Thank God, or St Giles anyway,

For Stoney Clouds.

You could be anywhere in the: Peaks, the counties, the Dales or the moors.

Jays give sudden alarm in coppice charms,

As people arrive, who should be indoors,

Locked down from our friends and family,

But luckily not the green of Stoney.

Stoney, an apt name for stoner youth,

Pot-plastered at the bench,

On the summ...

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A babe in a pram,

Wheeled down Lord street,

At the speed of a tram.

Mouth engrossed with jelly and swine,

Melting fine

Michelback’s prime.

My mum grew up on these pies,

I too.

As an infant into the 80’s,

pate mini pork treats,

from Grimes butchers.

I suppose it is what you grew up with,

Your tastes, your clutches.

Jelly, pastry, succulent meat,

which ...

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A plane crashing that never seems to hit the ground to explode

into pieces.  A frozen moment in time.

Distraught, but then cleansed.

Broken again, only to mend.

Our lives - a computer graphic having a glitch,

repetition of the same sold narrative,

and then static.

Fading out with no soft cushion for landing.

Volume being culled.

A big brother house of Covid guest stars.

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rS3ovpxEnd8

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lthEa0nfFmQ

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During the lockdown, I didn't do much writing and wasn't inspired like some to write about Covid or the lockdown in general, as I figured there would be enough people doing this already.  The poem below is a new and first draft.  It is meant to be messed up like the whole crisis and covers things I have heard said from a whole host of people and media.  Comments please and anything I could add to ...

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There’s a place where I can go and tell my secrets to… (Brian Wilson)

In a room,

a child not yet a teen,

sits full of good vibrations.

The vinyl stolen from parents

crackles with life,

static and promises of a long summer for all.

Surfboards, so alien to this coast of estuary and mudflats,

yet the glow of California dreams and girls perforates his reality.

Do i...

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Here is my first collection of poems available on Amazon (kindle) for just 1.99 sterling.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Poems-International-Launderette-David-Addington-ebook/dp/B08G9L44ZQ/ref=sr_1_3?dchild=1&keywords=launderette&qid=1603047881&sr=8-3

Please enjoy and feel free to review

Thanks

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Wow!  Glad to be back on this excellent site after so many tech problems on IT this year as I was working from home.  Lost passwords, being thick with trying to keep up with the modern world of tech, etc, etc.

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Sonething I have wanted to write about for some time now.  Here is first attempt:

Train, tram, bus, car, walking or whatever,

You will see what this poem is about,

just as clearly as the weather.

Girls on their phones.

Girls who are perhaps so forlorn.

Girls who might be so alone,

Just like dogs without their bones.

Epidemic that has spread nationwide,

and...

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Grinding ears, metal hearts and hands clasped in prayer,

to chrome steel gods.

Raging fists punch sparks into the air,

As anvil heads hammer to the tuning fork and sheer blasts

of class – stained forever since being 10.

Stamped and delivered,

Living it up after midnight,

Whilst breaking laws of the so called pop charts.

Screaming for vengeance against industry norms,

The...

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Speed freak beast,

rattling bass string sting,

roaring like a hawk in a maelstrom –

juggernaut, express train slam.  Iron fist as a heart.

Try to keep up and play as fast as I can.

Aces up the sleeve, bombers primed to hit,

bass drum times two with an orgasmatron kick.

“I don’t believe a word” against this icon of rock,

this angelic rebel,

this amplified shock.

He was...

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40 years ago to the day, when I met you ,lady macabre. All Hallow's eve in foggy Fleetwood,

as damp leaves burrowed into the slippery pavements of beach road.

I was stomping my way with John to the cemmie to cause some grief to the dead.  This being 40 years since I really knew the meaning of Samhain.

I shouted and hollowed and spoke bullshit Stephen King, whilst John kicked the...

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Juxtapose my horizons

honouring my native blood,

while over by the campfire,

spear throwers and fish harpooners,

dance a poetic trance,

to some clay porcelain God.

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This is the six O’clock news.

Please note,

 that today,

 sport has

taken a day off

from the only optimistic

sections of

current worldy affairs.

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