Grandparents see future kings in small boys,

promise trips to boating lake and forest

worlds away from the flat above shops 

Away from bone-dry August air

heavy with discordant dog barking, raised voices,

kids' screams and throaty open-back buses

Like the one to Ilford Market which passed

by broken teeth of war-bombed buildings.

Nan bought sandals from a man weari...

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he talks to me as if I know

I just tilt my head

give him the eyes

thinks I'm his best friend

all I want is a long walk

a few wees, a dump

a sniff around lamp posts

bushes and trees

quick catch up on the news

he has to read that paper 

he's just bought 

or sit watching TV 

thinks he's in charge

but you don't see me

picking up after ...

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unrest in the kitchen had

been brewing for some time

a pongy cloth waiting to wipe 

the smile off surfaces 

and behind closed doors 

not a fluid ounce of cupboard love.

a storm in a teacup 

saw the kettle let off steam

as a mug flew off the handle. 

the bin, as usual, talked rubbish

mixing it with the blender -

the one with the short fuse.

a knife's sh...

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they chart choreography of lives

learn the mechanism of moves              

then wait to bring thunder clouds

to storm and force doors 

at the dark side of dawn

with barking mouths and feet

it's in their dna to examine 

and remove the fibres of yours

distilling essence for clues

from nooks and crannies

they scour sinks for germs

from scrubbed hard drives

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I wrote this months ago but it seems appropriate to post today after Colin Hill's 'Jesús the Everyman' poem.

excuse me, can 

you spare a dime

for this old boy 

long past his prime?

At ninety six

I find that I'm

still reaching out 

to beg for time

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Stepping into the parlour

I smell the oak of the dining table

That reads like a collection

Of days, crumbs of conversations

Aromas of smoke and laughter

With tears of life and death.

The grandfather clock recalls

The order of Sunday lunch at two.

Pops, puffing his pipe at one end, 

Dad at the other, me spectating

Banter like centre court tennis

Punctuated by t...

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no-one could tell from his face 

and his body language never, 

I mean never, gives him away

he's way too schooled at staying

cool and too long in the tooth at 

being economical with the truth.

strictly speaking his pants should 

be on fire and his name could be 

Billy 'bare-faced' Liar, a lying 

baa-baa baa-sted who craftily pulls 

the wool over people'...

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only the lonely lie wide awake 

staring through windows

in the Great Bed Of Ware 

wondering and wandering

boulevards of broken dreams

walking backwards through time

searching for love in a crowd of one

wearing hopes that don't fit

a symphony of sorrowful songs

and ache like empty cases

dragged around deserted airports

a black box of pa...

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someone somewhere 

has been saying

something about somebody.

someone's had too much

to say for themselves,

toxic words put into

other people's mouths 

that will spread 

like 'flu to every 

somebody else 

whose loose lips 

spill words like pub drunks.

someone is going 

to trip over 

a wagging tongue

and set free a cat 

from somebody els...

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autumn came again to deliver

the last rites, stretching

the shedding skin of summer

into shadows that spelt death.

but you already knew, sensing 

the earth's thirsty need 

from musty baked breath

whispered up on parched roots

and seeing with eyes that 

could stare down the sun,

the emasculation of rays

mocked by morning mist.

so, too, a blanket of...

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nanna told me I was found under 

a bush and kept a straight face,

and even though I thought it was

a fib, I couldn't bring myself to say.

then Mum told me about the tooth fairy

and I was fooled two times after I found

a sixpence under my pillow in the morning.

but next time I stayed awake counting sheep

'til my eyes hurt and when the door opened 

and someone ca...

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darkness draws the curtain of night

from a palate of bible black ink

painting clouds of bats

into corners of the sky

to suffocate the light

until the canvas dies again

to narrow the cornea of shuttered eyes 

pulled by moon magnets towards sleep

that place where memory knits the wool 

of day from patterns of time spent 

spinning experience that stitches

fibres of me...

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drop the rope

in this tug-of-war

there is no hope of victory

you won't pull it to ground

you've tried long enough.

your battle has become

a Chinese finger trap

you will only succeed

in hurting yourself.

the time has come

to rest your anger

it looks tired now

put it to bed 

and let it lie.

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itchy feet began to squeeze

into my size 8 shoes intent

on propelling me 

out of the way.

standing so close behind

their impatience felt like 

fire breathing down my neck

as arms with three-fingered

hands thrust past my open 

mouth to whisk away the last 

two chicken and pesto paninis 

from the shelf, heavily discounted

at a bargain price of £1.79 each.

...

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zoom in with closed eyes 

etching fine details of skin 

features, exposing fabric-

coated limbs and organs

to be explored, forensically.

record. save. stop. freeze 

frame magic moments 

at the mercy of the pull 

of sexual magnetism.

rewind. pause. play. retrieve 

images from a drive of stored 

urges of unrequited longing.

watch. review. delete. review.

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dive out of bed on a duvet day

to go a-wandering

away from your comfort zone.

do these things in order:

put your worries in the wash

drink two too many coffees

skip the organic muesli

fill up on a full fat fry up  

then go...only don't leave 

without sensible shoes and 

clean undies (you never know).

follow the route I gave you,

1hr 42mins should do it...

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my shiny wrapper

hides a gossamer thin shell

of oval ego

the self-centred sick yolk

of albumenandwomen 

who seek attention.

you're looking at me

on the shelf, thinking

oeuf, oeuf, oeuf

love, love, love.

and I'm thinking

me, me, me

it's all about me, not you 

and I'm chocolate enough

to eat myself, if I have to.

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the streets of Camden still mourn music 

royalty, the queen who lived too much,

soared too high, near to the scorching sun 

where only the mad and geniuses fly.

and twenty seven arrived too soon, 

before your time but time enough to tattoo 

yourself on hearts and minds. On that day

I heard the legend of Sarah Vaughan cry.

and wandering into Stables Market I hear 

you...

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hitting the ground

on Cooper's Hill

a nine pound round 

of Double Gloucester

rolling around and

bouncing down.

and here come

the chasing crowd

flailing arms

stumbling, tumbling

somersaulting

some falling under 

the stampeding herd.

it's hurtling down now 

seventy miles an hour 

flying past perilously

close to spectators  

as ambulances race 

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I'm wearing

someone else's smile

teeth that don't fit 

in this mouth 

that can't speak.

I'm not OK. OK?

don't ask me anything else 

because I'm not myself

I don't know why,

I couldn't say.

I'm striding 

around town, out of step 

in someone else's shoes,

laughing clown's feet 

that don't fit my mood.

I'm driving 

someone else's car

on the wro...

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smoky underground sounds

of free spirits of the street

fill the Harlem air.

it's improv, it's in the pocket

hands, fingers and mouths 

breathing life, it's the

birth of the cool,

cool notes of jazz.

drum lays down the beat 

that pumps the bass 

that drives the rhythm

Miles and 'Trane free-blowing

blowing out blue note

messages to the street. 

Monk in ful...

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on days like this I find myself

seeking things I will never find,

locked inside the circle of a shell snapped shut.

on days like this I avoid 

the rotten teeth of the crowd 

who bring dread to the door 

and keep me stranded in a lake of bed 

where I lie dressing and undressing your ghost

sketching the outline of your smile in paints

that drip, drip and wash away 

...

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your will, of course, would 

eventually do the work 

driving a wedge between us

edging deeper into the

splintering cracks, slowly

revealing the tumour

that digested the bark

of our rotting timber

and sensing the end, an 

accumulated intent added 

weight to your will with 

exaggerated swings 

and staccatoed slashes 

of blades that finally did 

the fel...

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space travel can bend you out of shape

so wandering too close to black 

holes would be a big mistake

and if you fall in feet first 

tidal forces and 

gravitational 

gradients 

will 

make

elasticity

of 

your 

plasticity 

and 

stretch

you

vertically 

and 

compress

you 

horizontally 

until

you

resemble 

spaghetti

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just when you think you know yourself

life can creep up on you, the unwary,

to reveal a new persona that stares back

from the mirror at your disbelief, now

that you're normal, a mere mortal, no 

longer edgy, racy or extreme, eyes 

lacking twinkle and sparkle now

average has been bestowed on you

your confusion will wonder where 

you were when the change occured 

an...

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drifting past unnoticed 

my heart beats a path 

in silent steps, following

hanging around your space

this place and that, slipping 

in and out of view, waiting.

sideways, casual glances

give no clue of my intention

to inhabit you, inside

where your energy burns 

I'm going nowhere 

nowhere without you 

in my sights

waiting my time

preparing for someth...

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all that is and could ever be

but never will be constantly

presents itself as a teasing

reflection of permanency

hidden deep beneath the inky

brine of the unknown, down

where the currents of time

write intricate patterns

of possibilities and fate

that carry life like a tide

somewhere, anywhere

but nowhere for long

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they warned us 

it was coming

okay, I thought

this time 

I'll be ready 

so I waited

and watched

and waited

but there was no sign of it

until 

the moment

I turned my back

and suddenly 

there it was

out of nowhere

back from hiding

who-knows-where

and there was I

again agog

cleverly out-witted 

by the cunning fog

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in the cold light of contemplation

the past slips in and out of focus

from cubby-holes of consciousness

hiding the known from the knowing

dropping hints that tease the tip of 

the tongue with a taste of familiarity

and no more, laughing at our futile

attempts to fill the recollection plate
 

with titbits, the residue of memory 

traces pinched by thieving magpies

of...

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you can wait so long that time begins

to stalk you like a shadow that slowly

envelopes and suffocates your being.

 
when it came, I felt the full force of

disconnection as a tightly clenched 

hand pulled me up roots and all.

detached and vulnerable to the elements

I wandered, walking the winds of change

until hope and expectancy breathed again. 

returned and embedde...

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Bedlam's enclosures echo

from trolley wheel thunder,

packed cases of the pack

in the jungle of unearthly delights

herds roam the manic

maze of terminal zoo

gazing, grazing and lazing

now duty-free, with one eye

on the gate that signals escape

from voluntary detention 

alpha males indulge in feeding frenzies

as females seek scents 

and food to placate the hys...

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Fanny Craddock, the TV cook of the 60's, was 

too posh to appear with a Player's Weights 

ciggie perma-glued to her lip-sticked lips,

but not my nan.

Standing on a chair next to her in aromatic

kitchen fog, I eagerly absorbed the commentary 

from the side of her mouth like a microphone. 

Although we were in Dagenham not Chelsea, 

Nan was my Nigella, only 50 years early.

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It's all about perspective. For example, the 

imaginery landscape behind me, in Leonardo's 

mind, served as a counterpoint to the enigma 

of my reserved posture but, to me, it looks

incongruous.

And they call me La Gioconda, meaning jocund, 

but I assure you I didn't see the funny side, sitting 

for an eternity on that rickety pozetto armchair.

And although he envisaged...

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turn and turn again

spiral down deep

beneath the earth's 

dark musty sheet

plough the frigid soil in vain

for space to plant 

the root of sleep

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That winter had teeth sharper than

butchers' knives, enough to make

walls shiver inside paper coats.

Honestly, it was that cold.

Why ever did you think a featherweight

Hillman Imp could fight a blizzard 

all the way to Anglesey that night? 

An early knock-out was inevitable. 

Opportunity came knocking in a 

snow-white anorak, arms wrapped 

tight as a straightjacke...

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it was one of my Fellini dreams

I'm Guido or somebody 

and you're one of his lovers,

Carla maybe

anyway, you're all over me 

like a cheap suit

clinging tight like Chanel perfume

wrapped around me like a silk scarf

getting closer than briefs

slipping on and off like sheer stockings

wearing me like a hat

but then you notice 

my two left feet 

and 8½ l...

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I've lost my way

my insight has disappeared

out of sight

hiding somewhere in this rut.

stale ideas coat the air

like bad breath,

my imagination 

is not fertile any more.

the lights have gone out

on my creativity,

I can't find any words

to fill the page.

I'm just staring in the dark,

hiding under blank sheets

on an empty bed

until somebody wakes...

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on sardined sea-brined air I taste Lisbon's

rich past from the Tagus that still aches

with saudade and melancholic cries of fado,

a story of men yearning to conquer the whole of

the sea. Sorrow sheds tears, and from above

a millefeuille of sea-facing structures hides 

the graffiti of grief behind blue-tiled facades.

below, shards of light reflect like glass

from intrica...

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sycophant seekers please take note

swallowing praise can harm the throat

and getting lots of verbal bungs 

ultimately affects the lungs

breathing smoke can lead to choking 

- know the risks of assive smoking 

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he had a sticky-out bottom and

a forward-leaning posture like

Groucho Marx and Max Wall.

50 if a day, he couldn't half move,

speeding past our window, you'd 

swear he was on a skateboard. 

at Lloyds Bank, behind the scenes, 

sheet of A4 in hand, going full pelt,

he was normally too preoccupied 

to recognise me paying-in.

instead, looking at his back, all I 

c...

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nobody wants to be ordinary any more, 

especially not pensioners like nan and grandad,

they're dead cool like us now.

none of nan's mates have crap phones, no-name

trainers, tiny teles or carpet in the lounge, and

wouldn't be seen dead with grey hair. Grandad's

in his element, he calls them his 'dolly birds'.

and they're out in town, day and night, designer gear 

and pe...

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I must be honest,

for someone so cute

you're very sly

but, then, strangely shy 

and extremely sensitive

(I bet you could hear a fly fart)

you're so aloof, and

unsocial, like the hours 

you keep, you really do 

keep yourself to yourself.

I've seen you 

slinking past my window

en-route to root about

with dark adapted eyes.

dressed to kill, you

cunni...

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I was a fatality waiting to happen

unable to resist the temptation

of getting too close to the flames 

I walked blindly into the path

of fast movers on love's freeway

you found me

a twisted wreck of torn limbs

and breathed life into my broken soul

your bodhisattva healed 

my haemorrhaging heart

and re-tuned it 

extracting sweet notes from its core

like a s...

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if I could share one single

word with you

if I could add one single

ounce of light to your life

if I could be one single

crumb on the plate

then all of this was not in vain

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I sensed you knew it was time

I circled you long enough

before making my move

striking stealthily

taking you swiftly down to death

my marksman's precision

using razored teeth 

honed long ago

on prey more elusive than you

standing over you

my prize

I begin a ruthless dissection

ravenous, blood-drenched canines

clinically tearing you limb from limb

c...

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I write and then edit

I write and re-write

my battle with words

is an unending fight

I wake and write notes

so I'm up half the night 

but then in the morning

it still seems like shite

the words on the page

feel too loose or too tight

so endless revision is

my everyday plight

I re-do and re-edit

until it feels right

then when its finished

I dance w...

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a dense air

a blurred vision

a shrouded perspective

a clouded judgement

an engulfing chaos

my mind was a fog

a descending depression

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just a small boy

swathed in night's silence 

weaves dreams of innocence

worlds away from

the nightmare that

will break apart the 

completed jigsaw of his life 

watch him 

jolted awake by

the noise of familiar voices

see him 

out of bed, bleary-eyed,

moving unsteadily in blackness

.........."mummy, mummy"..........

look at him 

at the top of...

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"that's it," she said, "enough....I'm through"

- she's had her fill of making do

she's sick to death of putting up 

with nothing but a half-filled cup

dropping out of going without

she thinks it's time that she got out

resigning from the daily grind

she's leaving drudgery behind

this friend of mine at last is free

to seize her opportunity

she's off to Greece...

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as soon as she saw it she thought

"I must have you" 

he smiled, nodding encouragement

transfixed, she reached out and 

took in hand the striking beauty.

with delicate fingers she explored 

its perfect form, the fine details of

its proud head and the smooth 

textured body of this archetypal

depiction of manhood.

even more certain now, she thought

"I simply m...

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I don't just want one syllable sex

I would much prefer a two syllable romance

That leads to a three syllable commitment

In a stable four syllable relationship

Even sweeter if blessed with five syllable serendipity

But, most importantly, we must be four syllable compatible

Sharing something deeper than three syllable attraction

For without mutual care and two syllable respe...

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to taste you is to know 

the subliminal secrets

of your shelled soul

your aphrodisia 

a mineral-rich mystery 

held in milky flesh

one dozen oysters

the sum of my desires

quintessential

ambrosia-filled gems 

a harvest of Neptune's treasure

each anticipation of your essence 

each cleaving of your fleshy heart

each briny taste of your nectar

awakens in ...

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I know it's not my place to say

I could be talking out of turn

but after what I heard today

I have to tell you I'm concerned

we've known each other eighty years

since we were little boys at school

I don't want this to end in tears

and see an old friend look a fool

the landlord in the Linden Tree

said you'd returned from holiday

with your Thai bride called Charunee

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three dogs sniff a tree

messages written in wee

checking their pee-mails

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it started innocently enough

a wild and wet night in Bradford

cinema crowd emerges, disperses

collars up, umbrellas up

dashing for cars

hands out for buses and taxis

there she is 

kissing friends goodbye

and walking

hurrying

handbag clutched tight

the car 

windscreen wipers on full

passes 

slowly

and stops

d'ya need a lift, love? where ya goi...

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no, her beauty did not lie

in her pleasant face 

nor in her rubenesque shape

or in her overstated sense of style

she sat at the counter,

her exquisite perfume

slowly scenting the room,

as she relished

a sandwich and 

a long, hot, black coffee

no, her beauty lay in her demeanour,

a blatant sensuousness that 

aroused in me a primal urge,

suggested in each g...

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I'd lost my sense of humour

Become a po-faced bloke

Since irony deserted me

I never got the joke 

I came to feel left out when 

Friends shared comic wit

I never saw the funny side

I just looked bored by it 

I started searching desperately

For something I could take

I spoke to Marie Antoinette

But she only offered cake

My doctor gave me happy pills

To tr...

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we are frozen

two feet apart

facing.

hyperborean statues

marble moons locked

as sharpened air penetrates

deep into our benumbed porous core.

helplessly

we gulp down 

gusts of gelid wind

that ices lung tissue 

and stabs at our drum-tight hearts

until they rupture and erupt

releasing the lava of love

that floods every fibre

of our being

instantan...

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the smooth oscillation of leaves 

in the warm, gentle breeze

recalled the ethereal sensation

of your diaphanous touch, 

the finesse of your fingers, 

gliding over my skin like silk.

those achingly fleeting moments 

of peak experience, the sweet 

timelessness of tender intimacy 

we cherished before the fading 

light extinguished our hopes. 

death has no respect ...

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this goes out to the B (bully) boy who didn't win....

let me express it like this:

you're someone who loves to diss,

a smart arse who takes the piss,

I'm here to tell you, you can kiss

my arse 'cos you're full of shit,

and I intend to highlight it

by calling you a nasty git, a

raging, jumped-up, pompous tit

who likes to throw his weight around,

with verbal we...

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he played the part of the bully

too well to give the game away,

you'd never know to look at him,

how much he craved to make me pay.

I bet you thought no-one was watching.

this bully leads the double life

of a secret agent or spy,

he's expert at covering tracks

and masterful at being sly.

I bet you thought they'd never find out.

he picked me 'cos I'm vuln...

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around two-thirty in the afternoon they begin to

gather outside the entrance, a gaggle of gamblers

with razor-eyed intent, hungrier than refugees,

the casino junkies of Lisbon back for their fix.

living nearby, I often see them, many with gaunt, 

haunted faces, choking cigarettes into red-hot pokers, 

rehearsing their performance in the theatre of tables, 

mentally honing st...

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I learned soon enough that you

were not just for Christmas,

that long winter of '97

when you first arrived.

how quickly you became a

constant companion, never far 

from my side, matching me 

stride for stride, more faithful 

than night's darkness.

how you grew, fed by my helpless

hand, unable to resist those hang-dog 

eyes that penetrated mine and claimed 

m...

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enriching the earth

detritus of dead writers

a poets graveyard

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since time immemorial we have placed our faith externally,

into the hands of gods, worshipped unquestioningly, sometimes

believing we, and only we, are the chosen ones, 

which has many times pitched us against one another, 

in the name of defending the dictates of a faith, 

using rigid beliefs as weapons, with proud, defiant, 

stiffened backs ever ready to act to repel dissente...

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scatter me, scatter me,

I will go willingly,

leave me where you will,

let the ashes of my shell

settle back into the earth.

release the dead dust  

of my days departed,

empty the vessel,

and let me rest here

with the others. 

don't concern yourself 

with monuments,

fanfares or obligations, 

there is no need,

simply hold what we share

and keep it saf...

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Urges and surges

Jealous lunges and plunges

Fatal attraction

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south facing, showcasing

a rubescent glow from porcelain skin,

a bowl of strawberries and cream,

a still life portrait of summer.

a bouquet of blushing brides,

statuesque, classical beauties, 

a sweetly smiling floral chorus

of harmonic infusion.
 

an Ode to Joy, a scented symphony,

an opera for the eyes, 

a flower play, perfectly staged, 

a rose-tinted spectacl...

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for longer than I know I have roamed,

restlessly drawn back into the dank

chambers of a subterranean realm, while

the world weaves the fabric of sleep.

time has deepened my iron-caged descent,

clanking down corroded creaking shafts

into cavernous corridors who breathe

the menacing damp that accompanies

each foray to the dark recesses of mind,

to swing a rusty pick at t...

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a window seat provides a view

for people-watching types like me

who haven't got much else to do

than nosey-hole while drinking tea

or coffee, if I'm at the shops,

for no trip out can be complete

without one of my routine stops

for observations of the street

from Costa or another chain

to spy as people come and go

before I leave to catch the train,

and eye-ball ...

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Tragedy invades the stillness of time,

A perennial gatecrasher at life's party,

Hell-bent on smashing the status quo.

Tragedy strikes with the force of a cyclone,

To suck life from the living and bake tears

Dry, arid and crusted like a riverbed.

Tragedy takes down lives of the innocent,

A tower block demolition whose survivors 

Wander like ghosts in a derelict house.

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and the light

and the dark

and the shadow

are one and the same,

a triptych housed 

in a living library

of idyllic loneliness,

each sombre annex 

of soothing stillness

speaks volumes from 

its rows of tomes 

that epitomise and 

embrace solitude,

their testimony to

splendid isolation

and the silence

and the peace

and the rest

are one and...

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Did Robin Banks ever steal?

Did Anna Bell ever peal?

Did Dickie Bird ever perch?

Did Pat Downe ever search?

Did Jack Pott ever win?

Did Jo Kerr ever grin?

Did Elle Bent ever stop?

Did Ali Barber ever chop?

Did Cole Porter ever carry?

Did Sally Forth ever tarry?

Did Jack Boote ever march?

Did Ben Dover ever arch?

Did Leo Lyons ever roar?

Did Dick P...

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Hope lies at peace on your pillow,

Giant, sleeper, keeper of the seed.

A foetus in suspension then freed,

They heard your life's first cries,

And watched you rise from child

To man, rejoicing the day we

Established ties, starting the cycle 

Again, giving the seed a home, to

Create new life, new blood from stone.

The miracle of life? Indeed!

From seed a giant, from...

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I've never been the same since she passed away,

time seems to have slowed or stopped, like me, 

a broken clock, hands stuck at ten-to-ten, 

the time she went, leaving behind a legacy 

of loving memories that I continue to pull around 

to every lonely room whose walls still call her name

and return to root myself to stare at her beauty

in a frame that has become a shrine, ...

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Did Anna Bell ever ring?
Did Carrie Oakey ever sing?

Did Dick Tate ever reign?
Did Jim Bunney ever train?

Did Polly Graaf ever lie?
Did Albert Ross ever fly?     

Did Andy Mann ever fix?
Did Jean Poole ever mix?        

Did Barb Dwyer ever catch?
Did Pearl Buttons ever match?

Did Ali Money ever pay?
Did Don Kee ever bray?

Did Ann Teake ever age?
Did Terry Bull ever rage?

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I've got a whopper

You should see the size of it

Your eyes will pop out

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outside there is little left to see

but the dust of destruction,

a torn canvas of abandoned hope

etched in the dried blood of the

dead and dying and the next-in-line,

a taxonomy of wasted life, here

where no birds fly, a land littered

with the debris of its treasures,

souvenirs of senseless hate,

sacrificial remnants of generations

atop the scorched earth, echoing 

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Let me see faces

Let me hear music

Let there be flowers

Let me leave with dignity

Don't let there be silence

Don't let my loved ones suffer

Don't let me pass away unnoticed

Don't let me die a genius in your shadow

The Russian composer Sergei Prokofiev and Russian leader Joseph Stalin, died within hours of each other on 5th March 1953. Prokofiev's life and career had ...

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if we could squeeze back

wasted life into the tube of time, to

give ourselves another chance to

re-live big moments and get it right, 

but, please, not be born again.....

if we could crack the code, and 

open the safe guarding the answers, to

give ourselves another chance to

find the way, the truth, the life and             

fulfillment (...whatever that means).....

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street lighting

rain lashing

tyres screeching

glass smashing

voices raising

curtains twitching

gang feuding

tongues wagging

babies crying 

dogs barking

blades flashing

shots firing

youth falling

blood spilling

mobiles calling

wheels spinning

time ticking

sirens wailing

death closing

life fading

son dying

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Leading you into a room is 

Like inviting an orchestra

To fill the still life of a space

With music for the eyes.

Even on this dullest of days

I am drawn, inevitably, to your

Presence, diffusing gilded

Rays of light from its core.
 

I am at ease with you, without

Uttering a word, for your tall

Grand elegance mutes me with

A beauty that speaks volumes.

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truth is trickier than a cage of monkeys,

or so they say, and it's true, truth's 

sly sophistication shows our clever cousins

a clean pair of heels, it's just so elusive, 

so slippy, slippier than slippers on ice, 

or Nessie, given its facility to hide, dip, 

or nip in and out of the curtain of existence 

like a character in a Pullman novel, 

and tougher to fathom than the ...

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betwixt and between 

fourteen and sixteen

his dormant seed 

exploded into life,

expanding

the tiny frame, 

shedding a boy's skin,

and bumfluff

became bristles

on the makings

of a man's face,

soon splashed and

stung by Brut,

now uttering

new bass tones

to attract 

the opposite sex

and genitals

became his best friend.

All poems are copy...

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"Can't she shut her mouth for once

And give her tongue a rest?"

Thought my Dad of my step-mother,

Whose chivvying ranked with the best.

She always cursed and blamed him 

Throughout their married life.

Dad, whatever made you choose

A tyrant for a second wife?

Poor Dad got not a minute's peace,

He endured each rant and rave.

But once he shouted back at her,

"You'...

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the waking the raising
the peeing the showering 
the drying the brushing
the spraying the dressing 
the boiling the squeezing 
the popping the spreading
the sitting the scoffing 
the clearing the washing
the listening the watching
the ringing the standing 
the walking the opening
the facing the greeting 
the inviting the entering
the hearing the shocking
the hearing the shocking
the...

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Whose eyes can know a path so well

They notice all there is to see?

Who contemplates upon the life  

Of any flower, plant or tree?

Who witnesses each season's change

Of light and air and smells and sounds?

Whose ears detect the whispered wind?

Who knows where silence can be found?

Whose feet will travel far enough

To call the earth familiar ground?

Who'll co...

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blame
attaches itself to you
like glue
it sticks
like poo
underneath your
sentenced shoe

shame
is written on your face
it spells
disgrace
your name
synonymous
with taking shame

guilt
your head in a noose
you're goosed
you lied
the hangman's frame
awaits for you
to take the blame

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before us...

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Portland Court stands timelessly astride the cliff,
Surveying the Irish Sea from a vantage point on the rocks,
Once proud, it used to stand alone, but has now 
Been dwarfed, in the shadow of younger, taller blocks.

This place has the aura of an ageing ocean-going liner
That ran aground; and left behind an elegant wreck -
Port-holes in rich wood doors, many shining bronze
Plaques that grac...

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Venture out and stroll around
Any high street, any town,
The evidence is there to see
That in our recent history,
Towns and cities fell with ease 
To multinational companies. 
They're identical - like pods of peas,
Nondescript like processed cheese.

It's burger bars and coffee shops,
Chain stores selling fashion tops,
Pound shops flogging everything
Cheap as chips, for price is king.
...

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stepping into the room once again I smell
nostalgia engrained in this old oak table
that knows more than I,
a wisdom steeped, buried deep 
under layers of etched wooden skin
worn nobly like the face of a patriarch

supporting each generation of
eaters, talkers, thinkers, planners,
menders, doers, writers and viewers,
bearing kindness and profanity
equally and with quiet grace.

likewi...

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My mission is to venture, unnoticed, 
Deep within the recess of your eyes, 
To inspect the optical machines
Housing the machinations
Of your visual world.

I must employ a spy's stealth,
Distract the guarding globes,
And glide with surgical precision
Along the viscous suspension,
To find the doors of perception.

Once inside, I will clinically remove
The lacuna that keeps me from view
...

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To some wisdom comes
An elusive butterfly
Cupped inside time's hands

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