Down In The Hole

My father said it was this life or the dole –

so sacrifice ambition, heart and soul

if our family was to earn a crust

then I would have to work until I was bust

Years of hardship finally took its toll

I had danced to the tune of Old King Coal

and I was laid off, let into the light

a blessing to escape eternal night

I was sixteen, they thre...

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William Wordsworth and Walt Whitman have alliterative names

For Norman Nicholson  and Stevie Smith  you may say the same

Sassoon with his Siegfried and Porter with his Peter

Were destined to have mastery of rhythm, form and meter

Marvell at the metaphysical, let Pope raise you higher

But the best poet’s name is Benjamin Zephaniah 

Some poets’ names onomatopoeically enth...

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The arch poet tends to his row of beans
as once he broadcast words across the land.
He sighs for these stems of rogue angle
for as he outgrows limelight well deserved 
his arguments pale, but not love, for love
the arch poet tends to his row of beans.

For love the arch poet made the verses
to challenge the spirit of any age
who in adversity is found unfair.
He created a space for p...

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A dark shadow has fallen across the nation.
The moon itself cried off its illumination.

The London bridge has fallen
England's sky appeared sullen

Flowers have refused to produce Nectar.
Sour honey has visited the land.

Her royal majesty has closed her eyes to life.
Queen Elizabeth II has gone to eternal sleep.

A queen and a head of a state.
Courage and loyalty were her traits.
A...

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Oh rise MJ
So they can say
Bukowski's looking down from heaven
Giving the nod to pen of Lemon

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Tonight as I lay
Myself to troubled sleep
I shall shed such tears
Not of profound sorrow
But of exalted joy
For the oneness of your poetry
For the wisdom of your words
Written and spoken from your heart

For your sights unseen
For your songs unheard
For your tastes untraveled

Tonight as I lay
Myself to troubled sleep
I shall dream such dreams
Where Jesus takes me down to The River
...

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A Tribute to Paul Murphy

who died today - my friend & inspiration

Farewell my friend 
For now you're gone
To sing your words
With angles strong
With top hats raised
We say so long 
You Ranter, Raver
And Poet of song

Go give God a good rant! 
RIP you nutter xxx

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Art Attack.

Kalashnikovs spit deadly hate
Upon the streets of grey Paris.
An art attack, the deadly fate.
Je prie pour eux - Je suis Charlie.

A sketch of these disturbing times,
twelve martyrs die for liberty.
The clanging of Notre Dames chimes.
Je prie pour eux - Je suis Charlie.

Bullets of hate will not erase
the sable brush strokes of the free,
dripping red on these bloody days...

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Last Orders

I come on Thursday, sit on wooden chair
where poets congregate in strange half light,
sharing their thoughts with those who gather there -
the words are spoken, soaring, shining bright,
warming us as we leave to face the night.
The bear pit darkens, but forever hosts
the rhyming, raging, ranting, Tudor ghosts.

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Death Of A Poet

The grey November sky has lost its light,
just one more boy has fallen to his death,
another lad who won’t survive the fight
or pass beyond this final exhaled breath.
Though many soldiers leave this war unheard,
their stories lost forever, never told,
this one will paint us pictures with his words
that will not lose their power or grow old.

A week beyond that fatal can...

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My Granddad passed away just before Christmas, this is for him.

Time whispers
Fleeting, it escapes us
You were a part of our world
A smile cemented
in childhood memories
You were a card playing companion
Intrigued by technology
And the new world it opened
I remember your CD player
You were proud as punch
As it was mounted on the wall
And opened with a wave
I remember Christmas ...

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Re-post from earlier last year - now with audio and music backing

Thirty Plus Years In An Open Necked Shirt.

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
a walking bag of bones
staggers out onto the stage
like Woody from the Stones
rapid fire delivery
sprays all with Salford tones
jitters, jives, ducks and dives
wrestling with the microphone

Johnny Clarke, Johnny Clarke
in much need of a comb
sh...

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It’s the Music That Matters!

The Metalhead strums his air guitar

The Indian man sings while playing his sitar

It’s not the colour of his skin

- It’s the music that matters!

Panpipes in the mountains

Music in the fountains

It doesn’t matter where it is

- It’s the music that matters!

Synthesisers and Electropop

Strut your stuff and bop till you drop

Da...

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My Mother used to comb my long hair.

When she hit a tangle I would cry

out in pain.

She would place her gentle hands

upon my head and whisper, "I'm sorry

darling but you must endure the

pain so that your hair will be shiny

and beautiful."

When my life hits a tangle I long fo...

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The Gift 

“You have his hands” they say.

Blunt, broad, and strong;

the rounded nails and heavy palms, his grip.

Some memory, stored within each line,

each fingertip, each scar, from half a life away.

Old-leather hard with work and age;

weather-carved and worn with every s...

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