Father's Day was yesterday.
But why must a day be set aside to show a parent love?
I love my parents all year round
I've fought, screamed, cried all the while loving them.
But, my country breeds strong independent people
national identity to be found everywhere.
From the hilltop spring to the coast
we Welsh are a mystical breed, of mystery and sorcery.
My anthem "Mae hen wlad fy nhadau"
or Land of my fathers made me stop and think,
think of my father and other men in this land.
Rough handed, hewn from steel and coal.
Iron willed, fiercely proud.
Valley born I am, even now I'm in a city.
But when I die Valley dead I'll lie.
In my father's plot, set aside for us.
Set aside on a green mountain overlooking the valley.
The land of my fathers, the land that bred him and me.
This poem is in English oh "uch a fi"
But if I write in Welsh my father will not understand
His generation denied the language of song, poetry,
and identity. I have a happy heart "calon hapus"
For he and I will be forever tied by blood and country.
Father's Day for me and all children born of woman lay claim to
Father's Day all year round.

Hush, listen, soft breath is needed,
quiet now or we'll disturb them.
The lovers entwined in lazy armed need.
Twilight has crept silently into the room,
soft pale blue light suffuses the couple,
whose love act dapples the sweet light,
and bends the shadows seductively.
Evening twilight ends and night begins.
The French expression l'heure bleu has passed.
The lovers oblivious to the blue hour
lie together in sated desire.
Come now, let us leave the serene sapphic scene.
The night awaits, and many a couple lie
procrastinating, whilst Aphrodite, Eros and us,
the watchers, dust them with desire

Words, like a fragmented mirror, piece themselves together
in lines of poetry.
Some words fit, some words fail,
all that is known, is that one minute these words were individual
now they are knitted together in sentences,
to become for some a resonance

She must be able to see what I see
Feel what I feel
Hear what I hear.
Does she blind herself?
Does she deafen herself?
Does she deaden the pain somehow?
I scream inside that this is not you,
you are worth more.
Love is not a slap
Love is not staying
Love is not hearing over and over words such as *****.
But, she is not me anymore, she has chosen a path.
A path I cannot follow, but follow I must,
for she is me I am her.
the physical me switches me off, just before
the blow, just before the scream.

Cheeriness left me Monday.
Emotionless, I staggered at the news that,
the self proclaimed "The People's Poet" was dead.
In a crashing flood of emotion the 80's flooded back,
"Post Punk" Rick was no more.
Lord Flashheart was no more.
Alan Beresford B'stard was no more.
Drop Dead Fred had died.
Rik Mayall the comedian, actor, genius was no more.
No more catchphrases such as 'Hoorah' or 'Neeeeeiiiiillll'
No more, smashing frying pans into people 's faces,
No more ***** margarine, no more 'Bottom'
No more British anarchic, anti-establishment, alternative comedy.
My youth had died.
Getting old is quite simply a *******.
56 was too young.
But, never fear I do believe, that
"She has a tongue like an electric eel, and she likes the taste of a man's tonsils"
Will be engraved upon my heart, just for M'Lord! Woof!