Light the Blue Touch Paper and Retire

These words are explosives,
This poem is a bomb.
By starting to read it,
I’ve lit the fuse and run.

Now a crackling spitting flame,
Ignites my words one by one.
My work is burning bright,
Soon it will all be gone.

Then there’s nothing left to burn,
The fuse has reached the bomb.
And with the spluttering of a damp squib,
This poem is done.


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.


again my poetry starts flowing,
I don’t know where it’s

going round the bend,
when will it ever

end isn’t in sight,
I’m writing all day and

night is it time to stop
I feel like I’m fit to

drop my pen,
fall asleep then begin….

Brain like a Sieve

I’ve got a few minutes of your time
To try to fill with verse and rhyme.
I’ll start with a poem in my pocket,
Oh bugger, I’ve forgotten it!

Don’t worry I’ve still got my phone,
I’ll quickly call up a poem.
I don’t believe it what do I spy,
Oh bugger, no signal from the Wi-Fi.

No sweat I’ve still got my brain,
All my poems on it are engraved..
But why’s it so difficult to think,
On bugger, I’ve had too much to drink.

But luckily I’ve not wasted your time,
Because my mistakes actually rhyme.
And I hope just for a while
That I’ve made you buggers smile.


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.

Dress Down Day


It’s dress down day so

It’s not feel like a wage slave day,
It’s a chase the blues away day,
It’s thumb your nose at the world day,
It’s wink at all the girls and boys day,
It’s smoke a pack of cigarettes day,
It’s buckfast for breakfast day,
It’s sing down the phone day,
It’s smile at all the moaners day,
It’s dance on the bus day
It’s don’t be a wuss day,
It’s neck all your wine day ,
It’s eat like a swine day,
It’s binge watch TV day,
It’s a spending spree day,
It’s a live your life your way day,
It’s a don’t worry about tomorrow day.

A Load of Hot Air


Extensive research has determined that there are only three types of electric hand dryer in existence.

Firstly you have the sleek sci-fi dryer,
The kind that would fit in on Star Trek.
It boasts its prowess in its instructions,
Making you wonder what you are in for.
Wet hands are proffered tentatively,
As immediately a jet like roar starts up,
While an instantaneous nuclear blast of heat,
Makes your flesh vibrate like a cheap fairground ride.
Any water seems to disintegrate,
Leaving your hands with a warm toasty sensation.

Next you have the dryer that you last saw on the History Channel,
A battered metal box surely only fit for scrap.
It clings to the wall like a flailing mountain goat,
Faded instructions lost to the mists of time.
Wet hands are proffered optimistically,
While it starts with the speed of an old moped.
Then it produces a small warm cough,
That fades slowly like a summer breeze.
Hands still partly wet drip on the floor
Then you wipe them on your jeans.

Lastly there are those dryers that no matter how quickly you make jazz hand movements underneath them simply don’t work.

The Fairy with the Worst Job in the World

The Bumfluff Fairy

When the fairy jobs were given out,
I was at the back of the queue.
So by the time I got my fairy role,
There was only one job left to do.

I really, really wanted to do teeth,
But I wasn’t quick enough.
So now the other fairies laugh,
As I’m the fairy of bum fluff.

Yes I’m the fairy of your crevice,
The fairy of your derriere.
Responsible for all the bottoms,
And removing the fluff there.

To do my job I have a special bag,
Plus a magic fairy pick.
That I use to pry out all the fluff,
If it gets sweaty and sticks.

There’s a question I often hear,
As I flutter delicately about.
Which is what do I do with the fluff,
That my magic pick digs out.

Well it’s all really very useful,
I often use it to stuff duvets.
Or if I see you laugh at me,
Bake you a funny tasting souffle.

If I’ve had enough of bums I remember,
My Mom’s words if I want to quit.
“Child, you have a dirty job,
But who else will clean up the sh*t.”

Newsflash: Man Spotted Reading an Actual Book


man seen reading book headline

The other day I saw a curious sight,
A man in the street reading a book.
I had to stop and rub my eyes,
Then take another look.

But I wasn’t having a hallucination
A man was reading the printed page.
He wasn’t using an iPhone or Kindle,
Doesn’t he know they’re all the rage?

As I watched cars and buses stopped,
People gave the man three cheers.
“Hooray he’s reading from a book,
We’d heard they’d disappeared.”

T.V crews quickly turned up
Plus radio broadcasters too.
The man reading an actual book,
Soon became the headline news.

Despite all this the book reading man,
Made no effort to stop or look.
He didn’t notice the fuss he’d caused,
It must have been a hell of a book.

Dreams of a Stuffed Toy Dog

Rufus the Dancing Dog

What do stuffed toy dogs dream about?

Do they imagine felt teeth softly gnawing on foam bones?
Perhaps they dream of padded paws sneaking up on stuffed toy cats?
Maybe their cotton tongue drools over brown corduroy sausages?
Or do they romp on patchwork fields before snoozing on woolen rugs?

It could be their dreams are of simpler things.

They might smile as they snooze thinking of,
Someone who always hugs them tightly like there is no tomorrow.
Or they might be dreaming of the happiness that comes from,
Gazing into the eyes of someone who unconditionally loves them.

An unashamed piece of whimsy dedicated to Rufus, my daughter’s favourite stuffed toy.