#thompson
I see things way in a
things that don't you see
Things might that - you confuse
Tend to make sense more to me.
Perhaps incorrectly up I'm wired
Perhaps wrong circuitry is my!
I all know
what I is sense
I have nothing to else go by!
Jan 23
Jan 23, 2026 at 9:30 AM UTC
Moonlight shone; as
silver spoons glance
at shoes performing
the perfect dance
sandwiches fly high
through buttery clouds,
frogs wearing neckties,
welcomed the crowds.
Doves circle; skirts
take the air!
Waltzing the ballroom
without a care!
Raindrops end celebrations
glass carriages; glitz!
Dark - countryside; if
the shoe fits.
Jan 18
Jan 18, 2026 at 12:10 PM UTC
I am the ghost
flitting from underpass to underpass
unseen
spray can in hand - the tools of my trade,
a tiny marble inside.
Shake it
hear my rattling heart
arming the tools
used to cover the walls.
With a storm of cobalt blue or feusha pink
under the press of a finger
I write a city’s shorthand.
An artform sprayed upon a city's cold grey concrete canvasses.
I don't speak in whispers;
I speak in sudden sharp hisses,
and suddenly
a wall becomes a piece of art,
a distraction over which to muse,
I release the vaporised colour
that turns a dull afternoon into a streak of lightning!
I am a rebel on a citys margins
where the alphabet is twisted into wild
colourful
tangled knots.
Mystical phrases
unknown words,
I am a secret handshake
known only by a few
viewed from a passing train
a hissing signature
left by a soulless face.
My art is not for everyone.
I am not what the major arthouses welcome - although my art is available in public
with no entrance fee
I'm not main-stream!
I turn the everyday into art - unappreciated by many,
frowned upon by most,
and criminalised by society,
I am forced into the
nightime shadows
I always polarise - artistic expression,
or criminal damage?
What do you think?
Jan 17
Jan 17, 2026 at 9:49 AM UTC
Old age happens when you're not looking.
It happens with recurring events
like; January snow
long hot summer days
and you no longer celebrating birthdays.
It doesn't come with the crackle of fireworks
more; the way a river reshapes a stone over time - persistently
quietly and unnoticed.
Finally the stones sharp edges become smooth,
like it would fit more comfortably into the palm of your hand.
Although the reflection in the mirror becomes a stranger
that too becomes more comfortable to you over time
telling you the truth - even though you don't want it,
nor did you ask for it.
Your face becomes softer
telling your story
the story of who you are - who you were.
Lines in the corners of your eyes
tell of times of sun
of times your heart was
full of joy - as well as full of hurt.
Your knees have an uncomfortable language of their own.
'Clicks' and 'cracks' cause groans and sighs
which speak of miles walked and burdens carried.
Lifes pace slows,
time seems burdensome - there's not enough it
yet somehow; too much of it.
The inevitable destination
not being further away
simply; you slowing down and the littlest of things demaning more attention than they used to.
There are things to let go of.
Things that previously seemed important
now; seems less so.
The need to be the loudest,
to have the newest,
the fastest,
the largest - are now not so important.
The heavy armor we used to wear to keep the world out,
now sits uncomfortably about our shoulders.
And why is the air cooler?
Is the skin more delicate,
or is the once flowing hair now thinner and more grey?
And that silence inbetween words
is no longer an uncomfortable empty space,
more a joy,
a refuge,
like a comfortable chair where you can finally sit down and rest.
The light too is different at certain hours.
Where once uncomfortably bright - it now glows,
turning the everyday ordinary;
into gold.
You notice the stars have come out
with a calling to look up
and gaze
and wonder
and enjoy the light
before it fades one more time - no more to return.
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 2:37 PM UTC
I am British,
but what does that mean?
Where did I come from; and
...who am I?
Let's start with the map of my blood-line - just after the earth thawed.
This changed many shorelines under; many tides.
I came walking over the now lost expanse of 'Doggerland',
blue-eyed and dark-skinned.
I carried flint in my hand.
Moving like a slow wave from the warmer Eastern climes,
I am now the farmers.
I carry with me the secret of the seed
I am the heavy stone to turn the soil of my chalky downlands.
I built circles to worship the sun
I added a sprinkle of knowledge brought by the Beaker people,
their use of copper
and their 'Eurasian' songs which were sung.
Together we rewrote the genetic code of the whole of my island - and all in just a few hundred years!
I was a genetic flood
a tide that never really turned.
I built my story in many layers. I am 'Celtic' with added iron-age. I am 'Celtic' innovation and agriculture - but I am also Roman.
My dead straight roads brought the world to my gate
as well as my soldiers from the Rhine.
I became merchants from the 'Atlas Mountains'.
I am 'Angles', 'Saxons' and 'Jutes'
carving my names into the very soil on which you stand.
Names featuring 'Ham', 'Ton', and 'Ley'
turning my island into a patchwork quilt of kingdoms
before came the dragon-ships ...and I became Viking!
I planted the Norse roots in me, into the cold northern soil.
Hear the many vowels which can still be heard on my tongue.
Later I am Norman.
I became a builder of stone towers
and I took their Latin word
changing my tongue
...but not my heart
and that tide; also never turned!
So who am I,
what does 'British' mean?
I am as British is the Huguenot weaver.
I am the fleeing Jew
running from persecution - and who is still running.
I am the 'Windrush' generation.
Hopeful souls who came on ocean liners from the colonies - to build a better life.
I am the doctor from Punjab,
the sailor from Canton.
I am a small part of everything they brought.
I am a trillion drops of rain that became an ocean.
I belong to nowhere - because I come from everywhere.
I am the strong "island nation".
I am the "genetic mosaic" which covers this islands floor.
I have been made over thousands of years
I am migration of all kinds - the result of immigrants
and that is what I feel
that is what I mean by...
being British
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 8:20 AM UTC
I'd love to be able to retire
without Putin setting fire
to the world and all we know
from his bunker in Moscow
not to hear the heavenly choir
from a world left in a mier
as climate change abounds
our stupidity astounds
and how can there be no work
in the dark those millions lurk
but with millions with no jobs
and politicians with big gobs
nobody's paying tax
'chance for pension's looking lax...
but I'd love to be able to retire
in a place - somewhere to aspire
kids not armed with knives
but with skills to build their lives
so world wait 'til I retire
with my wife; we'll never tire
down in Cornwall having fun
our life's labours having done
and when our days run out
we together at rest no doubt
and with Putin awaiting his grave
and the climate yet to save
and politics still in a mess
and "AI" our God: I guess
and no jobs at all are left
...we won't feel bereft!
Dec 10, 2025
Dec 10, 2025 at 8:48 AM UTC
A handful of sand
found in a shoe doesn't make
a beach, but it might
resurrect lost memories
of childhood visits to one!
Nov 23, 2025
Nov 23, 2025 at 10:10 AM UTC
How is it that we
exist, on a lump of rock,
the perfect distance
from a nice warm sun, yet we
go and invent leaf-blowers?
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 9:02 AM UTC
Is your head full of plans?
My head is always full of plans!
Plans to do the washing,
write poems,
and "where the hell are the delivery men?"
Stuff like that!
They spin around like the clothes in my new tumble dryer.
I'm very excited about my new tumble dryer!
One plan somehow clambers to the top of the pile,
and grabs my attention
so I start down the road,
of following that particular plan
and I forget all those other plans,
those that were previously tumbling around my head.
So what happend to all those other plans,
the ones that were previously,
filling my head,
the ones I forgot,
like - your plans to do the washing,
write poems,
and "where the hell are the delivery men?"
You become engrossed, following that one particular plan,
it was something you hadn't previously planned for,
and you forgot all the others - for now anyway,
until the tumble dryer in your head starts up again,
and another plan somehow clambers to the top of the pile,
and off we go again!
Oh why must life be so complicated?!
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 8:48 AM UTC
A wiseman can sometimes play the fool.
Although we've put men on the moon - 1969 was a long time ago!
I keep it in my head,
and for this reason
I've had to descend a mountain
I didn't climb.
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 9:19 AM UTC
How come an object
such as a cushion which is
meant to be comfy,
and soft, can have such pointy,
sharp, uncomfortable corners?
Nov 16, 2025
Nov 16, 2025 at 9:07 AM UTC
It is war; only with rules.
It's a battle between two sides. To take ground,
to enter enemy territory
and to inflict loss.
It's a campaign fought over many battles,
battles set in vast theatres of noise,
hope and expectation.
It's Rome and the Colusium.
It's feasting and drinking
a Colusium of death to the opposition.
Two opposing generals standing to one side
shout their orders
to fit,
young,
practiced warriors,
dressed in colours
mirrored by the crowds who come and pay their coin and watch.
On a command,
the warriors withdraw,
regroup,
and under the guidance of their respective generals
reasses their progress,
reconsider tactics,
then on a call,
return to fight once more.
The combatants apply the new plan with skill and determination.
The crowds become baying mobs,
chanting,
singing their anthems,
shouting abuse!
This is their territory and the opposition are not welcome!
The generals call for reinforcements
making changes,
swapping one injured warrior for a fit replacement
selected from the sidelines.
This battle must be won
they use all the clever tactics they have to hand.
The two sides give all they have to give.
They fight this battle
to win this war...
...this war that is football!
Nov 15, 2025
Nov 15, 2025 at 1:39 PM UTC
Is it to lye or to lie or to lay?
"to recline whilst not telling the truth in a prone position?"
The greatest lies
lie, lye, lay, lay in not telling the truth
but failing to lay at all.
Am I to never lye again,
but would that be a lie?
And not to tell the truth,
also be a lye?
Or a lay?
I must ensure that I would never again
lie,
swearing the truth; to,
living,
lying
longing,
laying,
lying,
or just - lay; lye; lay; lie...
...why is liing not a word?
Nov 14, 2025
Nov 14, 2025 at 6:27 AM UTC
The early morning rush...
Wake up your shirt.
Shower everyones breakfasts.
Are the kids ironed?
Feed your tie.
Wake up the children sports kit
Pack the children.
Eat your car.
Locate your toast.
Run a hair brush across your mobile.
Brush their packed lunches.
Find your hair!
Strap in the cats breakfast.
Grab a slice of laptop.
Unplug and pack their dinner money.
Load your teeth!
Get everyone out of the cat.
Has everyone gone..?
...are we ready to go?!
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 2:17 PM UTC
I stoop to pick up
a dropped coin on the shiny
floor beneath me...
but my reflection gets there
first and snatches it from me.
Nov 2, 2025
Nov 2, 2025 at 6:50 AM UTC
Wishing a soldier
well and to keep his head down
and to remain safe
is a bit optimistic
given what his work entails
Nov 1, 2025
Nov 1, 2025 at 6:53 AM UTC
Those fake nails are real,
it's his smile that isn't true.
That wig is undeniably a real wig,
but I don't think he's a real drag queen!
That stone clad wall isn't real stone cladding
but the plastic guttering is made from genuine plastic,
unlike your happiness!
The front of that building is just a facade.
Don't you mock my Tudor!
Her tan is real,
she got it from a can,
but the veneers on her teeth aren't bona fide!
I forgot goldfish have three second memories,
anyway that's a real distortion of the facts!
People saying most of the bodies heat is lost through their heads makes my blood boil!
Those falsehoods he didn't make up seemed legitimate
isn't a thing that is not what its purported to be; just a sham?
I don't believe you!
Nepoleon was short,
but then everyone was really short in those days,
and bulls aren't colourblind
so I red
Oct 30, 2025
Oct 30, 2025 at 3:09 PM UTC
Chair cushion poetry words
wind rain letterbox slap.
Trees fields leaves swirl
snoring dog - a booby-trap!
Poems exciting clever arranging
words enjoy like "dingly-dell"
Medal gifted golden wing,
wrangle, package and farewell.
Trains clouds candles jug,
poetry in sunshine glow.
Red lampshade curtains seven
wooden Elephants in a row.
Favored mother's favourite son
silent tears and not to boast.
Hands of clocks slowly spinning
spreading marmite onto toast.
Some poems ask questions
Some rhyme; some don't
some paint you a picture
some will; some really do but occasionally and don't scan and wont rhyme at all they won't!
Poems are just words sort of,
written; spoken, printed in a book
open minds will have a go
grab your mind and go take a look.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 6:55 AM UTC
I sing the body electric.
I'm dazzled by the promise of a greater tomorrow. I'm dizzied by the awareness of my own consciousness.
My body is merely a container for the soul that begs to be removed from its restrictions, for it is imprisoned within fragile bones and tender flesh.
It sings the body electric.
A melody that resembles a plea before slowly releasing a sigh in defeat against its enclosure.
It yearns from something better than what is offered in such a short span of time.
Life is short, they claim but life is indeed long.
Long and harsh, the road ahead.
We travel forward singing the body electric.
Dec 27, 2017
Dec 27, 2017 at 1:14 AM UTC
Being alone is nice sometimes,
but it can be very lonely too.
Seeing all the fun that they can have
doing things you can no longer do.
It feels like God is picking on me,
saying "Haha look at you!
I'm going to give you the grandest dreams
but you'll be gone by 32."
I try to talk to the people around
although it seems that they don't understand.
I can't really do all the things I would like,
but i'm trying the best that I can.
I used to find pleasure in the simple things,
like a beer and a bask in the sun.
The era of joy and stars in my eyes
it seems is finally done.
So please reserve your judgements until you
can feel what I feel inside.
Don't tell me how to spend my time
when it's a pain to be alive.
I've been trying to find a way to live
while also struggling to survive.
So **** off until you've died and come back to life
before you could even drive.
And when I decide it's my time to go,
you can bet I won't be sober.
I bought the ticket, I took the ride,
but now Football Season Is Over.
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 4:22 AM UTC
I see Thoreau as a token
You and my airplane ticket.
I never get it why you only declare your love for Thoreau
Instead of something darker, Hunter S Thompson,Marijuana
Or me.
Traveling in Denmark now, I guess you'll eventually head to the Netherlands.
Where your true colors shine through your eye socket.
Oh, so I still admire you
Dreaming of having a walk with you beside Walden
Having Arizona ice tea in the dessert
I beg Thoreau to win me an airplane ticket to
The unknown
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC