My girl likes little things
not the big things of value
or baggy big like Jeans
But short skirts and tight tops
Little shorts and flip flops
with high hopes,
but little dreams

My girl likes little things
Not big things or deep
Little things like lipstick
The comments on her self pics
The brand of her breeches  
The right lace on her sneakers
My girl likes little things
Not the things
too heavy to keep

My girl likes little things
Not the big and the weighty
Just the little things shiny
like an iPhone glittering
the right tone on the dial ring
a cover case with the right bling
Almost everything
And anything
not significantly big

My girl likes little things
nothing seriously grand
little things, like small talk
A nice sweet short walk
Even holding hands
among other little things
If there’s room for my fingers
beside her diamond rings

I’m making money
quoting Shakespeare
smoke filled rooms
a dim lit theatre
I’m glad the man’s dead
he’d be asking for part
memorised in my head
was drunk from his heart
I’m making it by
on a dead crowd stage
I’m a poet making money
on a dead man’s wage

I’m writing a poem
and I need a rhyme with ‘Cat’
but nothing kiddy
like ‘Sat’ or ‘Mat’
Something long
like a Cadillac
something for change
like a laundromat
Something as strong
as an acrobat
Something as rich
as an aristocrat
Something as catchy
as a copycat
Yet something
simple
something
clean
Something like that
If you know what I mean

They stole a word
from a poem I wrote
Stealing
the meaning
leaving just a note
“We’re sorry for the damage,
we hope you don’t mind
we’ve just taken a lend
of a word from a line”
They left no name
no number to call
Just a few words
and that was all
Then just the other day
I read on the news
a poem became famous
for a word that was used
that made the world weep
over their lies and their theft
critics hailed it
‘the true and only’
‘honest poem’
in the world left

I carry
one memory
of you and me,
I carry it
all the way up,
to the highest tree,
I hang it there
for you to see
and falling leaves
unveiling me
like each
apple,
pear
or a peach
and how
sweet things
grow out of reach

You asked me
what my name was
I told you, “I was Jack”
But now that I’ve got to know you
can I take that back?
I’m actually Frank
and I only said that lie
in case I didn’t like you
and you come looking for that guy
but now that I love you
call me what you like
call me nice guy Gary
or even magic Mike
I’ll live up to any name
I’ll become any man
just call me ‘whatever’
and please,
call me when you can

I fell in love with a blind poet
I fell in love with her eyes
they were as pretty as words
Oh, the light, she would write
reciting every line
though blind and couldn’t see
between verse and the rhyme
I swear, she’d see
right through me

I want to hide in
someone else’s house
sleep in the retreat room
and be myself
wear a slipper
drink a cup of tea
lie back in their chair
and watch TV

I want to hide
in someone else’s house
spray some cologne
and be myself
look at photographs
forget about me
leave the noise outside
browse the library

I want to hide
in someone else’s house
deeper in the forest
and be myself
lost in their walls
as far as can be
maybe up in the attic
alone but free

I want to hide
In someone else’s house
look through the rooms
and find myself
if only I could
try find a key
for my own house
won’t house me

I want to hide
in someone else’s house
not be a Jesus,
just be myself
just another piece missing
like missing socks
still finding peace
being Goldilocks

a girl kissed a boy
and told him not to tell
he grew up to be a poet
with a promise kept so well
till he wrote one day a poem
that she’s found reading, but forgot
and wondered if it’s really him
and thinking that it’s not
but buried within these pages
and hidden within the rhyme
were words dripping from his lips
caressing every line
so she came in a little closer
and read it to the end
and found him in the poem
and kissed his lips again

These thoughts in my head
talk about me like I’m dead
“I’m here, you know!”, I say
but they keep talking away
So I scream all the louder
to get through their laughter
yet they snicker and cheer,
“Get out of here!”,
But I reply, “No!”
“It’s my mind you know!”
and I stay there instead
always in my head

Through empty hallways
and the wide corridor of life
days, like doors, are unopened
for fears of welcoming strife
reluctantly, we refuse to look
into a new day, like a locked room
known only by unlatching a hook
to find the futures not so gloom
Yet running to the day before
We drop ‘Today’,  like a lost key
that unlocks the day behind that door
where ‘Tomorrow’, could’ve set us free.

I’m collecting little broken pieces of me
piecing me together,
slowly,
you see

a piece at a time
each fragment you’ll find
more of me
hopefully

I’m collecting little broken pieces of me
I’m finding them in places
I used to be

beneath the books I’ve read
under the words I’ve said
in the things I’ve grown
behind things I’ve known

I’m collecting little broken pieces of me
placing them together,
carefully

and finally,
when I’m done
if I’m missing one
possibly two
know this
for this is true

I’m complete
as complete as can be
its in the missing pieces
I feel more like me

I met one day, a day,
that was dressed up
as yesterday
I asked, “Why not live in today,
than the previous day’s cotton?”
All it could simply and sadly say
“I hide in yesterday
for fear, tomorrow
I’ll be forgotten.”

I didn’t catch the days name
But I guess it’s the same
Monday wanted to be Sunday
Tuesday wanted to be Monday
And so on and so long
That I guess it was true
by the end of that week
I forgot which day
was who anyway

There is an oasis in the middle of my dream
I spend a nights rest at the edge of its stream
Beneath palm trees and cool of shade
I close my eyes where my body is laid

Silhouettes of chain linked camels at sunrise
I squint and peer out through half lit eyes
A band of gypsies, sing, dance and play
The music is faint but it wakes me today

In bed between concrete and cement
Staring at a ceiling I wish to forget
A cold city of asphalt and bitumen grey
I’ll wait yet again, tonight, to be on my way

Wait, hold up
Did she actually say she loved me?

Wait, hold on
Are they actually our kids?

Wait till next appointment
Are they actually the results?

Wait, give me a sec
Was that life that just passed us by?

I’m on a road trip
It’s a while since I’ve written
Still there’s nothing like writing poetry
It’s my best any trip
Long roads are better enjoyed
With words floating
In and out my head
Even the most beautiful of sunsets
can be ignored
when that perfect word
sits right next to me in the passenger seat
talking with me till I stop driving
to pick up a paper and pen

Why do people play with big words?
Is a poet to impress or express?
As for me,
I’ve carried too heavy a load to care
I just want to share

“What’s your
favourite colour?”,
she asked,
I replied, “black”.

“Black, like the night?”
she questioned
And went on
to question,
“Black’s not a colour”,
and she was right

But, I’d choose black
for anything
black car
black jeans
black beans
All my favourite things.

We paused

“What’s your favourite colour?”,
I asked
She smiled
touched my lips
and said,
“red”

But she wore pink
with green jeans
and a purple bow
on her head

I stopped and stared
wondering at that
How beautiful
she would make
the colour red

I hold a very little box
with very little things
little thoughts
little clippings
of smaller things
I often fold myself up
and place myself in
waiting in my little box
there sitting
for a little time
for a little while
I’m not asking for much
I sit with a little smile
nothing bigger than the box
nothing more than two
room for me
and a little of you

Why are the things I want the most
found on the highest shelf?
I question why others can reach
and why I can’t reach myself.
Are my legs too stout or small,
or my arms too short to love?
Is my heart too low below my head
to reach so high above?
I learn not how strong or tall
or how high up a thing is stacked
but how smart you are to make it fall
and secure the bottom rack

I’m hanging
on the ‘y’
of your goodb  e
                         y

A silver spoon
still never feeds the soul

A silver lining
still cannot hold back the rain

A silver moon
still brings on the howling

A silver chain
still holds the weakest link

“Look after your Soul”,
that old preacher would say
Cherish with your life
or it may wither away
Take care, to take care
and guard it well
Lest it becomes so sickly
it’s fit only for Hell