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Tuesday, 26 August 2014


I went back to the birth of hatred, no further back,
even further back still, with a cudgel to beat the newborn
to a pulp, to kill it even before it had stuck its head out,
before the first gulp of worldly air, the first cry, my attack
would be surprise, out of the blue, the red mist ghosting
through the network of my veins like a rollercoaster 
in a theme park, my head dizzy, my heart thumping,
my chest heaving with intoxicating vengeance, boasting
that I would be the one from now to go back to then,
the hero of the lets-kill-this-fucking-thing and start over,
but hatred was out before I reached the ward doors,
and no amount of hopeless quests would drag it back in again. 

Saturday, 16 August 2014


The day the cat
swallowed cash
was not a cause for pity
for after all
the end result
was money in the kitty
A cat chap
had a mishap
with a cat flap
due to back slap
Our cat married a ball of wool
because he was totally smitten
and very soon 
they were blessed
by the birth of a newborn mitten
Intelligent cat,
meticulous cat,
when she was writing a letter
would work at the language
and aim for perfection, 
so she would get better and better.

Other cats sneered, 
insulted, derided
and call her a swot and a wuss,
but intelligent cat
stayed calm for she was
content as a grammar puss.

Thursday, 14 August 2014


I look ahead,
up the gradient
to the hilltop,
follow the white snow path
and watch it change,
victim of the playful sunlight,
to a kaleidoscope of colours
but especially to turquoise
and I am so emotional
because of the brightness and the dazzle,
my brow is furrowed,
my skull aches,
my eyes hurt so much
that I raise my arms and a scream
echoes to the summit, through ravines,
ditches and passes......

“Curse the bastard who stole my sunglasses!”

Tuesday, 12 August 2014



Fun With Words, Fun With Rhyme

I love poetry. Sometimes I don’t understand it but other times I get it, learn from it, am entertained by it and, occasionally and wonderfully, I laugh out loud at it. This book is called Fun With Words, Fun With Rhyme and, apart from sharing some new funny poems, I want it to be a book of encouragement to promote a lifelong love of books, bookshops and libraries. The poems can be read quietly or performed by and to enthusiastic, interactive audiences. There are those who, for whatever reason, have the ability but have not had the active encouragement to come back to the language and give it a great big hug. We can all do it. We can all write poems. We can be serious or funny, serious and funny, whatever we want to be. Our poems don’t have to be literary masterpieces, don’t have to be hifalutin, Nobel Prize nuggets of genius – although, if they are, good for us. The joy is in having a go, playing with words, playing with rhyme…..and having fun. Start with “the fat cat sat on the mat” or wherever you like. But, have a go. Like my old friend John, tear poems out of newspapers and magazines. Keep them in your pockets to read later or to give to others. Read poems out loud whenever you can to poetry groups, school classes, at parties – to yourself!
ISBN: 9781784079581
Total Pages: 101
Published: 12 August 2014


Woman on a bench
lights a cigarette, then,
with her cigarette-holding hand,
tries to put on sunglasses and,
with her camera-holding hand,
tries to position herself
to take a photograph.
She fumbles,
she mumbles,
she almost drops the glasses,
puts the cigarette in her mouth,
puts the camera on the bench,
tidies the glasses on her face
in a moment of sense to avoid a mishap.
Then, finally, she takes the photo
as a half-inch of ash drops onto her lap.

Monday, 11 August 2014


Over-stuffed trains,
Airport farce,
Traffic jams,
Pain in the arse.

Sunday, 10 August 2014


I heard about a refugee walking away from his home,
fleeing with hundreds of others to wherever the road led,
when he saw a child hurt in a ditch and weakened at her yelp,
pleading for someone to notice, crying out for anyone to help.

Trying to stand still in the slow-slick of human weariness,
the man was in more than two minds, momentarily focused
on this small human object, locked in a stare, eye with eye, breath with breath,
the gap between outstretched hands, the distance between them.......
the distance between his life and her death.