P-Section


I tugged and sliced you from where you felt safe,
even though you’re unready to face the world.

But here you are.
Blinking, adjusting, squirming,
desperate to be constrained again.
Yet slowly awakening to the fact that
everything is now different.

Hesitantly I take the mewling poem,
clothe it in paper,then
place it in a cardboard crib.

I step back, wondering,
am I ready to be a father?

Advertisements

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.

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.”

I Fell in Love with the Bride of Frankenstein – a poem for Halloween


I fell in love with the Bride of Frankenstein
I don’t know whose heart she has, but I’d give her mine.
I think we’re made for each other it must be said.
Even though I’m alive and she’s fictional and dead.

When that lightning strike bought her to life,
I was well pissed that the monster wanted her for his wife.
“The monster need a mate,” it growled, things were looking grim.
Luckily unlike me he’s an ugly bugger, so she jilted him.

She gives me funny feelings all over, right down to my socks.
Even though her hair looks like a badger that’s had an electric shock.
I love all her stolen parts, from her eyes to her mammary glands,
I long to hold her but worry she’ll come apart in my hands.

But sadly my bride’s deceased, so I must try to be brave,
And swear not to write bad poetry while I cry at her grave.
Instead above her remains each night I plan to fly a kite,
Hoping beyond hope that once again lightning will strike.

 

Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details

Found Poetry


I found a poem at work.
It was tied up in red tape,
Under dusty stacks of paper,
That were printed with rigid arithmetic.
I pried the words loose with my staple extractor,
Then stuck them round my monitor on bright post it notes.

I found a poem on the beach,
Hiding under some jetsam and seaweed.
As I kicked its slimy home,
The words tried in vain to scuttle to safety,
As I eagerly chased them brandishing my net.

I found a poem in a church,
Trapped among the dusty tomes of a tired sermon.
I resurrected the words from their stuffy grave,
Sending them into the light
With my blessing.

I found a poem in the last place I expected.
Lurking in my head among my memories and fears.
I tried to lure the words out,
Promising them fame, then cake.
But they flatly turned me down,
Saying they wanted to stay where they felt safe.

 

Don’t forget there’s still time to contribute towards my poetry anthology for charity, click here for details

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.

The Diverse Verse 3 poetry anthology is now open for submissions


My last successful poetry anthology, Diverse Verse 2.

Diverse Verse 3 the poetry book from Walsall with an international reach is ready to accept submissions.

Here’s how you can get involved and see your poem in print

All you need to do to be involved is to email me a poem to the email address below and it will be considered for the book based on the following rules. Please note entry is free.

  1. All poems must be the authors own work, please don’t submit something that isn’t yours.
  2. Poems are welcome from anyone, anywhere in the world.
  3. Please submit no more than one poem.
  4. A submitted poem must be in arial font in a format free word document. If you are unable to do such then just paste your poem into the body of your email.
  5. Poems on any subject and theme are welcome, however sexually explicit poetry and poems with extreme bad language will not be considered.
  6. Poems should be no longer than 400 words approx.
  7. Previously published poems can be submitted as long as the writer holds the copyright.
  8. When submitting poems please include your full name for inclusion in the book’s contents, an alias is acceptable.
  9. Email your poems to Diverseverse@aol.co.uk
  10. The book will be published via Lulu the online publishers.
  11. Closing date for submissions is 31st December 2017.
  12. Anyone who is in the book will be notified after submissions close.
  13. Poems that do not conform to the guidelines will be rejected automatically.
  14. The copyright of any poem selected remains with the author.

I hope to have the book out in 2018 by the spring at the latest, money raised from sales of the collection will go to Cancer research UK.

Diverse Verse 1 in the press

The launch of Diverse Verse 2.

Buy a copy of Diverse Verse 1 by clicking here

Buy a copy of Diverse Verse 2 by clicking here.

 

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.