Focus


Focus,
I focus,
I focus on….

The dough not the nut,
The beer not the gut,
The joy not the division,
The tunnel not the vision,
The Doctor not the who,
The crazy not the glue,
The under not the exposure,
The game not the over,
The world not the war,
The eye not the sore,
The banana not the split,
The bull not the shit.

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Mistletoe


Festive tradition says that it’s bad luck
to refuse a kiss under the mistletoe.

I mean what harm can it bring to
lock lips under bright green foliage
and berries as rich and white
as the soft touch of snow.

Could you resist a seasonal dare
and the accompanying giggles that
mistletoe prompts?

But don’t forget in your excitement that
mistletoe and its plump white berries also
bring extra Christmas gifts.

They love to give you blurred vision,
soaring blood pressure but best of all
they will kill you.

Mind you they do say a kiss will do
exactly the same thing.

Write


When your pen feels like a splinter in your hand,
When your malicious inner demons won’t be quiet.
When your body feels like a carcass left out for the dogs,
When your convinced you’ll soon be caught out as a liar.

There is no better time to write.

Write whatever your demons are slyly whispering,
Write no matter how badly it hurts about how you feel.
Write to exorcise all your fears and insecurities,
Write it all down and create poetry for you that’s real.

There’s still time to submit a poem for the Diverse Verse 3 poetry collection


My last successful poetry anthology, Diverse Verse 2.

Diverse Verse 3 the poetry book from Walsall with an international reach is ready to accept submissions.

Here’s how you can get involved and see your poem in print

All you need to do to be involved is to email me a poem to the email address below and it will be considered for the book based on the following rules. Please note entry is free.

  1. All poems must be the authors own work, please don’t submit something that isn’t yours.
  2. Poems are welcome from anyone, anywhere in the world.
  3. Please submit no more than one poem.
  4. A submitted poem must be in arial font in a format free word document. If you are unable to do such then just paste your poem into the body of your email.
  5. Poems on any subject and theme are welcome, however sexually explicit poetry and poems with extreme bad language will not be considered.
  6. Poems should be no longer than 400 words approx.
  7. Previously published poems can be submitted as long as the writer holds the copyright.
  8. When submitting poems please include your full name for inclusion in the book’s contents, an alias is acceptable.
  9. Email your poems to Diverseverse@aol.co.uk
  10. The book will be published via Lulu the online publishers.
  11. Closing date for submissions is 31st December 2017.
  12. Anyone who is in the book will be notified after submissions close.
  13. Poems that do not conform to the guidelines will be rejected automatically.
  14. The copyright of any poem selected remains with the author.

I hope to have the book out in 2018 by the spring at the latest, money raised from sales of the collection will go to Cancer research UK.

Diverse Verse 1 in the press

The launch of Diverse Verse 2.

Buy a copy of Diverse Verse 1 by clicking here

Buy a copy of Diverse Verse 2 by clicking here.

 

P-Section


I tugged and sliced you from where you felt safe,
even though you’re unready to face the world.

But here you are.
Blinking, adjusting, squirming,
desperate to be constrained again.
Yet slowly awakening to the fact that
everything is now different.

Hesitantly I take the mewling poem,
clothe it in paper,then
place it in a cardboard crib.

I step back, wondering,
am I ready to be a father?

City Streets


Your heart was a nothing but a maze of
twisted tiny streets. Each one promising
that it would lead me to you, but
instead spiraling me away from my
desire. Making me retrace again and
again my tired steps, as instead of drawing
closer to you, we got further and
further apart.

What Happend to the Grunge Kids?


Even us old grunge kids it seems have moved on,
We’ve come out of the clubs and staggered home.
We never got round to loading up our guns,
So we didn’t die as we thought we might unloved and alone.
Our long hair’s gone but our stomachs have grown,
When we move quickly it seems everything hurts.
We turn off the radio as it makes us feel very old,
Wearing our nostalgia like we once proudly wore our check shirts.
But if us old grunge kids are out moaning about mortgages,
And the jukebox starts to play Smells Like Teen Spirit.
We remember that with the lights out it was less dangerous,
As the guitar intro clangs we begin to rise from our seats.
Then we feel our children’s dirty looks and hear mumbled tuts,
Like an errant mosquito we feel beaten down.
But despite this denial we tap our feet and sing,
Happily worse at what we do best, ignoring all the frowns.
On our way home we dust off the CD to play,
Our offspring’s comments are cutting and unkind.
They scream. “What’s this ancient garbage you’re playing?”
We just sigh and say,” Nevermind.”

I Fell in Love with the Bride of Frankenstein – a poem for Halloween


I fell in love with the Bride of Frankenstein
I don’t know whose heart she has, but I’d give her mine.
I think we’re made for each other it must be said.
Even though I’m alive and she’s fictional and dead.

When that lightning strike bought her to life,
I was well pissed that the monster wanted her for his wife.
“The monster need a mate,” it growled, things were looking grim.
Luckily unlike me he’s an ugly bugger, so she jilted him.

She gives me funny feelings all over, right down to my socks.
Even though her hair looks like a badger that’s had an electric shock.
I love all her stolen parts, from her eyes to her mammary glands,
I long to hold her but worry she’ll come apart in my hands.

But sadly my bride’s deceased, so I must try to be brave,
And swear not to write bad poetry while I cry at her grave.
Instead above her remains each night I plan to fly a kite,
Hoping beyond hope that once again lightning will strike.

 

Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details

Found Poetry


I found a poem at work.
It was tied up in red tape,
Under dusty stacks of paper,
That were printed with rigid arithmetic.
I pried the words loose with my staple extractor,
Then stuck them round my monitor on bright post it notes.

I found a poem on the beach,
Hiding under some jetsam and seaweed.
As I kicked its slimy home,
The words tried in vain to scuttle to safety,
As I eagerly chased them brandishing my net.

I found a poem in a church,
Trapped among the dusty tomes of a tired sermon.
I resurrected the words from their stuffy grave,
Sending them into the light
With my blessing.

I found a poem in the last place I expected.
Lurking in my head among my memories and fears.
I tried to lure the words out,
Promising them fame, then cake.
But they flatly turned me down,
Saying they wanted to stay where they felt safe.

 

Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details

Misbehaving Mantra


I cut out the last pages of mystery books.
I give Nuns blasphemous looks.
I sit at the back of the bus and smoke.
I teach your Gran filthy jokes.
I take up two seats on the train.
I drive slowly in the fast lane.
I enjoy farting in bed.
I remember every lie you said.
I return all your CDs scratched.
I consider myself a great catch.
I refuse to flush the lavatory.
I think I’m brilliant at poetry