City Streets


Your heart was a nothing but a maze of
twisted tiny streets. Each one promising
that it would lead me to you, but
instead spiraling me away from my
desire. Making me retrace again and
again my tired steps, as instead of drawing
closer to you, we got further and
further apart.

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What Happend to the Grunge Kids?


Even us old grunge kids it seems have moved on,
We’ve come out of the clubs and staggered home.
We never got round to loading up our guns,
So we didn’t die as we thought we might unloved and alone.
Our long hair’s gone but our stomachs have grown,
When we move quickly it seems everything hurts.
We turn off the radio as it makes us feel very old,
Wearing our nostalgia like we once proudly wore our check shirts.
But if us old grunge kids are out moaning about mortgages,
And the jukebox starts to play Smells Like Teen Spirit.
We remember that with the lights out it was less dangerous,
As the guitar intro clangs we begin to rise from our seats.
Then we feel our children’s dirty looks and hear mumbled tuts,
Like an errant mosquito we feel beaten down.
But despite this denial we tap our feet and sing,
Happily worse at what we do best, ignoring all the frowns.
On our way home we dust off the CD to play,
Our offspring’s comments are cutting and unkind.
They scream. “What’s this ancient garbage you’re playing?”
We just sigh and say,” Nevermind.”

Misbehaving Mantra


I cut out the last pages of mystery books.
I give Nuns blasphemous looks.
I sit at the back of the bus and smoke.
I teach your Gran filthy jokes.
I take up two seats on the train.
I drive slowly in the fast lane.
I enjoy farting in bed.
I remember every lie you said.
I return all your CDs scratched.
I consider myself a great catch.
I refuse to flush the lavatory.
I think I’m brilliant at poetry

I just want a walk on part in the movie of my life.


Ray Winstone is auditioning to play me
in the movie about my life.
He says, ” I was drawn to the part as
I want to ditch my hard man image
and show my soft side.”

He continues,” I saw you on Facebook
and thought I could be that geezer. If I
can get in a ring with two thousand people
watching and be smacked around the head,
then playing you can’t be hard.”

Personally I don’t think he is coming
at the role from the right angle. But I’m too
scared to comment.

He won’t shut up, “You do a job like this
because you love the role, not because
it’s going to make you famous. The greatest
dramas in all the world are all about sex,
violence and death.”

Ray is starting to get a bit too excited.
“Next, ” I timidly cry out,
Ray stomps off.
Brian Blessed comes in.

“The misapprehension about me,” he begins,
“is that I’m some loud rampant maniac.
I am actually very pensive and quiet.”

I start to feel it’s going to be along day.

Books are my Bag


When I was a child there was a way
To make my little face light up.
That was simply to let me enjoy
Reading one of my favourite books.
From toddler to balding parent
From big books to small.
I’d while away any spare time
Trying to read them all.
Sadly as I got older I became fickle,
My love of print began to dwindle.
I fancied a new cheap thrill,
So I began an affair with a Kindle.
She was willing I have to say
We’d be at it every night.
My eager finger tracing her slim lines,
As we frolicked in her dim electric light.
But flings like this never last,
I longed for something finer in my hands.
My forgiving books welcomed me back
I knew they would understand.
They didn’t care I’d been unfaithful,
That for years I’d not given them a look.
I swore we would never part again,
As I was reunited with my books.
So from that day forward,
Though I don’t really like to brag.
I’m doing a book a day or more,
At last books again are my bag.

Support your local independent bookshop, I’m supporting Southcart Books.

Sunrise


As the sun struggles to rise, so do I.
Then when we’re both ready
I leave the house.
A cigarette on my lips and
a poem forming in my head.

While I amble I pay no attention
to the late night work of hard grafting spiders.
As I brush through their gossamer snares,
carelessly demolishing their creations.

My brain starts to fire up,
so I don’t notice the crunch of snails.
My heavy tread disrupting their
frantic early morning rush hour.

At the bus stop I fumble for
pen and paper.
Worried my new poem
might disperse along with the
early morning mist.

Then when I arrive at work,
I place the poem on my desk.
Covering it in dust and red tape
I sit back
To see if anything germinates.

Freedom – You don’t miss it until it’s gone. A poem for National Poetry Day


Freedom is reading your favourite book until you fall asleep,
without having to stop as censors have chopped out the “harmful bits.”

Freedom is walking wherever your feet fancy taking you,
and not finding your path blocked by someone in uniform.

Freedom is singing along at the top of your voice to a much-loved song,
not having to worry about being reported as antisocial.

Freedom is being able to write whatever you feel,
never worrying about a knock on your door in the dead of night.

Freedom is falling helplessly in love with whoever your heart chooses,
with no fear of being blindfolded and stood against a wall.

These are the Hands


These are the hands,
That stitched the saddle.
That cut and bled,
As they worked the leather.

These are the hands,
That mined the coal.
That grew hard and callused,
As they swung the pick.

These are the hands,
That dug the canal.
That tore and split,
As they toiled with the shovel.

These are the hands,
That tilled the earth.
That weathered the elements,
As they scattered the seed.

These are the hands,
That comforted you.
That never wanted to let go
As they held you close.

These hands were all I had,
That even now as they grow old
That though they are tired,
Have stood the test of time.

Don’t Worry about your Exam Results


So here I type, an alleged “poet,”
Who in 1988 got an “F” in English Lit.
So now poetry for me is more like woodwork,
I hack away at words, trying to make them fit.

Which is a bit ironic really, as in 1986,
I can now actually own up and tell.
That in all of my woodwork exams,
I got an “F” as well.

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.