then dreamt of silver cars and knights
then founded a city made of gold
with a leopard guarding at the gates,
who said,

“who goes there?
– knight, tiger or lion?”

Each of them, friends
passing through in silver cars
that I left
to the distant singing of
“La Bamba”.

The candles of wax held strong –
wearying arms out of tall windows.

Diamonds, as essential to a diet as an everyday apple,
the arrival of electric bulbs and flowers
makes us lazy.

Adverts charged with electricity,
sending messages just to themselves,

a large sign for the hump-backed creatures of which there were many.

Now I don’t think I know or mind about anything;

always having light.

EL DIARIO DE ________
(THE DIARY OF ______ )

The day I was young,
was the first page of my diary,

The day I grew old,
never happened,

Home stayed where it was,
musical chairs
played hits of the time,

such as Glenn Miller and his Orchestra,
their silver aeroplane getting lost in the fog,

cows settling below
in the blitzed city,

sun on the faces of children.

Now Available! – Peter And The Hare’s Fireside Companion


We invite you to try our book!

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Peter and the Hare are now to be found in the form of an illustrated volume.

Being the Adventures of –

“One man and his hare, and the events into which you are inescapably invited. Please wipe your feet before you enter the room.”

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Peter and The Hare’s Fireside Companion is like an old storybook you don’t quite remember.

Compiled by Peter Buckley since 2007, the stories in this volume follow one man and his (imaginary?) hare on a magical and irreverent journey, recounted with an absurd sense of humour, a taste for the surreal, and the nostalgic flavour of an earlier age.

These curious adventures are complimented by poems that summon up moods of innocence, joy, bewilderment, and escapism, yet are leant an aspect of quiet melancholy and dark mischief. Peter evokes forgotten libraries of dusty pages, folk songs, nursery rhymes, nightmares, bedtime stories, and inexplicable occurrences.

Assuredly strange, this book can disturb and delight, as well as appear touchingly sweet. Also included are the “naïve poems” of The Small Prince, each of which spontaneously creates a world transformed in proportion.

The pocket-sized Peter and The Hare’s Fireside Companion is small enough to be taken wherever you find the things that you fear or that give you comfort.

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The Evening Tasted Like Coffee

Rest your hair
and weary mind
where the neighbourhood gathers on the pavement outside,
greeting one another.

They blink at the lights,
mimic the small melodies of toys
repeating the yaps and somersaults
of puppy dogs.

In the park’s overgrown grass,
rest as if a plank
on the picnic table,
with the sky of all flavours of yoghurts
setting with the yellow egg
of the sweet desserts
we share as we remember.

The night is as old as old can be,
the night is a bright blue bow on the tree
you unmistakably took for butterflies,
you did!

The rainy world then following us
with windscreens,
then with a roof
above a rich rug in the sand,
where we sit and stir,
with chocolate leaves and twigs.

Rice-filled balloons are in the festive street.

We’re choosing which Fabergé egg
or Ferrero Rocher to take
from the shelves full of sweets,
our pockets full of

The street vendor grinding the aroma of coffee,
also of popcorn,
in a ushanka hat.

During the time that won’t be read aloud
like a book,
disturbing the peace

of the distant morning mist of the town’s asleep,
the promise of faraway birds without their trees,

your voice I haven’t decided on yet.