Firework


This morning I was a firework.
Filled with fire and light
Rising brightly
I aimed for the sun.
Though it was hard, I didn’t care.

This morning, I was a firework.
Spent and full of ash
Spiraling down
I fell to the earth.
It was easy, I didn’t care.

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Here I am on Brum Radio


Earlier this month I was invited on the Brum Radio Poets show and I’m pleased to say the program is now available for your listening pleasure. It was fantastic to be invited and share the show with their great host Gav Young and the talented poet Christina Thatcher.

The Devil doesn’t wear Prada


The Devil doesn’t wear Prada you
have been sadly misinformed.
Instead he wears a tracksuit of
shadow and trainers that
are as silent as the
dead of night.

He hides in plain sight, right
in the corner of your eye.
The stranger you swear you know
but can’t place. Who smiles at you like
a cloud passing across the sun.

Afraid?


I am not afraid of dying
I am not afraid of taking my last breath
I am not afraid of the end,
I am not afraid of death.

I am afraid of lying in the grave,
I am afraid of being buried with my regrets.
I am afraid of not being able to rest,
I am afraid of what I can never forget.

Scorchio


I slowly peel my body from the bus seat,
Like sticky, sweaty, sellotape.
My once icy bottle of water,
Starts to boil then evaporate.
My ice cream dribbles down my hand,
My flake seems limp and dead.
As the sun shines down mercilessly,
Burning the bald spot on top of my head.

A Pessimist is Never Disappointed – Most of the Time


“It’s about time you stopped bloody smoking,” the wife said,
“If you carry on a nicotine slave you’re going to end up dead.”
Even my daughter gets in on the act,
Asking, “is it true Daddy that your lungs are completely black?”
Trying to quit is something I’ve dreaded,
You see I’ve been smoking since I was young, on benches and under hedges.
And I’ve tried before, but only half-heartedly, to quit.
But just like my tries at dieting, I find it very hard to commit.

Mind you it’s not just smoking that can kill you these days,
Even life’s little pleasures can get you in a myriad ways.
You could go out for a quiet walk and find yourself run over,
You could go out for a quiet drive and plummet off a flyover.
Enjoy a few pints, get cirrhosis of the liver,
Feed the ducks, fall and drown in the river.
Sit out on a sunny day, cancerous melanoma,
Sit out on a starry night, surprise, pneumonia.

Life is just stuffed with bitter irony,
I mean look how some famous people died.
Killed doing what they thought safe or by their own inventions,
Marie Curie was poisoned by her own radiation.
Sid James dropped down dead while on stage,
Trotsky was murdered for what he put on the printed page.
James Hesselden segway guru, drove one off a cliff,
Jim Fixx invented jogging, had a heart attack while doing it.

Did you know you can even die straining for a shit?
So I think I’ll carry on smoking for a bit.

Diverse Verse 2 sells out again at Southcart Books


It seems I just can’t print copies of Diverse Verse 2 fast enough because as soon as I get them to Southcart Books they’re sold out and I have to order some more. I shouldn’t complain though as that’s more money plus what will be made this month in digital sales that can be donated to Cancer Research UK.

Part of this success story is due to Southcart itself, this is a shop that supports local authors, writers, musicians, photograhers and more. They have a local author table and shelves full of great works by talented folk from Walsall and beyond plus they hold a regular open mic. ( Last Saturday of the month but the next one’s on the 1st July.)

If you’re a local author, poet etc with a book or CD out then you can’t go wrong getting in touch with Scott and Amy who run the shop (southcart@outlook.com) and see what they can do for you. Even better why not pop along with your books to the next open mic and give everyone a taste of your work. You’ll be glad you did.

Hung


Hanging
spent
lifeless.

Hempen noose in a
tight knot binds
the unnatural blossom
to the old oak.

A foot twitches.

The lynch mob hold their breath.

Remember

Image


Creative Waste


Withered post-it notes pock mark any available space
Cryptic messages with no Rosetta stone,
Once as bright as daffodils
Now the colour of old weeds.
Here’s where ideas come to die
Headstone’s of dreams
Slowly buried under neglect and forgetfulness.
Their spark slowly worn away
Soon forgotten
Left to fade to obscurity.