No Return


Your heart is a black hole.
A crushing singularity to nowhere,
Which I poured my love into,
Only to have it lost in its depths.
With no chance of escape.

Advertisements

Gone but not Forgotten


They used to brew beer here,
The brewery gates never seemed to shut.
All day the best grain and hops went in
And beer that made the mouth water came out.
I remember glorious clouds, with a hoppy scent
Settling gently on my estate.
“It’s brewing day,” my dad would always say,
As my senses tingled on the way to the bus stop.

Sadly the tuns and coppers are now empty
The once busy floors are now quiet,
Except for the mice and cats.
All has been left to rot and rust,
Because they used to brew beer here.
But now the gates are never open,
They still make it elsewhere under licence
I don’t think it tastes the same.

 

Dedicated to Highgate Brewery.

That Hollywood Moment


You can feel the tension mounting.
Slow to start but quickly gaining momentum,
Building to an epic moment.
A moment of true Hollywood proportions.
An assassin’s finger hovers on a trigger,
A countdown is about to reach zero.
This is the moment armies clash,
The fate of empires is at stake,
Worlds hang in the balance.

Is it over?

You realise you’re holding your breath,
The fear in your stomach stars to rise again.
Battle lines are being redrawn,
For the final showdown between good and evil.
The uncountable hordes of darkness gather,
Against them one tired man stands alone,
Gnarled hands hold an old blade.
Then the final prophecy is revealed,

“To be continued.”

Poetry for Pikpa refugee camp


This summer I had the pleasure of performing at an event to raise money for the Pikpa refugee camp in Lesvos, Greece, which was a great success. Now this Saturday the event is running again at Waterstones in Birmingham and I’m pleased to have been asked to perform again.

If you are in the area here’s the link to the event page on Facebook.

If you’re not local but still want to support this great cause then here’s a link to the donation page.

Here’s some details about the camp from the event organiser Helen Calcutt

“My wish is to go to my home in Iraq and play with my friends and go to my school when the Isis is finished.” With the balance of home life, comes the balance of dreams. This is now the dream of one child on the refugee camp known as ‘Pikpa’. It’s sad enough, and this is one place, one child. There are people fleeing their homes and seeking refuge all over the world. But if we can help one, we can work towards helping the many.

photo courtesy of Helen Calcutt

 

This isn’t a Poem


This isn’t a poem
It’s the fallout from an explosion
in a dictionary.
Mixed with the shredded pages of
a thesaurus, glued back together
at random.

This isn’t a poem.
It’s words plucked from
a scrambled radio station or
phrases pulled from a
scratched record played
at the wrong speed.

Which then begs the question….

If this isn’t a poem
why do I expect anyone to read it?

Autumn


It’s almost as if someone flicked a switch
Turning summer to autumn overnight.
Leaves dance on tree branches
Seemingly impatient to be free.
Clouds advance across the pale sky
Going from grey to black in a heartbeat.
Trainers are stored away, boots dusted off,
Umbrellas are welcomed back like old friends
Returning from a brief holiday.

Fire Hazard


As I walked home from the open mic,
My head was on fire with poetry.
Then the heavens opened,
The rain hissed as it hit me.
Extinguishing my spark,
Sending me running for home.
Where still dripping my hand,
Reached instinctively for my pen.
And as I wrote I began,
To smolder again.