Not gold but golden, engraved,

given in love and friendship.

Fifty years of service shared,

it marks the time of my grandfather.

A time of war that briefly took

him from the books he guarded,

shepherded and shared with patrons

of the library he loved.

And I was one he taught

to love those shelves of words,

waiting each week when we would trek

across the t...

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Old Shakespeare was an educated bloke,

well known for knowing how to turn a phrase,

and oft-times would insert a little joke

when writing all those celebrated plays;

so when a scene became a trifle terse

he’d sneak a laugh among the metered verse.

And also, for you English language nerds,

he was a neologist on the sly,

inventing a whole slew of brand new words

used ...

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I’ll hold up my hand and I’ll freely admit

to my grammar police inclinations,

because knowing your shit and knowing you’re shit

are two quite discrete revelations.

And if I make the statement “I’m going to”,

I should follow with my destination,

while if somebody else says “I’m going too”,

I might greet that with some trepidation.

To say I want a peace, or I want a...

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Those nights we danced

were the special nights, the frantic nights,

the let-the-music-take-you nights

that whirled you on a subtle tether, tied

together but free in a soaring flock.

Those nights we danced

and the bass beat thrummed

our blood, compelled our feet,

at one with Stratocaster song

that all night long would drive us.

Those nights we danced

like ...

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Unleash the lethal metaphor,

let loose iambic verse,

with caesurae to underscore

the rabid poet’s curse.

Then hide it in hyperbole

with images so raw,

insinuating anarchy

and rhyming’s fatal flaw.

A volta voicing paradox

in enigmatic words

that founder swiftly on the rocks

of neologist nerds.

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‘Cross springy grass with sodden shoes

where mountainside and valley fuse,

up zig-zag paths where slopes are steep

trod by the hooves of countless sheep;

and now we too traverse and climb

through clumps of clover, strewn with thyme.

Around the scree, across the rocks

and wind-whipped dandelion clocks

until atop that final knoll

where motionless we stood in thrall,

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Got any readies, got any cash,

got any folding green moolah to flash?

Tenners or twenties, dip in your stash,

show the spondulicks and make a big splash.

Out with your buddies, out on the town

out with the loons for your weekly meltdown;

bottle or draft, top shelf at the Crown,

stay till the moon and the stars all go down.

Got any money, got any dough,

got any ...

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When I was young, my Granny made soup.

But there was more to it than that. It was legendary.

Granny’s bottomless soup pot fed all comers

through every weekend as far back

as I can remember. She made it for

Granda’s lunch, but always made sure

to make plenty. She knew what she was doing.

On Saturday afternoons, anyone who came

through the door was asked if they wanted s...

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