Poems
This page contains links to my poems, arranged under the following headings:
From Runcorn
/ Relationships / Nature / The Sea /
Writing / A Lighter Side / Environmental /
Miscellaneous
From Runcorn
Blue Plaque / Dukesfield Morning
/ Transporters / Ruined
Sandstone / Saturday Morning Stroll
Relationships
Somewhere
/ From Within Lines Framed by Grey / In a Moment of Suspended Time
/ We Lay Together
Chambers in my heart
/
The Seasons' Cycle / Realism
Nature
Walking Renga /
Look Forward This Hour / Look
Back This Hour / Trees
The Sea
The Ship / The Seaside / Upon the
Sea Shore / Back
to the Ocean
Writing
A
Poem Stands Alone / Writer's Block
/ Light Palindrome
A Lighter Side
Verity /
Stella / Next Doors'
/ Three Generations'
Shirts
/ The
Wordsworths / I Wandered
Haiku Pizza / Frank's
Pound / Limericks
Environmental
What Will Remain? /
The Warming / Thin Veneer
Miscellaneous
Where am I
Going Next? / Work? / My
Letterbox
/ The Has-Beens / Covered
Green / For Amy / Wait All Your
Life
/ Ten to One
Winter Smokers
/ Our
Rebecca / Flags of Greece and Spain / The Mirror's Getting Old / Snow at Christmas
/ A Goodbye
Take
This Thought Away With You
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I wrote this for my niece who
was 18 in July 2008
Our Rebecca
Eighteen years
have gone by
since 1990 and the
day in July
when a little girl
came into our lives
Our Rebecca
Now we’re
gathered to celebrate
on the occasion of
your eighteenth birth date
to raise a glass
(with a slice of Vikki’s cake) to
Our Rebecca
As a baby amidst
the toys we bought
you were always so
determined to walk
and much more than
eager to talk
Our Rebecca
In times gone so
fast, now seeming far away
we watched you
learn, laugh and play
and grow more and
more each day
Our Rebecca
Soon, for clothes
and make-up toys were set aside
and Beanie Babies
made way for real horses to ride
as we saw you take
life in your stride
Our Rebecca
Now that you’ve
reached eighteen
from the baby and
little girl you’ve been
in many places you
might be seen
Our Rebecca
For, driving a
mini that might be …
On a fairground
ride that could be …
On horseback it
will probably be …
Our Rebecca
Now you’re going
into the world
when life becomes
a whirl
you’ll always
have a home, you’re still our girl
Our Rebecca
We all have you in
mind today
and even when
you’ll live away
you’ll be in our
thoughts and hearts each day
Our Rebecca
So it just remains
for me to say
in my own simple
poetic way
‘We wish you a
very happy eighteenth birthday’
Our Rebecca
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Dukesfield Morning
Against the rising murmur of bridge traffic
the sun climbs over chimneys.
Trucks rattle their loads over speed bumps.
The clock ticks away the morning.
Planes roar, dully far overhead,
harshly on their low approach run
while chevrons of migrant geese
go honking towards their estuary grazing.
Cats lounging on backyard walls
eye pigeons picking through scattered
remains
left by scavenging nocturnal foxes.
A slight chill, an early reminder of winter,
is cast aside by the last rays of summer,
their heat fading now, yet enough
to have the kitchen door ajar.
Neighbours’ coughs and voices drift in
as the clock chimes
to remind the poet to lay down his pen,
to clear away his breakfast things
and ready himself to join the day.
Return
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Work?
Are we just a raw material,
the workers?
A commodity
shaped for whatever purpose they have in
mind,
the company owners, politicians,
economists, market traders.
Whether they use us in mills, pits or
shipyards,
factories or call centres,
we’re herded in
until their decisions go wrong
and they don’t need us any more
and we’re ‘downsized’ into redundancy.
What is true work?
To grow food? Raise a child?
Help the sick, the blighted, the aged?
Or to educate our selves
to demand rights
to demand an equal share,
or at least a fair wage
while we amass their wealth.
Return
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In a moment of
suspended time
Did our belief in our love make us so
arrogant
that we felt we had mastery over time?
That we could ignore the on-coming future,
that it would pass us by
and we could look back on its diminishing
form,
from our cocoon of suspended time.
Did we believe the day of your departure
could be endlessly postponed?
Or, that it was like a storm,
threatening from afar,
which never hits the temperate climes.
But it did.
It cast us apart,
left us watching each other drift away,
with our cocoon of suspended time shattered,
held together now only in memory,
like our youth captured in photographs,
glanced at occasionally
and relived in a moment of suspended time.
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Ruined
Sandstone
From Runcorn Hill,
formed of gentle un-dramatic geology,
great blocks were dug,
Earth’s sandstone plundered
in the days when people were driven to
construct
monuments to their industry.
Hauled away, shaped and raised to grand
designs,
some can still be seen standing tall over
Liverpool’s skyline,
higher than they ever did in nature.
Others were taken to Coventry to be raised
in similar glory
in the days when people were driven to build
monuments to their faith.
Then came the nightmare from the East,
Coventry levelled as hell held brief
dominion on Earth.
The shell of the building remained,
the form of faith still discernable
as the city was raised
in the days when people were driven to
destroy
leaving monuments to their evil.
That sandstone edifice built of Cheshire’s
hill
lay ruined by man’s fell deeds.
So too the hill lies scarred by his
quarrying.
Both suffered from the schemes of men malign
and benign,
in the days when people sought to shape and
rule the world
leaving monuments to their ideals.
Once I travelled to Easter Island
where lies a great quarry
its stone dug and carved into idols
now fallen and ruined from warfare
thousands of miles from Runcorn or Coventry
there also lie monuments to human failings.
Return
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A 'one-take' poem written
while relaxing after a day spent tree planting in Rainhill.
Trees
Aromas of Deep Heat rise
Back and limbs ache
Calluses emerge on spade-hardened palms
Fifty trees were given a chance today
Only years will show their success
against foraging, competition, frost,
vandals
I did a bit to slow the warming
to keep the seas a little lower
now trees, its down to you
Oak, ash, red-berried rowan
breath life back to the world
an abundance of us are vandalising.
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Winter Smokers
The outside smells like the inside used to.
They are cold, though the warmth inside is
clear.
Giving their livers a rest while assaulting
their lungs
they gather within their self-made fog,
a gauntlet of shivering addicts to be
endured
in a brief moment of passive inhalation
while we gain the fresh air within.
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The Seaside
Do you like
to be beside the seaside?
The seaside
The side of the
sea
Beside the side of
the land
Where two elements
come together
Earth and Water
Solid and liquid
juxtaposed to make one thing
The seaside
Where many
incongruous things meet
Donkeys on sand
Donkeys on sand?
I don’t know the
natural history of donkeys
but I’m sure
they’re not sea creatures
The English in the
sunshine
Sunburn and
dehydration
Knotted
handkerchief hats and rolled up trouser legs
Fish n chips on a
hot day.
Ice cream in the
sunshine
Eat it before it
melts
Devour it before
its destroyed.
Sandwiches and . .
. . sand
Eat one, taste the
other
“Is this why
they’re called sandwiches dad?”
“No son, it’s
because the Earl of Sandwich used to eat ‘em.”
“What were they
called before he ate ‘em dad?”
“Shut up and eat
your sandwich son.”
Sand castles and
tide
Build ‘em
quickly to defend the shore
Defy the eroding
waves
But the invading
tide always wins.
End of peer
entertainment
Peers, little
bridges going nowhere
Extending the
culture of our island realm
Right out over the
waves we used to rule.
Boats and people
who never go on boats
Land lubbers
become expert sailors
continuing our
maritime heritage
as they take to
the high seas
with thoughts of
Nelson
aboard their £5
an hour pedalos.
Inflatables and
ocean currents should never meet
One is meant to
relax
but the other will
whisk you away
And you will wake
up refreshed
on your blow up
banana
in the mid
Atlantic
and be in the
evening news.
Penny arcades,
candy floss, kiss me quick
Queen Victoria
would not have been amused
In her genteel spa
with prudent bathing costumes
And in secluded
fishing coves
locals
begrudgingly take money from tourists
And in lonely
nature reserves
bird spotters spot
migrant species
There’s a
seaside for everyone.
Do you like to be
beside the seaside?
I do !
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Upon the sea
shore
(read this one aloud)
Eassau had a
see-saw upon the sea shore.
Did he sell sea
shells? I’m really not sure.
Did you ever see
such a sight before?
As Eassau on his
see-saw on the sea shell strewn shore.
Now Eassau met Sue
Shaw upon the sea shore.
She was selling
sea shells, you might have heard before.
Eassau saw Sue
Shaw liked his see-saw
and she showed him
sea shells like he’d never seen before.
So Eassau shelled
out for sea shells and Sue saw and soared.
And now Eassau and Sue Shaw sell see-saws and sea
shells upon the sea shore.
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The ship
The
ship sailed through the raging storm
Through overwhelming heaving
seas
The ship
sailed through the raging storm
The crew’s
hopes were all forlorn
They fell praying to their
knees
Would Neptune heed their
urgent pleas?
They sailed
to a calmer ocean
The crew were thinking mutiny
They sailed
to a calmer ocean
The captain
served rum like a potion
And fair winds were good to
see
The crew was a happy company
They found an
island in the sun
It looked so green and fair
They found an
island in the sun
Their
adventures had just begun
The ship put down its anchor
there
But this was a pirates’
lair
Soon there was a fearful
fight
For pirates did attack
Soon there was a fearful
fight
They fought all day and
fought all night
But the captain was no common
Jack
He drove those deadly pirates
back
They sailed out to sea once
more
And soon were under way
They sailed out to sea once
more
To search for another shore
Safe harbour or a friendly
bay
They might even sail your way
If you look out across the
sea
You might see them sailing by
If you look out across the
sea
You might see them sailing
free
You could hail them with a
cry
And
they might catch you in their eye
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Frank’s Pound
One day Frank
found a pound
An event not
unusual or profound
But soon a crowd
had gathered round
Staring at the
treasure on the ground
Would there be
enough to go round?
Would great riches
soon abound?
Or would their
judgement be fair and sound?
And allow Frank to claim the pound he found
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Wait
all your life
Wait nine months
Wait to see if it’s a boy or girl
Wait for the first steps
Wait for the first words
Wait for a place in a good school
Wait for the exam results
Wait to get into university
Wait for the first job
Wait for the alarm to go off
Wait for the bathroom
Wait for the kettle to boil
Wait for the toast not to burn
Wait for the bus
Wait in traffic
Wait for the work day to end
Wait for the bus home
Wait for her to ring
Wait for her to say ‘yes’
Wait for the wedding day
Wait for the first baby
Wait for the weekends
Wait for the holidays
Wait for Christmas and birthdays
Wait for the kids to grow up
Wait to win the lottery
Wait to retire
Wait for your favourite TV programme
Wait for the grand-children to visit
Wait for the doctor’s words
Wait for the last days
Wait to see if there’s a heaven
Wait to see if there’s re-incarnation
Wait and see
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The Warming
When did the
warming start?
When I left the
video on standby last week?
When we used
aerosols to smell nice?
CFC’s to keep
our food cool?
Or was it when
Henry Ford rolled out his model T’s?
Stevenson made his
rocket?
Abraham Darby
smelted his Ironbridge?
James Hargreaves
span out his Jenny?
Or was it when the
ancients first built cities?
When they first
planted crops?
Or when the first
tribes left Africa?
Cavemen first
sparked fire?
Or was it when the
great lizards fell
in the prehistoric
warming,
allowing our
ancestors to rise.
When did the
warming really start?
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For Amy
Oh Amy
Don’t make us
mourn for you
Don’t be another
Janis
Talents like yours
are too few.
You stopped me in
my tracks
when I heard Back
to Black
You’re the
outstanding one
in the bland diva
pack.
So put down the
bottle
and pick up the
pen
Don’t waste that
talent
Make my heart skip
beats again
Don’t make us
say goodbye with words,
or cry a hundred
times
You come back to
us
Take that rehab
and stay this time
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The
seasons' cycle
I saw a new
face, she saw mine.
Enticing looks
kindled anticipation.
Young buds were
lightening the world
with the
excitement of the new.
The seasons’
cycle began. Again.
We grew to know
our love,
as leaves
unfurled and filled their boughs.
Our world was
full of promise
as summer
bloomed.
Yet summer faded
and we grew tired.
As familiarity
turned the anticipating eye,
the critical eye
saw more.
The high season
grew heavy.
As colours faded
from leaves,
and trees’
displays withered and fell,
we saw beneath
the outer form
to the jaded
inner truth standing bare.
Now that which
once attracted has passed,
should we stay
through winter?
Or search
elsewhere to await the new spring?
The seasons’
cycle to begin. Again.
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What will remain?
Birds will still
fly
when aircraft
are grounded.
With all their
fuel spent
vapour trails
won’t be seen.
Straight clouds
no longer
will litter high
cirrus.
Yet lines of
migrant geese
will remain in
our skies.
Birds will still
fly.
Trees will still
grow
when pylons have
gone dead.
With no power to
carry
cables will fall
silent.
High metal
towers
will corrode and
be useless.
Yet old living
trees
will remain in
our land.
Trees will still
grow.
Horses will
still run
when cars grind
to a halt.
As petrol runs
dry
their race will
be over.
Air polluting
boxes
will rust in
redundant lanes.
Yet living,
breathing horses
will remain in
our byways.
Horses will
still run.
Fish will still
swim
when powered
craft have no power.
Without engine
noise to foul them
lakes will sound
natural.
Cruise ships and
tankers
will not rule
the waves.
Yet once-hunted
whales
will remain in
our oceans.
Fish will still
swim.
Wisdom might
remain
when industry
has had its day.
Great inventions
will cease
having drained
their own life blood.
False light
pollution
will not rob the
stars’ brilliance.
And hopefully
people
will still roam
the Earth.
Hopefully people
will still roam the Earth.
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My
letterbox
My Letterbox has
seen the fall
of all the world
leaders.
They drop each
morning to the hall carpet.
If I didn’t
pay them any attention
they would lie
there,
their words
unheeded
a great ignored
mountain of them.
There must be
one somewhere,
maybe lots of
mountains.
Piles of
identical world leaders
saying the same
things,
waiting for the
land fill to take their words.
Or to get
recycled,
so the same old
faces
and the same old
words,
can fall through my letterbox again.
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Thin veneer
Just as a veneer
of life envelopes the dead rock we live upon,
and known
history is a sliver dwarfed by colossal pre-history,
so too is
civilisation a thin guard against the broiling anarchy at it’s gates and the
creeping tyranny within.
Just as true
freedom floats lightly on the surface of servitude,
and
enlightenment is but a gleam in the gloom of ignorance and dogma,
so too is true love rare amongst the hopeless private
hopes of many.
Return
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The
has-beens
The has-beens
have found something they can be again,
propping
each other up in endless banality,
eroding our
culture and stealing our evenings, our lives.
----- -----
-----
“Do you
remember the years of your youth?”
“Ah yes, when
so-and-so was on TV.”
And the future?
We can see it
now and know
it will be shown
again ad infinitum.
----- -----
-----
As we fade and
wonder
where our
culture went,
we can watch
what we used to watch
and maybe, in our old age, repent.
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Transporters
A plane roars
overhead, a train hurtles by.
Cars race to and
fro on the green arch in the sky.
Barges once filled
the canal, the river traded too.
Tall masts towered
over their multi-national crew.
Where are they all
going? Where did they all go?
Today’s metal
transport. Wooden craft of days ago.
There was
character back then, When journeys took so long.
Now it's ‘Quick
as you can’ without time for chat or song.
What really
changes though? It’s just faster now than then.
Just quicker ways
of trading. Better world? More noise than then.
Well let
them hurry by. I’ll just sit right down.
They’re welcome
to their stress. As they pass the forgotten town.
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Three
generations' shirts
Grandfather,
father, son
On their way to
Benidorm,
Or somewhere
equally similar.
Burger-obese and
shaven headed.
Bulging in their
England shirts.
Like a cheap set
of Russian dolls.
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Chambers in my heart
There are many
chambers in my heart.
One is for
friends,
another is for a
lover.
You moved between
these two
but cracks began
to show.
You moved back
before there was a break.
Now the cracks
have healed.
But one chamber
lies empty.
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Realism
Yes you’re good
and you’re beautiful,
have been since
you were young.
But it’s the
whole person that makes us,
what is weak and
what is strong.
I need to see your
bad side,
to see how bad you
can be.
I need to see all
of you,
to know if
you’re right for me.
Return
to top
Where am I going next?
I
left home to look for it.
They
watched me leave,
the
eyes of those who had known me for so long.
In
Arabia’s sands I sought it.
Alone
before Petra’s gates I stood,
feeling
the resonance of lost times,
but
there was no harmony for me.
To
Mongolia’s steppe and desert vast.
I
camped in gers of nomads
flush
with the wealth of freedom
and
stood before a god of gold,
yet
stood outside of these.
Along
Norway’s fjords I passed
and
climbed a wall of ice.
I
saw the nights that are not nights
Still
it eluded me.
In
distant Australia
I
looked from atop Sydney’s green arch
and
sought around sacred Uluru.
I
galloped horses through strange forests
and
floated amongst the jewels of the reef.
It
was close but not near enough.
I
wandered in mighty America’s young cities.
To
the depths of Grand Canyon, awestruck, I trekked.
and
through New England’s burning fall
I
searched in vain.
From
land to ocean beneath wind billowed sails,
guided
by unhindered stars.
I
stared across the Pacific
with
no sign of life for days.
I
gazed upon Rapa Nui’s fallen idols
and
Galapagos where Darwin found his answers.
Though
getting nearer
I
didn’t reach great heights to see.
Even
Buddha’s words,
though
they drew me close to it,
did
not enlighten me,
yet
gave a hint.
Then
I saw.
It
was where I had left it,
in
the eyes of those who were waiting
and looking for me to return.
A poem stands alone
A poem lies bare
on the page.
Mistakes can’t
be allowed
to spoil
expression
maybe of love,
maybe of rage.
A song with a riff
or catchy melody
might hide its
lyrical blemishes.
Its words can be
more free.
A movie’s clichéd
dialogue we may not hear
as vivid images
distract,
for the eye leads
not the ear.
An actor may fluff
a line on stage
but keep the play
going,
as he leaves the
scripted page.
The radio
presenter’s gaff
is even welcome,
raising an
unexpected laugh.
But a poem must
stand by itself,
even a book has
cover artwork
for company upon
the shelf.
A poem’s words
can’t hide,
there’s no place
for distraction,
for errors will
elicit
the wrong reaction.
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Ten to One
Ten.
Who are they
waiting for then?
Nine.
All standing in a
line.
Eight.
How long are they
going to wait?
Seven.
They’ve been
here since eleven.
Six.
They all seem
transfixed.
Five.
So still, barely
alive.
Four.
Maybe it’s
someone they’ve seen before.
Three.
Who on Earth can
it be?
Two.
I don’t have a
clue.
But there’s only one person reading this. It must be
you !
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Light
Palindrome
Sun light, bright
day
Red sky, sun
set
Pale stars shine
Star light, dark
night
Pale stars fade
Red sky, sun rise
Sun light, bright
day
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Writer's block
My mind is as
empty
as the blank page
I am tying to fill.
A page of empty
lines.
The void
stretches before me
like a long
straight road
with nothing ahead
except an occasional small town,
a place which
isn’t what you are looking for.
Where ill-matched
characters pass
and snippets of
incoherent dialogue are overheard.
And the
empty road rolls on.
Now the page is
full
of crossed out lines.
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Blue Plaque
Where are they
going to put my blue plaque?
Can they put 52
Greenway Road back?
That’s down in
old Runcorn,
the town where I
was born.
When people come
to see
the birthplace of
the author, me,
when they want to
congregate
at the site of my
birth-date,
it’ll be a shame
to disappoint
tourists from
Weston Point,
or to present just
a blank
to exotic
travellers from West Bank
as they stand
there and witness
the slip road to
Widnes.
Perhaps there’ll
be something, who knows when?
When they
re-design the town, once again.
Or they’ll make
a magnet for your fridge,
me in front of the
Runcorn-Widnes bridge.
But for now you
might find me
down at the Brindley,
working towards
that day
when I’m
celebrated for a great play.
When someone looks
at my works and likes ‘em all
and says,
‘Let’s stick a blue plaque on his wall,’
well, where are they
going to
put that blue plaque?
They’ll have to put 52 Greenway Road back.
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The Wordsworths
Billy and Dot
have got a
nice spot,
surrounded by
daffodils.
You can sit
with them here
in sunny
Grasmere,
or wander lonely in the hills.
Return
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Verity
Verity is the
spice of my life,
sometimes hot,
sometimes cold,
sometimes better
the next morning.
Once she was
exotic,
and now, though
familiar,
I’ll always want
more of her.
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From within lines
framed by grey
From
within lines framed by grey,
the same blue,
un-dulled, looks out
on lithe youth, as
ever did,
but receives now
kindly smiles,
not matched
desire,
from ones who see
limbs moving stiffly
and not the inner
beating
seeking
another’s rhythm to match,
or the desire
inspired each bright dawn
which hopes a
glance might see within
and recognise the
ageing façade,
like any garment
worn by experience’s weathering,
is nothing more
than what awaits them
when their still
unquiet desire
will look from within lines framed by grey.
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We lay together
We lay
together in the field
exposed and
vulnerable
to the air and
nature
Limbs entwined
still
partially in the
embrace
in which we’d
struggled in our passion
We lay still now
in the aftermath
as beside us lay
still warm
the weapons we had
used
to end it all on this battlefield
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Look forward this hour
Days lengthen as
today is shortened.
Spring comes to
lead us to summer.
An hour passes
in a few seconds.
Darkness fades
and warmth beckons.
Bright daffodil
heads bend to hear
soft chimes of
woodland bluebells.
Green buds tinge
naked boughs,
presage of
shading foliage.
Sweet mistle
thrush and robin song
heralds the
returning swift.
I anticipate and
recall
the fullness of summertime.
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Walking
Renga
The journey
begins
I walk towards
the mountain
My spirit is
high
Gladly I walk on
The summer
morning lifts me
nature shines
all round
Tiny birds sing
clear
The woodland
mammals forage
Dragon flies
abound
Woodland paths
wind on
Through
sunlight’s strengthening rays
Bluebells mark
the way
Morning turns to
noon
High sun makes
shadows shorter
Soon I’ll take
a rest
Find a shading
tree
Take food and
maybe slumber
Short sleep will
refresh
Enjoying my walk
Nature keeps me
company
Satisfied I rest
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A goodbye
I’ve got to go
It’s
inevitable and slow
But I’ve
got to go
to the world
down below
I’ve got
to leave you
My time here has
ceased
But I’ll
be back tomorrow
as I rise in the
east.
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Next doors'
My house smells
musty, don’t know about yours.
There’s some
funny old smells comin’ through from next doors'.
It’s a
huge flippin’ family, about twenty-two,
and with all their
pets it’s more like a zoo.
There’s a little
old lady and a funny old bloke,
he stands outside
when he wants a smoke.
The kids are like
monkeys all over the yard.
The teenagers
stand around, doin’ nowt, lookin’ hard.
The dad’s a
short bloke with a great big belly,
spends most of his
time on the couch watchin’ telly.
The mum’s a bit
scary, she looks a bit weird,
someone should
tell her to shave off that beard.
There’s noise
all day long and all night through.
But one against so
many? What can you do?
Me? I like the
quiet life. I’m quiet as a mouse.
You know what
I’ll do? I think I’ll move house.
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Somewhere
Somewhere
there’s a shadow
cast under the
same sun that shines on me.
Somewhere
there’s a shiver
from the same wind
that blows on me.
Somewhere
there’s a teardrop
hidden by the same
rain that falls on me.
Somewhere you are
waiting
in the same land that is home for me.
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Stella
Stella, oh
Stella
I coulda bin your
fellah,
but you said I was
too young.
But for that one
night
my age was just
right
while onto my
youth you clung.
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Look back
this hour
Look back in
this twenty fifth hour
as rain hits the
window
as it did all
summer.
Trees cast off
their summer clothes
worn for the event
that didn’t happen.
Light shirts and
trousers
hang as useless
now as in wet August.
Ahead now the
shortening days
and winter
and hope that next
year’s summer
will be true to
hopes and memories.
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Saturday
Morning Stroll
The canal
stretches to the theatre.
A lone angler
huddles in the morning sun.
The dark and damp
underpass curves steeply away.
A smiling father
and son shout to make the tunnel echo.
The silent empty
school looks over the cemetery in peace.
A woman mutters
alone by a gravestone.
The Old Town
streets are stirring.
A grandmother
recounts a tale for her grand-daughter.
The old police
station sits in its sandstone history.
Mechanics wait in
the empty repair shop.
The rising Deck
looks over the water.
A young woman
struggles with a dog almost her size.
Cormorants perch
on Gantry Wall.
A mother with pram
sits gazing at the bridge.
Geese, swans and
gulls wait by Ethelfreda’s statue,
while her
descendants gather bringing bread.
Houses lean
sleepily against one another in anonymous terraces,
but one is home where I return to continue my day.
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I Wandered
I wandered lonely as a cloud
the daffodils were there to view,
I stepped into a stream and found
a hole in my walking shoe.
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Haiku
Pizza
Pizza obese man
feeds his crust to hungry swan.
Neither eats good food.
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A Poem
Stands Alone
A poem lies bare
on the page.
Mistakes can’t
be allowed
to spoil
expression
maybe of love,
maybe of rage.
A song with a riff
or catchy melody
might hide its
lyrical blemishes,
its words can be
more free.
A movie’s
clichéd dialogue we may not hear
as vivid images
distract,
for the eye leads
not the ear.
An actor may fluff
a line on stage,
but keep the play
going
as he leaves the
scripted page.
The radio
presenter’s gaffe
is even welcome,
raising an
unexpected laugh.
But a poem must
stand by itself,
even a book has
cover artwork
for company upon
the shelf.
A poem’s words
can’t hide,
there’s no place
for distraction,
for errors could elicit
the wrong reaction.
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Flags
Of Greece And Spain
Rain sodden flags
of Greece and Spain
hang limp and
heavy in the English summer rain.
Suggestive of
siesta they look so forlorn
as we, heads down,
rush from the afternoon storm.
Blue for the
Mediterranean sky,
white bleached at
noon time.
Orange and red as
sunset
hang soaked,
darkened, dripping wet.
Starring out the
window at this damp land of mine
I pine for travel
where the sun always shines.
To sit outside a
taverna or a tapas bar
whiling away time
over ouzo or sangria.
Like me do those
flags crave the sun?
In lands where
summer actually has sun.
While rain falls mainly on the Cheshire
Plain
I wonder, are there dry flags in Greece and Spain.
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The
Mirror’s Getting Old
The mirror’s
getting old,
the clothes are
sagging.
Heads no longer
turn,
tongues aren’t
set to wagging.
“When did it go?
“Too long
ago.”
“Will it
return?”
“No, did no-one tell you so?”
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Back
to the Ocean
I am a subject of
Neptune,
a shellback who
crossed the line in the sea.
Somehow I got
washed up on dry land
where raindrops
are like falling memories.
Rivers to me are
like arteries
feeding water to
the heart of the sea
and the cries of
gulls on the estuary
are a summons from
my master to flee
away from the
confines of land life
back to the waves
to be free
with the wind as
our power
and the stars as
our guide
and nothing but ocean to see.
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Covered
Green
What are they
doing there?
Those men in
white.
On our feeding
grounds,
wielding sticks
they carved
from the willows
they felled.
What are they
doing there?
Those crows in
black.
On our carefully
tended pitch,
wandering in
incomprehensible
random patterns.
What is it doing
there?
That blanket of
white.
Covering the field
while we men wait to play,
and we crows wait to feed.
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Snow
at Christmas
Snow
covered the ground on my first Christmas,
as now depicted on cards,
making a picturesque scene of old Runcorn,
its quiet streets, terraced houses, back yards.
In my childhood Christmas was always busy
with family gathered around
for turkey, presents and good cheer
in the warm while snow blanketed the ground.
Now the world seems to be getting warmer,
we don't get that much snow anymore,
though we still celebrate Christmas
in much the same way as before.
So whatever you believe, wherever you are,
take a moment to reflect and then,
hopefully you can look forward
to celebrating a white Christmas again.
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Take
this
thought away with you
Take this thought
away with you,
not all things are
set in stone,
you can change
your point of view.
When those from
whom you once flew
encroach upon your
very home,
take this thought
away with you.
If you fear the
coming of the new
you do not need to
stand alone,
you can change
your point of view.
To compromise is
not to be untrue
to the values you
have always known,
take this thought
away with you.
Others thought
they would be too few;
like they, whose
numbers have now grown,
you can change
your point of view.
So take this
advice to be true,
they’ll be
nothing for which you must atone,
take this thought
away with you,
you can change
your point of view.
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