Curse your sudden but inevitable turn to poetry

When a poet first steps up onto a stage,
Their mind is screaming that they’re a fake.
And that now on this stage their time has come,
To be uncovered by everyone.

So I wear a disguise so I look the part,
I’ve got tattoos on both my arms.
I sprouted a hipsterish beard on my chin,
Now I can’t be found out, where to begin?

You see I get tongue-tied if I wax political,
Embarrassed if I try to be satirical.
So I thought hard on what lines my rhymes should take,
What could I with words create?

So I just wrote down all the crap in my head,
All the stuff that keeps me awake in bed.
All the stuff that is commonplace to me,
I wanted to capture in poetry.

But I found all that anger hard to maintain,
Everywhere I go I don’t want to bring pain.
So when I stand up before you good people here,
I want to try to spread a bit of cheer.

So I started to write poetry on simpler things,
Beer,cake,pork scratchings.
Poems about binge watching TV,
These I found were the words for me.

So that’s my poetical manifesto,
Here I stand giving it a go.
This is what I’ve decided to try,
But remember, I’m a poet, we always lie.



When the moon covers his eyes,
the scorned woman with fire on her brow
and hardness in her heart,
approaches the sacred tree.
A white dress hides her black purpose.

Placing a nail with trembling reverence
she drives it into the wood.
Then nail after nail is hammered in
accompanied by her
whispered curse.

Her ex-lover sleeps fitfully,
sweat on his forehead he snaps awake.
Pinned he twists and turns
puncture wounds spreading and

When he is found he is pale white
a bloodless spirit,
a contorted shell.
His lifeless face imitating
a Noh mask.

In her garden the revenged woman
Buries her hammer and sap
coated nails in a polished
wooden box.
Burying her memories.

For what is left of the night
She sleeps.
The white dress crackles
on the hearth.
Warming her smiling face.


question mark

Sometimes when you wake at night,
You know exactly what to write.
But when you wake the next day,
The words have all gone away.

Sometimes when you hold a pen,
The words only come now and then.
However when you’re on the bus
Words can come in an almighty rush.

What else can I really say?
Words might come to you today.
Or you might not write a verse,
Surely this is the poet’s curse?