Under the harsh glare of electric suns,
Flitting among the orange carpeted plains,
The office meerkats chatter and lap tea.
Until the tinny trill of a phone breaks the peace.
The meerkats shiny eyes blink then search,
As their quizzical heads rise above monitors.
Before they bolt
Back to their drab cubicle like burrows.
Tiny paws start clattering on keyboards,
The meerkats look busy, they’re experts at it.
Suddenly the clattering stops
Inquisitive noses sniff as heads re-emerge
A familiar scent is teasing.
Keyboards and phones are forgotten
As paws scramble and pound,
Skittering across filing cabinets.
Eager faces crash into their chocolate prey,
Paws quickly start to pick the cake clean,
Tiny mouths bolting it down in huge chunks.
Then a heavy tread disturbs the carpet
Meerkat ears prick up
Chocolate smeared mouths screech warnings.
A boss has been sighted.
Cresting a desk the predator roars,
It has scented the cake.
The meerkats scramble back to their cubicles
Leaving only crumbs behind.
Safe they nestle, mouths start to happily snore
As furry paws contentedly hug full bellies.
What if love was a drug?
How would you take it?
Maybe shredded and rolled
tightly in an old Valentine envelope.
directly into your lover’s lungs.
What if it was a pill?
Dancing around your tongue then
washed down with tears.
setting fire to your blood.
Perhaps you could take your
crushed dreams and desires.
Distill them into a syringe.
Then mainline the result
straight to your synapses.
Or would you go cold turkey?
Shivering and sweating,
holding back bile.
from that drug called love.
I don’t have a poet’s hands.
Instead I have clumsy fingers
That grab at words,
Like a vending machine claw.
Often dropping them,
Cursing my lack of ability.
These are stubborn hands.
Grasping a pen
Like a hammer.
Driving words into paper
Sometimes hitting my thumb.
But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
They let me write poetry.
Its going to be a busy couple of weeks as I hit the road and get out supporting my friends and favourite shops.
Tonight I’ll be at the Ort Cafe supporting my good friend and great poet Pixievic…
Saturday I’ll be performing at Southcart Books as part of their great Valentine’s Day Massacre…
Finally on the 19th February I’ll be part of the Birmingham Stanza Poets, performing at Waterstones In Birmingham as part of the Verve Poetry Festival.
Hope to catch you at one of these fab events
Fire danced behind her eyes,
Yet her skin was as cold as ice.
Something sparked my curiosity
I needed to know what she hid inside.
So I peeled back her frozen skin,
Then I looked into her flames.
Faces flickered as I stared,
Yet she wouldn’t reveal their names.
I gazed into her now cold eyes,
As their fire slowly flickered out.
No more would she be fire or ice
I thought, as her spark went out.
There’s a girl sitting on the bus
With perfect bright green hair.
It glistens like a lime in Bacardi
I’m trying hard not to stare.
Her green hair sways from side to side,
Like palm leaves in a gentle tropical wind.
As she slowly shakes her head,
To a secret tune she’s softly humming.
She’s only just got on this bus,
But I think I’m falling for her.
It’s like I’ve been hypnotised,
By her mesmerising green hair.
Sadly all too soon here comes my stop,
Off the bus I have to depart.
While unknowingly the girl with the green hair,
Pulls away and shatters my heart.
Last Saturday I was proud to appear at the Cancer Support Centre in Sutton Coldfield as part of their open day to raise funds for their worthwhile work.
Me and fellow poet LaGriff
We weren’t the only supporters of the charity, we were joined by scouts, guides, cubs, writers and singers to entertain the guests. Here’s a video of myself and Bryan in action.
Why not get involved yourself and support your local charity?
Video and photo courtesy of Bryan and Sue Griffin.
I came across a dead pigeon on
the pavement today.
As the indifferent traffic sped by
the wind bought its dead wings
to life in a bizarre sad half-life.
As I passed the pigeon it
seemed to turn its twisted neck
and fix its dead eyes on me.
As if to say this is what
happens if you try to fly.
I’ve lately become slightly obsessed
with the trousers
of Ringo Starr.
I’ve stared at them from all
angles, looking hard at their
colour and pattern.
But I’ve stared more at the
gaps where the tables
veneer shines through.
My fingers toy with small
complex shaped black
pieces of card.
While Ringo’s trousers
burn themselves into
An image retained long
after the puzzle