The first flower of spring,
The first flake of snow,
The first walk in the rain
While warm breezes blow,
The first pinkened cheeks
As by sunlight kissed,
This is what I would have missed.
Grandchild's first steps,
His first words spoken,
The first hand held,
As he's gently awoken,
His first day at school,
his first girl kissed
This is what I would have missed.
The honour of becoming old,
And seeing wrinkles in my frown,
Pimping my mobility scooter
And roaring on it around town,
Laughing with the OAPs
While I fulfill my shopping list,
Coffee on a chilly day,
This is what I would have missed.

I do not wish my son to fight
No matter who is wrong or right.
I do not wish my son at war
I did not think when he was born
That every tiny pink nailed hand
Would be sent to some poor mother's land,
To hold a gun against her boy
And steal from her our maternal joy.
I do not wish my son to fight
In any war. Who cares who's 'right'.

Next door closed the curtains
And put out the cat.
Number three I couldn't see
4 shook out the mat.
17 (who are rather mean)
Turned the tree lights off,
The bloke who lives next door to them
Rattled off a chesty cough.
Porches dimmed and bedroom lights
flickered off along the street,
Couples gave a goodnight kiss
Dogs a pat and treat.

But how much else and how much more
if they'd known it was the night before?

I am no longer afraid of the night
Or of death
For I have danced across the stepping stones
In darkness
And not fallen in.

We are the poor.
We have no wealth.
Don't ask about our mental health
In fact walk past us.
Don't ask why
Just do not look us in the eye
Especially if you knew us before
When we wore socks and brushed our teeth
And hadn't given up and sank beneath
The awful maelstrom in our brain
Of fear, pain and damning shame.

We are the shadow people
But I see you,
And I know that you have shadows too.

Haven't seen you for a while.
You know how it is.
Lockdown.
We are all struggling aren't we.
Terrible how it has been.
I wish you would

No not much. You?
That's a shame.
Yes they grow up so quickly.
I know. Time goes so fast yes.
ask me how I really am

Anyway it is freezing.
Better get home.
Yes yes you too.
Take care.
because I haven't spoken to anyone in weeks.

We want to stay in Europe
Wear masks and stay at home
We like to fly the rainbow
Rashford's one of our own.
We care about our neighbours
Whatever colour they may be
We religiously recycle
And care about the sea.
We don't scrap or fight or row
Don't stick fireworks up our ****
Part of a global community
Rule Britannia is a farce.
So please do not judge us
On the actions of Dom or Matt
And don't think we like Boris,
The bloke's a massive prat.

I'm not interested in extensiveemployeebenefitsincludinghealthinsuranceapensionschemean­danallencompassingsenseofdreadeverytimeyousetyouralarmclock.
But I haven't grown up yet.

Something I have noticed
Since lockdown has begun
We must have shrunk our trousers
in 2021.

On July 18th 2021
A dark triangle will cover our sun.
The populace will cower
The populace will shriek
And buy enough loo roll to last them the week.
"We knew they were coming" says President Biden
"They broke out of Roswell where we were trying to hide em
They're all very friendly
If a little bit grey
And they've something important they've come here to say"
"PEOPLE OF EARTH" the craft started to belt
"YOUR PLANET IS BOILING. YOU ARE GOING TO MELT.
STOP WITH THE AIR CON
STOP WITH THE PLASTIC
OR WE'LL HAVE TO STEP IN AND DO SOMETHING DRASTIC"
Over the Earth fell a global stunned hush
Until to the front a human started to push
"But all that takes effort
We won't care when we're dead.
We want to watch Netflix and eat ***** instead."
The space craft glimmered, shook and was gone,
The earth was left wondering quite what had gone on,
Nobody cared and noone claimed fault,
But they'd emptied the oceans and just left us with salt.
Far up in space in a tank swimming free
Their Octopus Gods were splashing with glee.
Revenge for pollution and calamari.

When I was younger I used to think,
When my ovaries were on the blink,
I'd revel in the fact that I was free,
Less time for periods, more time for me.
No more evenings spent alone
Because Liverpool were playing at home.
Now menopause is here to stay,
I wish my monthlies never went away,
New wrinkles appear,
Sweats and hot flushes,
My bladder requires
Pees in bushes.
My locks are lank,
****** hair runs free.
But God is a woman.
Proof? HRT.

Get your bra on Gladys
Lockdown is nearly done
Shave your legs and brush your pegs
Let's get out in the sun.
Put your perm on Doris
Get your hair all in a curl
Some lippy in red and a hat on your head
I'll take you out for  a whirl.
Bin the slippers Mabel
Squeeze your bunions into some heels
A top tight at the bust is really a must,
And I'll pick you up in my wheels.
Chuck out the onesie Doris,
I know that you just didn't care,
In fact stay at home, I prefer being alone
And there's too many people out there.

My honey, my sugar, my bonbon, my sweet.
My stomach is bulging, I can't see my feet.
Next time I'm falling in love with a pea
A carrot, an apple or a cup of black tea.
Marry me darling, shower me with kisses,
But do it quick sweetheart or you'll have a fat Mrs.

We all deserve to walk in the dark if we wish.
We all deserve to get home safe.
We all deserve to be policed by kind hearts.
We are all Sarah.

I thought poetry was for poor people too,
No fee for the thoughts in my head,
But I really loved your last poem
So go stand in the sunshine instead.

Don't delete this email,
It's a poem, it's quite sweet,
It's got some rhymes and metaphors,
So please don't hit delete.
Don't delete this email,
A poem is here you see,
I've spilled the beans on my hopes and dreams,
Wiv posh vocablurree.
Don't delete this email,
The content it might grab 'ya,
But while you're here.....come closer dear....
I've got some cheap ******.

The moon gazes down with its big moon face,
And casts light to the earth from the depths of  space.
"Isn't it lovely! A full moon!", we cry,
As the dark side craft get ready to fly.

Death carries three scythes
Drugs, drink - and the sharpest - hope.
All **** in the end.

See this box and tube mate?
Proper bit of kit ;
The customers all love the way
It gives a pop and spit.
You wanna see their faces man,
The horror in their look,
As I let fly and freely fry
with tricity that *****.
Some of them howl like diabolical owls
"Hoo hoo hooooHooooo" they lament
"WTH is this?" they squeal and hiss
"Especially with what I've spent."
I'm a self made man with an awesome plan
To win over the pro ghost lobby.
But I've got stuff to do
Had a thought,
Something new.
In time travel. My other hobby.

I have a ******* superpower
To the worms I am a God.
They pop up everywhere I go
And wave their heads and nod.
I showed the others kids at school
What I could make worms do
But they laughed and bullied me
Said I'd lost a *****.
One night when Mom had gone to bed
I went out in the night
Put my torch under my chin
Talked to them in the light.
They whispered lots of scary things.
"Keep a close eye on the sun!"
But it's too late.
It's happening now
Soon the worms will come.

The tiny wave makes
the smallest of ripples but
carries the most sand.

I'd love to be part of the poetry scene
as long as I can take that to mean
goblets of adjectives
fizzing with nouns
quaffed in a hall full
of poetical sounds.

Sadly I fear it would more likely be
I. Alone. Solo.
With a nice cup of tea.

There is a torrent of cascading sapphire,
Bursting and burbling across rock.
Fringed with ivory froth.
And pooling into a depth of aquamarine and mint.

Poor poets would be rather flush,
if we could dab words with a brush.
There had never been a call
For a sonnet on your wall.

Sometimes you can have lots of friends.
A supportive family.
A great career.
Holidays, cars, televisions, games consoles, designer clothes and and and.
Someone you have never met before catches your eye, smiles and says something kind
And in that moment of utter despair and totally unknown to them
saves your life.

I have never been mad before
And I must say I'm finding it swell.
I've got a room with a lockable door
And the windows have bars on as well.
I have never been mad before,
And I must say I'm having a riot.
The voice in my head keeps me company
I was never a fan of the quiet.
I have never been mad before,
And I must say it's awfully nice,
I have a fabulous jacket with buckles
That wraps round my chest snug and twice.
I have never been mad before
Go on! Give it a go!
Living your life sane with a functioning brain,
Is awfully boring you know.

Ferrets in the laundry room,
Parrot in the shed,
Hamster in the lounge,
Puppies on my bed.
Snake in the bread bin,
Kittens on the stairs,
Glow worms in the cupboard
To catch you unawares.
Emu in the garden,
Koala in the study,
Piggies in the front yard,
Where it's nice and muddy.
A bathroom budgie,
Dogs guard bedroom three,
When I win the premium bonds,
Who will rescue me?

As I walked down Brighton Pier
Bathed in summer light
Munching on a candy floss
Squinting in the bright
I saw a fortune teller's sign
Lurking in the gloom
Signposting 'Madam Lucky Rose'
Dealing tarot in a room.
The gaudy gypsy painting
Lured this wanderer in
And as I ventured nearer
I caught the tang of gin.
"Hallo there" came a cracking voice
"Come in" I heard a shout
So I entered through a curtain made
To keep bluebottles out.
Twenty pounds she wanted,
To tell me of my fate,
I felt just like the Thane Macbeth,
But Jim not Banquo was my mate.
Hubble bubble, toil and trouble,
I expected her to say,
But she was busy with her visa machine,
And she wanted me to pay.
We placed our bums on old oil drums,
She'd covered in velour,
And she'd tacked a piece of curtain up,
To form a make shift door.
With trembling hands she took mine,
And looked into my eyes,
Her eyes were rimmed with charcoal grey,
And I expected fraud and lies.
She told me of my future,
She told me of my past,
She told me I'd get married and
That it would never last.
She draped around my shoulders
A cloak of purple hue,
And whispered of a new career as fortune tellers do,
"The curse is broken!" she exclaimed
I strained with all my will,
But she left me there that summer day,
And in Brighton I lurk still.

When I was a little girl I often went walking with my dad.
He was going to the shop to buy his beer
that was sold in a can with a picture of a ******* clad lady on the front.
We walked down a long, dark hill to get there that was punctuated with street lights.
Dad had to choose between
Diana,
Monica,
Megan,
Candy,
Margaret or
Rosie.
All had bikinis stretched tight over absurd curves and shook their perms like manes.
On the way home I stopped under every light
because his grip on my hand didn't feel quite so tight.

It has always been a noted thing
That poets are quite mad
And often wildly happy
And often bleakly sad.
They feel things more than most you see
Starving hunger and parched thirst,
Tormented by their worm filled minds
Giddy bests and plunging worsts.
It helps me with my job I guess,
I find it natural not hard,
Oh happy birthday Auntie.
This is weird in a card.

I once bought a life size cut out of John Cena.
I have no idea why. It was 3am and I was drunk.
When it arrived my children were overjoyed and took lots of photographs of themselves doing
Tombstones
Swanton bombs
Stone Cold Stunners
Sweet Chin Music
RKOs
Razors
Piledrivers
Rock Bottoms and
Flying Elbows.
I didn't. I couldn't see him.

White light.
Beams blazing like lazers as the blind slightly shifts and back
Back to darkness.
Again. White light. Black. White light. Black.
Blindness and blindness and light and black.
Back and forth.
Tap. Tap. Tap.

The End.

So sod it. We're off to the pub.
The Mrs is putting on lipstick,
The collar is getting a scrub.
I'm all ready to distance
But there is a problem you see?
This two metres malarkey?
British feet and inches for me!
I'll sit at my usual table
And stare at my usual wall
But I'm proud to flick fingers to 'rona
Cos like Boris I've done ****** all.

That memories stir
Far more often
Than the contents of his shorts.

I love watching the fire
The way it fizzles and crackles and pops.
How you feed it green boughs from a sapling
And watch as the life in it stops.
I love placing on letters
Watch words as the yellow and curl.
Destroying the dreams and the memories
Much like  you did with this girl.
I love watching the fire
My twisted face glows in it's light.
I'm here on my own, not there at your home,
But scorn me again and I might.

Remember when you were fifteen
And that boy at school was really keen.
He turned and looked at you in Maths,
Then distracted you from paragraphs
By the way his eyes look when he laughs.
Remember when you were twenty
And male admirers were aplenty.
Before the days of internet dating,
On fleek brows, playas and hating,
Checking likes to assess your rating.
Remember the days when you were thirty,
Evenings spent with nappies *****.
Lack of sleep and funds were low,
Rarely out you'd get to go,
But baby love kept you aglow.
Remember the days when you were forty,
A bottle of wine the heights of naughty.
Tired after a long commute,
Buttons straining on the suit,
Teenage angst along to boot.
Remember the days when you were fifty,
Kids at Uni - must be thrifty!
Mum showing signs of losing her mind,
Face shows the years have not been kind,
Marriage more and more a bind.

Think of all that's yet to come,
And hope that you will find someone,
Who reminds you of all the dreams,
You had in Maths at age fifteen.

It's my birthday today.
45 years old.
I reckon I've got about another thirty years left in the tank before I turn to my best friend in a convertible and go Thelma and Louise style over a cliff.
Whether she likes it or not.

"Miss, this is *******. Poets don't punctuate on purpose."
Perhaps. (,?)
They do. (.............?)

It took me until I was 45 to discover love that was Un.
Unending. Unconditional. Undemanding.
It was like I woke up from a romantic fog.
2016 when I got my dog.

You haven't earned more money in years,
it's a vocation.
OFSTED steals your sleep with fears,
it's a vocation.
You buy pens and pencils with your own cash,
it's a vocation.
Your shoes fall apart, your car nothing flash,
it's a vocation.
You haven't been abroad since 2002,
it's a vocation.
A girl says she comes to school because of you.
It's a vocation.

When it catches me
Warm in the classroom or nodding
Just after my stop,
I curse you.
Heavy eyelids.
Limbs weighed down with care and iron clad fears.
2am.
You dance from my fingertips and taunt me moments and inches away on the cool side of my pillow.
Long lost friend. Tormentor of Macbeth.  
That which I yearn for. Embrace of brief death.
You swine. Come to me when I call
Or let me be productive and don't come at all.

"Cannons to the left of them, cannons to the right",
The boy exhales deeply,twirling dust motes in the light.
His pencil moves laboriously as his notes limp to the end,
And he shifts back from his studies and grimaces at a friend.
The girl gazing along the row admires his boyish face,
The frown lines from thinking have left a shallow trace,
So she whispers across to him that he needs to smile,
And he grins at her and stretches, adds annotations to the pile.
I observe him from the whiteboard,
Feel a rush of maternal pride. Young, strong and full of hope,
The world is open wide.
Then emotion clutches at my throat, sins forefathers have done,
A hundred years ago he'd have been,
In the trenches with my son.

Why write a poem?
Write a tweet instead.
Goes the internal monologue running in my head.
Why write a poem?
Go and do some work.
Getting out the fountain pen is an excuse to shirk.
Why write a poem?
Nobody cares.
Spend your time on snapchat racking up the 'flares'.
Why write a poem?
Heaney's been dead for years.
Can't read Mid Term Break without it reducing me to tears.

Your blood is the same as mine.
Red, type O, superstitious.
We both prefer not to spill it but hold it preciously.
Clutched to our chests in fragile vessels.

Your blood is the same as mine.
It flows through our veins and that of our children.
It warms their cheeks and it anointed them when they came mewling into this world.

Your blood is the same as mine.
I read about your losses and I feel them in my bones.
Mother to mother, our blood the same divided only by water.

I'm a Rock and Rock teacher and I'm really dead cool,
I wear a leather jacket as I'm swaggering to school,
I like what I teach and I teach what I like,
A roar across the playground on my motorbike.
I let the kids call me by my first name,
My mum called me Gertrude (which is a bit of a shame),
I love Sid Vicious so I call myself Nance,
And put safety pins in my PVC pants.
I talk about Shakespeare or as I call him Bill,
I put wicked street art on my windowsill,
I follow no rules, I do what I choose,
I pierced my lip, I've got tattoos,
I'm fighting the system, I'm hip and I'm rad.
It's a midlife crisis and it's really quite sad.

Wind blowing down the chimney, went and got his fluffy slippers,
Got home very tired from work, he cooked the children's chicken dippers,
Remembered his mum's birthday and ordered her some flowers,
He doesn't mind me reading weird sci-fi books for hours,
Rolled over and tucked the duvet when his *** stuck out in bed,
I didn't fancy noodles so he ordered rice instead,
When I cook the dinner he gets the biggest chop,
He always packs the heavy things in his bag at the shop,
Love's not about roses or expensive diamond rings,
It's all about the day to day million little things.  
When we go to sleep at night our hands must always touch,
I never thought I'd find it but I love him very much.

I wish I was a musician,
Wrote riffs for my guitar,
Earned loads of cash, looked like Slash,
And drove a fancy car.
I wish I was an artist,
Created worlds with paint,
Banksy as my bro, a huge afro,
At my feet London would faint.
I wish I was an actor,
For all the world's a stage,
I'd win awards, tread the West End boards,
And make 'portly' all the rage.
It's pants being a poet,
Scribbling odes year after year,
But I'm not flighty, I can write in my nightie,
And post it all on here.

"I'm a poet", I said and my friend laughed.
"No you're not. I wrote a poem once. Does that make me a poet too?"
Yes, yes it does.
We all are.
Most of us just don't like talking about it.

The best thing about teaching poetry,
And being a poet,
Is that you can show the children,
That sometimes what you write is AMAZING,
And sometimes it is *******,
But it all involves scribbles,
And considering every word,
And what is ******* to you,
Speaks to somebody else,
And what is AMAZING to you,
Is AMAZING to you. (and that's enough)
Oh and it doesn't have to rhyme.

Young people today have missed out on courting by mixtape.
Starts with dance tunes.
Gets into R n B.
Bit of metal if you have a row.
My mixtape ended with Jagged Edge.
Reader, I married him.

I think I'm in love with Alan Sugar,
And it isn't for his magnificent beard.
Nor for the way he fixes the boardroom
With a steely gaze that must be feared.
I think I'm in love with Alan Sugar,
And it's not due to the cut of his tailored suit,
Nor to the way he points his finger
Or how he has *** loads of loot.
I think I'm in love with Alan Sugar,
And it's not for the 'banter' with Karen & Claude,
I gaze at the screen on Tuesday evening,
I wonder if Alan knows how he's adored?