The reason I write
to **** the banality
of reality

I see you wriggling
little word-fish  
trying to get away  
behave now
jump in my writer's net  
don't worry, I won't eat you  
just borrow you for a bit  
as bait for bigger things  
stay still
let me fix you to my story hook  
I need to capture a reader

Show me the beauty, beyond our careworn world
where sighs of woe outnumber gasps of wonder

Show me the beauty, of a winter sky seen from a window
etched in deepest shades of elephant grey

Show me the beauty still to come,
Sleepless dawns above silent shuttered houses

Show me the beauty hidden in plain sight,
A gift for those who dare to reach beyond their walls to see

To change
to fundamentally rearrange
what you are,
or to alter the fit
just a tiny little bit

Do not cry for those who have gone
Make a better world for those who are to come.
Do not put your faith in shadows of the past
Step into the light and let them see you shine
Do not curse the broken time in which we live
Race both hands to mend the clock
Do not be scared of the future
Let the future be afraid instead
You have the power to change it
If you will but try

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

Willow,
I will make my bed with you tonight
sleep soft and deep beneath your counterpane
no soothing water song, will ease my cares,
for I have none to ease
sing me no sweet tune,
no lullaby beneath the trees
for I am not a child,
a man full grown am I
traveller of the road,
by choice to make home
beneath a starlit sky

In darkness
when fear of fear itself and the unknown
ensures that certainty and other showier birds have flown
an unremarkable bird of no particular renown
will sing to you, her feathers plain and brown
no matter how hard the road, or the steep the stair
nothing is ever hopeless as long as I am there

Winters frozen earth my tomb below a shadowed frosty mothers face, a working boot with rusted nails that pushed me deep beyond the freeze to where I came upon another place, a womb of warmth within the soil

The fallen leaves which flew me to my doom, became a broth to speed me into verdant life.  I cannot say how long I lay within my room, growing fat among the worms which chewed my infant food and burrowing things all shiny on their backs like glass which passed and took me to the sun and light and air.

My growing place I knew not where, was ploughed and ready land where I so small could barely see above the plants which grew around me as a coat and shield from spring and summer heat.

For so it came to pass upon my second year and more when I did chance to see the floor the grass and daisies at my feet for I had grown so tall that they were hardly there at all.

A mighty oak I stand through changes to the times which seem to work though some mysterious and unknown hand. I heard the ***** of soldiers in their passing off to war and heard returning feet of some I heard before.

And when my limbs became so heavy and then thickened to  a width beyond what eyes could see, they changed the name upon my trunk and I became the famous hanging tree, it was not right, it was a man who pulled the rope and took a fearful struggling life, not me.

The seasons came and went and all around me in my view, began to build and change from what I always saw and knew to be my place, tall buildings sprang from what had been a lonely space, of solitude and wind that whipped my leaves and brought my children to the ground, as that surround which I had long held dear began to fade and slowly disappear replaced by traffic ever near.

I cast my green and shaded eyes upon grass and daisys once again, an old and fallen victim of the rain, now I with scurrying creatures lie upon my back to see the sky, so once I grew and now I die, to sink beneath the soil from whence my acorn came, I lived the life which all of us man beast or tree have only temporary claim.

I have this friend
her rage
at the world
is her cage
she won’t turn the page
or try to fly
to a brighter sun
in a bluer sky
a sad little bird
who constantly weeps
for the memories
she clings to
and keeps
clutched to her chest
ignoring the rest
of her life going by
and the scars
that she’s given herself
through the bars

Lost lines
withered fruit upon the vine
which snuffs a lighted candle
in the writers mind
the skull, that egg
which once was full and round
now echoes, hollow with the sound
of missing words no longer found

We don't all have a choice

A selective voice

Some get what they get

No being upset

They are the losers

Others are choosers

They pay to play

And have it their way

They will always win

With another spin

We all have to learn

That an extra turn

Will put you on top

No matter how much

You want the ball to stop

Listen to the silence

As the world holds its breath

And waits in hiding

Grass grows in the streets

Parking lots entwine with ivy

Around the rusty carts

And the spaces in-between

Yellow boxes faded by sun through empty windows

No breeze stirs the pavement cracks

Due for mending long ago

Thin cats lick their dusty paws

Stretching out on the hot trunks of cars

Sleeping peacefully

Until the bold rats come out to  play in the moonlight

Skipping down the hoardings

Unafraid

And what of the thousands

Their pale and haunted eyes

Looking from behind every curtain

Radios tuned

Listening

As the world holds its breath

And waits for life to begin again

We flew for a while
and shared the same sky
with modest results
but we gave it a try

Skip little skerry-boat
dance with the sea,
kiss the silver fishies
bring them home to me

Yesterdays leaf
springs lithe and green,
of promise fine and fair,
todays is dry and parched and brown
its lifeblood fled elsewhere,
a cracked and fragile brittle thing
where hope no longer flowers,
how could this be,
how came you change,
full cursed by bitter hours

Life is the threshold
existence is a windy doorway

Time is water

An endless flooding tide

Which regulates our lives

It has no form

No shape

Beyond the ones that we give it

All are streams in a river

Which flows to a sea

When oceans dry

And weeks and months are gone

Time will carry on

A torrent of rain
flick end of a storm,
we danced to kitchen jazz
safe and dry and warm,
wolves came to listen
more than one or two,
circular howling
maybe they were dancing too

Take the love that dare not speak its name
reduce your thoughts to memories,
lock them deep
hide them in the silent vault that is your heart
smother the singing bird you want to be
snap its feathered neck, quick smart
smother any signs of life
poor wounded thing,
better it was never born,
if it cannot fly, then it should never be
kinder dead than never, to fledge and leave the tree
smash your heel and end it now,
for it cannot be set free

My old cat
asleep in the sun
he knows his summer
is almost done

Soul flame

Flickering  life

A gentle burning

Smouldering until the end

When the light fades

A tiny glow

Then out

Leaving only smoke

And the essence of memories

At the corner
where the year turns
Autumn’s carefree child
dressed in shades of rebellious scarlet
whistles as he walks full into Winter
a vicious hungry old man
who strips him bare naked and cold
before he strolls away to find the waiting arms of spring
she wraps him in a warm embrace
bestowing kisses sweet enough to melt his cruel and icy heart
and leaves to find the Summer
bearing gifts of fruit
with which to make the heady wine of Autumn

If I could

I would write you a poem that speaks of midnight

And fill my pen with inky darkness and the bright cold light of stars

If I could

I would sing of the rolling moving sea that is never stilled

Cool grey and aquamarine would fill my palette as I brush the words

If I could

I would bring you lush hills and deep shady valleys in between

Pine green and Ochre are the threads in my rhyming tapestry

If I could

I would speak of dawns and sunsets bathed in infinite beauty

Hot pink and vivid tangerine silks gathered into a cloth of sound

If I could

I would write you a living landscape of colour to keep you warm on winter days

If only I could...

Down along the motorway
pathos flowers grow
a tiny piece of nature
putting on a show
watch the diesel daisies
dancing in a row
among the shredded leavings
of the M1 contraflow

I wish I had a copy

A replica of you

One to take me shopping

One to hug me too


I wish I'd kept a copy

Now that you are gone

I wish I had that copy

But life still carries on


I wish I'd made that copy

So that you could stay

Instead I watched the real you

Grow faint and fade away

Autumn leaves blow random wild
a Harlequin in scarlet cloak
spring and summer's fated child
he dances freely with the breeze
and does not seem to know or care
that harsher colder winter winds
will one day strip him bare

Spring you called, how kind
I see you’ve settled your wandering mind
you brought a leaf for every tree
and flowers for every buzzing bee
sit a while we’ll have some tea
I made a cake so I hope you’ll stay
if not, can you visit another day

I watch at first light

Summers dawn

As it ripples over daisy fresh grass

Not yellow like syrup or honey

Sharp and green and cool

With the possibility of peace

He sleeps

Quietly folded into a bedside chair

Like an old newspaper that someone else has read

Time to shut the pages and say goodbye

For me the tale is told

He will wake and find me gone

Our story is done

I want to write
to set the literary sky alight
with words, bright birds
that take me with them in their flight
transcending earth to give me sights
and views I never saw before
but I can only watch them soar,
as with other earthbound things
I look up and wish for wings

Who can know
just where the water flows,
we can only ride
travelling with the tide,
life is a journey
however brief,
each of us sailing
a helpless spinning leaf

Your average girl

Is mostly Grrr

With a bit of whirl!

Design me a coat for the seasons
remember as you sew
to add vents in the sleeves
filled with crisp Autumn leaves
and to let Springtime breezes blow
why not add a long Summer
as that is in style this year
please try to shorten the Winter
it is looking a bit severe

Ploughed fields and tractor churning
yarrow, nettle, stubble burning
signs of a year at summers turning
blackberry, bracken, meadow sweet
showing the season is almost complete
chiff-chaff, pipit, pecking crows
bring high summer to an early close

Dylan boy,
lord of all the sleeping towns
the valleys and the mean little houses,
master of the flowering words,
like best bitter they flowed
dark and ripe and full to the top of the glass,
well worth the waiting for you were,
if the masses couldn’t see it
then they too were blind as moles,
you finished up your pint
and left us, empty

We knit idyllic hopeful schemes
and fashion them as garments made from dreams

Love is a peach,
a sweet and luscious fruit
set high upon a garden wall,
we climb, we taste
we scrape our knees and then we fall,
then through burning embers
one remembers
it was worth it after all

Savage birth

A flaming child

Of fire

And light

Fills the dark

Drowns the night

The Universe is set alight

Larks don't need parks

They need ploughed fields and waving grain

If they are to remain

They soar and sing of joy unbound

But they are rarely found

Dare you follow the old road?

The one that leads to everywhere and nowhere

You with your masks and Jack ‘o’ lanterns

Will you take that path into the mountain?

Where midnight pixies dance to the sound of a flaming violin

And the night birds with their wicked lonely eyes hover, ceaseless in their search for prey

Keep your gaze on the way ahead

Never look around

You don’t want to see

The darkling things that are waiting

But they can see you!

Come with me to the broken table

Give up your Soul

Sit and dine with the dead and the ****** and those that aren’t too sure

Feast with us

And leave this tattered weary world behind

Halloween is play for children

Follow me to the old road

Real darkness lives there…

Stones in my pockets
weigh me down
and roll like eggs while I wade in the blue
further than I thought my nerve would ever hold
chill creeps a frosty band around my chest
feet no longer touching sand
hands two waving fish among the ****
gulls as they cry pay little heed
I am beyond them now, those earthly things
Ophelia has her water wings

The poem bird
a stubborn thing
of fickle wings
and shuttered beak
that will not sing
decided he would fly
he left the nest between my ears
and never said goodbye!