Category Archives: Poetry

Your Folly.

There is a hint of madness in your eyes,

sallow, stinking of grievances mislaid;

a Kurt Cobain look but with none of the richness

or depth of consequence, a folly driven by a fool’s errand,

the unravelled strand of deserted rope decaying on the hot,

blistering jetty, no sign of a ship to save this sinking soul.

 

This madness, the musical abuse in which you crave

has lost its meaning

in your ears and all you hear now is the sound

of a ticking bomb, the explosion driven between the tick and the tock

Your Folly. full post

(258 words, estimated 1:02 mins reading time)

For Elke, In The Key Of H.

If not for Maaike, we would never have met that day

where the Animals flopped and cursed their lot

in the aftermath of an afternoon ripping to shreds

the carcass of an old, unloved and despicable novel,

its spine cello taped and flea encrusted as much as the search

for it exhausted us all.

If not for Maaike, the genuine affection found in my first loved

band and in yours also would never have been shared

on a broken bed, caused by several Animals

pretending they were once more young cubs and by our hostess

For Elke, In The Key Of H. full post

(241 words, estimated 58 secs reading time)

Little Brown Jug.

Bought for 50p in a jumble sale,

you look so nondescript,

small and square, dark brown, glazed.

Some might say you’re ugly too

but stamped on the underside

is your life story, a maritime heritage,

sold at Stoniers the housewares store

for the White Star Line.

Who poured your milk or water out?

Which ship were you on?

What sea tales do you have to tell?

Did you sail from Liverpool or another Celtic port?

A humble little jug, utility ware,

staring at me from the bookshelf,

Little Brown Jug. full post

(112 words, estimated 27 secs reading time)

I Lived And You Didn’t.

…you should have been the one to live,

you should have walked tall and taken on the world

with all its prejudiced malice and spite for

we both know you would have made so much more

of the life once glimpsed on both our parts.

I can only offer false machismo, to the point

where I gave that up as bad idea, a notion unbecoming

at the age of seventeen, perhaps the moment

where we said goodbye on the corner, only to dream of each

other’s possible lives, still holding a part of ourselves close,

I Lived And You Didn’t. full post

(228 words, estimated 55 secs reading time)

Breathless In The End.

…in the end, exasperated by non-compliance on my part,

my refusal to bend to the torrent of abuse that her indignity

demanded, the strength sapping empty gale

that I would pray to whatever deity

that shrunk in the back ground,

My deity’s peace sign held above Her head and on the reverse

the phrase, “Don’t shoot the messenger”  emblazoned in bright colours

with the quirkiness of capital letters like punishment

thrown in here and there to make Her look as if she was hip, happening,

and a groovy chick in which to side along…but I knew

Breathless In The End. full post

(448 words, estimated 1:48 mins reading time)

A Song For Laura In Twenty-Four Seven.

You’re charming

because you have no idea

how much you are loved,

even now,

people look at your picture and remember

how much light you bought into their lives,

how respected

you were, and just how much you meant to them.

I know,

as only one

perhaps who has slept in your bed

when you were out all day,

placed there by considerate hands

as my life become mean and meaningless,

placed there

with kindness by hands

that knows much pain

A Song For Laura In Twenty-Four Seven. full post

(256 words, estimated 1:01 mins reading time)

In Response To A Howl In St. Julian’s Bay.

I saw your words etched down in spray paint,

BOLD CAPITAL LETTERS, on a rising pavement

in St. Julian’s Bay  as the sun would start to glisten

on the Valetta streets

and the isle of Comino would soon begin to heave

to the sound of vendors selling deckchairs and the sea would spoil

for a fight.

 

I saw your words and was puzzled by them, not by the words

for even the damaged can understand pain,

but by their placement, their specific duty in  time by unknown hand

In Response To A Howl In St. Julian’s Bay. full post

(322 words, estimated 1:17 mins reading time)

The Teacher’s Prayer, (Bicester, Left in 87).

The teachers, the tutors,

the staff, the head, the unpaid support workers

all bend their head in silent prayer,

know that the God of school simply doesn’t care

about their plight

their lot in life,

their unsaid collective fear

that there will never be a person to emerge from any year

who will make the school stand out

give the badge and crest some polish and stout

who they can hold up as a shining example,

the one person for whom they can, with gushing pride, let new pupils sample

The Teacher’s Prayer, (Bicester, Left in 87). full post

(409 words, estimated 1:38 mins reading time)

The Pupil’s Prayer, (Bicester, left In 87).

Oh dear God, we are back here again

on a Monday morning, the routine the same

put that fag out, get ready for gym

who’s kissing who, the chances of an A received so slim.

Dear God, the pupil’s friend

to whom unbreakable excuses you do send,

give us this day our daily bread

and let not the science teacher ruin our hard fought street cred,

let not our own personal bully, be it fellow pupil of sadistic teacher

see us today, let them not use us as a bottom feeding creature.

The Pupil’s Prayer, (Bicester, left In 87). full post

(429 words, estimated 1:43 mins reading time)

The Rose Bush Or The Lost Highway.

In all the adventures a man can have, surely

the last they can have in the modern age,

one devoid of dying in battle, sword carried high, noble steed

between his legs; the final brush with an opposition

much respected, perhaps in a way adored, the sweat and humidity

of the final swansong as the owner’s sword is impaled on himself

fully sheathed,

and the opposition goes on to conquer the next in line

like a domino pushed over, perhaps to enslave and terrify;

the last resting post of the humble shed, hiding away in the crevice afforded

The Rose Bush Or The Lost Highway. full post

(433 words, estimated 1:44 mins reading time)