I never really focused
on happiness
Never really thought
I had a reason to smile
Each day can be so harsh
but the in between moments
can make it worthwhile
a quiet walk down an empty street
in the moments between
the dark and the dawn
the breath of fresh air
drawn deep into tired lungs
watching fingers of light yawn
across a beautiful start to the day
Then hearing the children laugh
as they come out to play
Spending time with family
when the working week is done
Happiness is not just about fun
It's a soul deep pleasure
that settle upon bones
that are broken
like a soothing balm
It's often less about the spoken
more about the little joys
that sit gently in your palm
I never really thought about the happy
until it was ****** upon my hand
and I find my fingers, gently curling
to hold it steady
I won't let it fall so readily
look closely, they are not clenched fists
*do you understand?

November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.

the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on

planning, prepping, late night stressing

then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******* in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter

and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away

no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty  red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no,  you be the one to corner the beast.

no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty

please, please show me the door.....

not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more

but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.

the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar  that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.

November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***.

last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb



yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....

Just a note
to say, thanks
for the many years
of enjoyment

when I first met you
I will admit I found
you a dry and boring
old stick

It took a while to get the knack,
to be enamoured with your style

but once converted, I was, a fan
and read you by midsummers night
in and out love, through tempests
and battlefields, with friends, foes
and witches,
on balconies, in shoreditches.
upon islands where all seemed familar
but in such a confusing way.

Through battles and histories
fact and fanciful.
I walked withyou and  
your word play
at my heels like a dog...

sometimes with clarity
and sometimes befogged.

Your words dear friend
have so often been apt...

Tho I sometimes wonder
if you knew the effect
your scrawl would have
as you sat and wrote
making it up as you went along,
I wonder if you thought your
words  were whisperings in a wind
there....and then gone.

And now you are famous,
world reknowned.
A bard no less
with the Globe at your feet

Yet to me you are a friend,
your words comfort, and inspiration
in a world unstable...

So again I say,
Thanks for the plays
the sonnets and things

it made a difference
more than you know

but just to let you know...
I still haven't got the knack
of writing in iambic flow....

with apologies to WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)

Once more to the table, dear friends, once more;

Or close up our hungry mouths with supermarket staples.

In peace there's nothing so becomes a man

As modest stillness and humility:

But when the blast of hunger blows in our ears,

Then imitate the action of the tiger;

Cut fine the sinews, simmer up the blood,

Disguise cheaper meats with hard-favour'd sage;

Then lend the stirring spoon a terrible aspect;

Let pry through the portage of the foccacia bread

Like the brass cannon; let the garlic o'erwhelm it

As fearfully as doth a galled onion

O'erhang and jutty his confounded  tomato base,

Swill'd with a wild and wasteful Cabernet Savignon.

Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,

Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit

To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.

Whose ragu is fet from Nonna's fail proof recipe!

Nonna's that, like so many  Stephanie Alexanders,

Have in these parts from morn till even, baked

And brewed their sauces  and stews, for lack of argument:

Dishonour not your mothers; now attest...

That those whom you call'd mothers did feed you well

Be copy now to men of larger appetites

And teach them how to eat.

And you, good yeoman,

Whose limbs were made in England, show us here

The mettle of your belt; let us swear

That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;

For there is none of you so hungry,

That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,

Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:

Follow your spirit, and upon this charge

Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

and in this day
there is fulfillment

the sun has arrived
on cue.

and birds chirk

and dew sits diamond like
on green, green grass

and the mailboxis
collared by string
attatched to a bright red
balloon

drinks glisten in plastic cups
sauasge rolls warm in the oven
the chicken wings are in there too


bowls of lollies await consumption
and knicknacks are wrapped in
yesterday's news

today another year
rolls on bye
seems to this mother
in less than a blink
of an eye

gifts unwrapped
and a puppy
named Snap


pictures taken
measurement on the
kitchen door jamb

he grows
tall and strong


but still
and forever
my little man

framed in driftwood
we stand, gathered informally
standing on sand, at the waters edge
with blue sky and sun behind

father, mother, son.
zinced but still pinked
by the day, on the beach
smiling, carefree

intertwined by love
and history,
the gene pool, strong.
hair blonde and curly
the feet, long toed
and the clefting dimple
on chin, the slight turn of nose

we are held for posterity
together,
for this moment
of memory.
smiling, laughing, loving.

as the tide recedes,
as the sun sets,
as the sand is blown hither.

we will remain......family....