I’m not a Tosser – a poem for Pancake Day


pancake-poem2

click for best quality picture and enjoy your pancakes.

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The Secret Life of the Office Meerkat


office-meerkat

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.
Cake.
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?


love-syringe

What if love was a drug?
How would you take it?

Maybe shredded and rolled
tightly in an old Valentine envelope.
Inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled
directly into your lover’s lungs.

What if it was a pill?
Dancing around your tongue then
washed down with tears.
Dissolving slowly,
setting fire to your blood.

Perhaps you could take your
crushed dreams and desires.
Distill them into a syringe.
Then inject the hit
straight to your synapses.

Or would you go cold turkey?
Shivering and sweating,
holding back bile.
Weaning yourself
from that drug called love.

I Don’t Have a Poet’s Hands


a-poets-hand

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
Haphazardly,
Sometimes hitting my thumb.

But they’re my hands.
I daub them in ink.
Covering them in
Scribbled ideas.
Then sometimes,
They let me write poetry.

From Pixie Kisses to a Valentine’s Day Massacre all with Verve


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…

pixie-kisses

Saturday I’ll be performing at Southcart Books as part of their great Valentine’s Day Massacre…

vaentines-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.

brum-stanza-verve

Hope to catch you at one of these fab events

Fire and Ice


fire-and-ice

 

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.