She knows all the words to the right songs
though she sings them all slightly off key.
She runs through this world
in the wrong dress,
yet she walks in the room and the men turn to see
if it's her, and their girlfriends all elbow and stare,
sending dagger looks through pregnant air,
sulking, and flicking their hair.

Yet she never once means them a moment of harm
she'd not touch their men with her green Irish charm.
She goes her own way, and she's happy to play
on her own, if only your men,
felt the same, and would leave her alone.

I just can't, for the life of me
recall the proper recipe!
Was it eye of toad and ear of bat?
Or skin of newt and tail of rat?

I really don't know where I'm at
but if I get it wrong, that's that!

Nada! Zip! For me and you,
one smelly potion and no love, true
or otherwise, what's a witch to do
with a cauldron that is full of glue???

When I lift it from the oven
I'll be laughed out of the Coven

At Lincolns Inn in London town
where crowds and traffic rush and hum
there stands a lone, forgotten tree
a Cercis Siliquastrum.

It isn't straight and isn't tall
It leans like it's about to fall
It's aspect is a silent call
but no one these days cares at all.

This shy, retiring, gentle tree
marked for all time by infamy,
stains rugged bark as red as blood
reminding us that God is good.

It sets forth flowers bright as flame
in blushing pink it shows its shame.
It wears its portion of the blame
for here's a tree that knows its name.

The birds have fallen silent.
Dancing Meadowsweet stands still.
The airs intaken breath is paused.
The world awaits until
his hand reclaims the pen once more.
Scribes verse upon the ream.
For he's the final Poet.
Lonley dreamer of the dream.

A wealth of meaning can be found
within two letters, barely sound.

A breeze through leaves.
A slithering snake.
Water on shingle that laps a lake.

A softly, soothing lullaby.
The end of a secret.
The start of a lie.

A Chinese whisper.
A smoking gun.
The turning page of a story begun.

Astonishments laughter.
Admonishments pain.
The Wit’s last resort
and the Fool’s refrain

You promised you'd be there.
You said, and you swore.
and though I'm not bitter,
my heart's still sore.

You said, and you swore
as you walked away,
my heart's still sore
yet I'll live out the day.

As you walked away,
and though I'm not bitter,
yet I'll live out the day
you promised you'd be there.

I miss you.

While reading Wordsworth in the sun,
those woven words I would have spun,
I wonder if you're having fun?
and still
I miss you.

Three words I swore I wouldn't say,
for they give all the game away
though now I have no hand to play
yet still
I miss you.

I wish that you were with me now
you made the best of me somehow
caused me to laugh at every row
and so
I miss you.

I wonder what you did today
and if you're happier this way?
Or do you think of me and say
sometimes
I miss you.

No other words can quite convey
that part of each and every day
is yours. The only thing I pray
is not to
miss you.

There's a time.
In the dance.
When you know that
you're taking a chance.

With a curve.
And a twist.
And you're praying
you don't break her wrist.

But you're filled
with the thrill
of the thought
that you'll hold her until

she is claimed
by the dance
with the next man
who's promised romance.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And you long for her to look
straight into your adoring eyes.
You want to keep her near you,
safe from other fellows lies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But you still
let her go,
hoping someday
she'll know

how you longed
for her charms
as she twirled
in his arms.

Oh drat! Oh heck!
The paper just got wrapped
around my printers neck!

"I'm guilty M'lord."
I have to say.
For I kept it plugged in
when I boxed it away.

But counsel speaks!
There are, it seems,
rare mitigating circumstances!
I listen wrapt and all confused.
Not fancying my chances.

He proceeds to eulogise my life.
And makes such a meal of my piteous tale,
that I intevene and plead with the judge
to please stop the trial and throw me in jail!

I don't suit hats
and I'm not their cup of tea.
My head is just the wrong shape
and it's far too small you see.

So the hats that I have
quite simply have to be
of the jokey, laughing,
giggling, silliest variety.

I've a pink hat with bobbles,
and a purple fluffy beast,
an Arsenal grey with dangling braids,
and a multicoloured feast
of points and tassles, braids and swirls.
I guess I'm not like other girls.

But none of the boys
will walk along with me.

Still, I don't mind. I love daft hats,
and my daft hats love me.

You sought to take my feet
and run my life for me.
To bind my eyes
and lead me by the hand.
You said you read my mind
and then you told me what to think.
You drew an X
and told me where to stand.

You said that I was weak
and didn't know what I was feeling.
You told me I was always in the wrong.
You made a gilded cage and then you locked me in it
So you could sit and listen,
as I sang your song

In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.

Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.

Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!

Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.

Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.

Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!

A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.

The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.

At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.

Pitch-painted night.
You put the overshadowed day to flight.
Devouring all, you leave no lingering light.
And all the walls are breached,
and all that once was right
seems wrong.

The hour grows late and yet I wait
awake too long, and take again
the bait that fells the fortress of the day,
remaining conscious when thought should have
long since slipped away.

Come to me tonight.
Insinuate yourself between my thighs.
Take me.
Give me sweet delight.
Listen to my softly sounding cries
and look into my eyes as you
take me.
And I
Take you.

He slipped into her life like angels sighing.
She crashed into his life like shrapnel flying.

He always knew their worlds were just too far apart,
But she was heaven in his heart.

She was so lonely.
Everything he tried to say seemed wrong.
His one and only
Love,
when love should not have come along.

His distant kindnesses seemed much like lying
She did her best but she was sick of trying.

She knew they couldn’t be together from the start.
But he was heaven in her heart.

He was perfection.
Everything she wanted him to be.
Without exception.
But he wasn’t there
when she was free.

And so they parted at long distance.
Crying.
The accusations and recriminations flying.

They knew they wouldn’t be together
From the start.
Though they’d been Heaven in the heart.

You promised me forever
but you only gave me yesterday.

You threw me to the dogs
when things didn't go entirely your way.

But that's ok.
The dogs are better company than you.

They're more intelligent.

Her eyes suspend the starlight.
Her lips are molten gold.
Her hair is soft spun darkness.
Her mind is mercury.
Behold - a woman.

Whole and moonwrapped
mystery untold.

Her story echoes
down unfolding
corridors of history.

Where men may chance their luck.
If they are bright and bold.

A poem is grand
that's got summat to say.

But if it says nowt
it still passes
the time o' day.

Never disparage
another mans writing.
He may be twice your size
and good at fighting!!!!!

Why did you make my love for you
so hard?
Baked like a rock cake
currants burned in a pastry shard.

Tearing my mind and mouth?
Stoppering words I had to say?
Pointing a finger at me
while telling me to go
my own way?

You were a constant contradiction.
Putting my head in a spin.
Whichever way you turned me
I simply couldn't win.

Now I am not competing
I confuse and baffle you.
I don't listen to your bleating
I do what I want to do.

My love is as fixed as the Heavens
And as changeable as the sky.

My love is as constant as truth
and as fickle as a lie.

My love is every loving word
And every silent hate.

My love is hours a-plenty
And minutes running late.

My Love is many coloured
and a single solid hue.

My love is dark and ancient
and bright and ever new.

My love is full as high tide
And as empty as the sea.

My love means nothing to anyone
And is everything to me.