Happy New year Poetry, We’ve Survived Another Twelve Months

Happy New year Poetry
It’s not been a bad twelve months has it?
Remember how it began when
I updated my Facebook status to
Richard Archer is
in a relationship with Poetry.
We we’re inseparable
pub, cinema, bus, work, everywhere.
People stared, some smiled,
others whispered,
“This can’t last, he’s embarrassing himself,
remember last year.”
I’d heard it all before so
didn’t pay much attention as
I’d taken you to the pub to meet my mates,
who grinned, raised a pint and told us
how pleased they were that we were back together.
Yes back together.

Because poetry for me and you it wasn’t
always rhythm and rapture and rhyme and romance.
We’ve spent more time apart than together.
Times when I’d often jolt awake
reaching for you, not realising you’d gone
until I’d shaken the dreams from my head.
Then for the rest of the day I wouldn’t
be able to focus, wondering what
you were doing or who you were with.
Because you left me without a word,
so I took all we had made together
and burnt it.
While telling myself

Then I won’t forget when I woke up
the next day, I found
you curled around me
and you looked up at me
smiled and placed a pen in my hand.
It was just like we had never been apart
as we started all over again.


M6 Motorway Blues

The cars seem to be made of lead
Petrol tank’s gummed up with treacle.
The motorway’s smeared in super glue,
Like fly paper it catches people.

The vans look like bloated slugs,
The lorries seem to be oversize snails.
Straining so slowly forward,
Hands glued to horns, to no avail.

The M6 is stuck like a scratched dvd on pause,
While we turn the air blue and vegetate.
We’re fossilising on the motorway,
Trapped helplessly at Junction Eight.

Happy International Day of Happiness

Happy International Day of Happiness, here’s a poem I first wrote in 2011 that still stands true for me today. Apologies to the Sound of Music!

Mayo on chips and strong real ale pints,
New Dr Who and buses arriving on time.
Parcels from Ebay all tied up with string,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Chicken kebabs and strong mocha coffee,
Clean public toilets and treacle toffee.
Pushing my daughter on her new swing,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Time off work and weekends that go slow,
Rainy days so the lawn I can’t mow.
Freshly cooked beer-battered onion rings
These are a few of my favourite things.

When my internet’s down
When my alarm rings
When I’m feeling sad.
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don’t feel so bad.

It’s 5pm at the Seaside

5pm at the seaside

It’s 5pm at the seaside.
Bikers lick ice creams
As jet skis go for one last spin,
Frothing the water a final time.
Beach goers pop beers
And nibble on fish and chips.
Keeping a wary eye on the gulls,
Who swoop in anticipation.

Toes are dipped in the sea
An electric shock of cold
Delightfully refreshes feet.
The world seems content
To stay exactly where it is.
So I do the same,
My pale limbs proudly out
Slowly reddening.

Another quick holiday story – See here for the last one. While watching the world go by at Herne Bay as it came time to think of going my wife noted it was five o’clock and the phrase it’s 5pm at the seaside popped into my head. After an ice cream and the drive home this poem was written.

Epitaph for a Roman Girl

tombstone of a six year old Roman girl

May the earth be lightly on thee,
May your sleep be undisturbed.
May your spirit run free,
May you not be lost in the earth.

Publia our beloved little girl,
It’s hard to believe you’ve gone away.
Your loss has shattered our world,
May we be together again soon one day.

Quick story. While I was on holiday the other week I visited the Canterbury Roman museum and saw the tombstone in the picture above and read the details about it pictured below.

tombstone of a six year old Roman girl 2

The phrase “May the earth be lightly on thee,” stuck in my mind and that afternoon the rest of the poem/epitaph came to me as I tried to imagine what might have been going through Publia’s parent’s heads, those thousand and so years ago.


My Guide to Packing for a Holiday

Hesitantly I Google next week’s weather.
Placing my trust in the digital forecast,
I hold its images sacred
As I begin my holiday packing.

I hunt down old wellies,
Finding them hiding under the stairs.
Next to optimistic sandals,
Which still have the price tag on.

I wonder that if I pack sun tan lotion
Then the weather gods will smite me with rain.
But can I run the risk of having none
And my body slowly turning a patchy lobster-red.

Don’t forget the charger I think,
Finding it in the usual plug.
An electrical umbilicals
Restoring life to my phone.

Phone, I can’t go on holiday without that,
It would be like leaving an arm behind.
It’s a Sat Nav, my weather forecaster
plus connection to the world.

With all the packing gathered,
Like a tired magician who knows only one trick.
I force my holiday gear,
Into a suitcase that looks too small.

I place the bulging case in the car boot,
Ignoring the precarious roof rack.
Hoping the case doesn’t bursts open and
My underpants cause a tailback.

My holiday awaits, hope I packed enough.


So with those wise words I’m off on my hols, normal service will be resumed the 1st August, take care folks.

Summer’s Here


In suntan lotion please cake me,
As unexpected sunshine bakes me.
While sunburnt it’s making me,
I just hope Summer isn’t faking me.


Long may the good weather in the UK continue!

On Arriving Home and Contemplating a Weeks Leave

I kick my shoes into the porch corner
Then let my feet sink into the carpet.
Dropping my work bag in a forgettable corner
I hang my office pass on a door handle.
My iPod gets docked
My Phone gets switched off and placed on charge.
Finally I flop down in my favourite armchair.

I inhale.
Holding my breath
I count to ten before exhaling.
Repeating until
My erratic
Fast beating heart
Softly and silently slows to a slothful state.

Ignoring a list of urgent jobs
I contemplate a cigarette
But can’t be bothered to reach for the lighter.
My tension evaporates
As my body melts into my chair
So much to do, so I prioritise
And contentedly snooze.


And relax, I’m on a weeks leave but not from this site.

Happy World Poetry Day

World Poetry Day 2016

There seems no better way to start the run up this week to the fifth birthday of the site than by celebrating World Poetry Day.

But what is World Poetry Day about? Click the link to find out more.

The part that caught my eye reads as follows..

“Poetry reaffirms our common humanity by revealing to us that individuals, everywhere in the world, share the same questions and feelings.”

So here’s a poem I wrote in 2011 on the theme above – sort of.

Chip Shop Philosophy

“Life is like a kebab.” My friend said.
“It looks like you have it all wrapped up.
Then as you prepare to enjoy it
Things start to become unstuck.
Pieces start to fall away out of control
Your once firm hold begins to slip.
What you were just about to enjoy
Escapes your eager finger tips.
But you carry on with it anyway
Although you may feel quite bereft.
Because if something is missing
You simply enjoy the bits that are left.”

Come back everyday from Tuesday to Thursday as we celebrate the fifth anniversary of this site with a guest poet and a new poem.


Saga Louts

Saga lout

We are the grey haired army,
Abroad and on the lash again.
Walking sticks and lagers ready,
We wobble off ships and planes.

We’ve got our kids inheritance,
We’ve cashed in our pensions.
We’re getting obscene tattoos,
In places you shouldn’t mention.

Hopping in and out of hotel beds,
Laughing as we trash cruise ships.
Playing naked oily Twister,
Ignoring our dodgy arthritic hips.

Bill has only got one kidney,
Doris has a new glass eye.
But there’s no stopping us,
If some cheap sangria we spy.

We’ll riot as we drink the lot,
Pogo dance all through the night.
Shovel down kebab and chips,
Vomit it up, then have a fight.

Then when the holiday’s over,
We stagger home a little slower.
Our only holiday souvenirs,
Sunburn and hangovers.


I think I want to be a Saga Lout when I retire.