Sunday, June 25, 2017

The writer telling tales

I do not like
That you will blend the truth.

You see, I remember
What you said before.

That had the scent of truth.
This doesn't.

I do not like
You misrepresent a view
You were too quick to hold.

You said you did not like my kind.
You said it clearly.

 But now, teller of tales…

Oh now, you've changed
Oh now, you love us dearly.

We are so precious when it suits.

 Such pragmatism
 Has me squirming in my chair.

And a sickly scent of rotting fruit
Is in the air as you go global
With a lie.

Friday, July 15, 2016

Fog in the Ear

My ear was blocked.
A constant buzz,
Felt like a fly
Trapped in a drab net curtain.
Like damp, dirty, fog
Touching the face.
Deafness was the least of it.
But I couldn't hear,
Not even in my dreams.
A fuzzy head constrains.
Choice becomes impossible.
My ear was blocked.
It's better now.
The sun's not shining yet.
But, I live in hope!

Tuesday, March 1, 2016


Drums beat!
I'm running,
You beside me.
I strain to breathe.
You are still cool;
Not lost,
I'm losing it.
I hate the tunnel.
Then we're out,
As always, into trees.
The dark sky's above.
Somewhere ahead,
Another dawn!
We keep running.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

The thin grey fog

Red on the pavement outside the pizzeria.
That's an obscenity!

What minds so decadent,
So depraved,
They choose to paint in blood?

What crazy bitterness.

I will not hate.
I will stay numb.
I will not acknowledge the feeling inside me.
Instead, I choose
The thin grey fog
And a shared misery.

For Friday13th November 2015

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

In Awe of Ted Hughes

I'm not a white goddess.
And for a long time
I wondered,
Not being Northern,
Nor working class.
Nor Cambridge educated,
If I had any place in "Poetry."
I'm still not sure.
Does age give license?
I suspect not.
It's just another barrier.
So, I guess I'll stay
An outsider
And not follow you into the darkness.
I'll remain a poet out of season.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

Dead, but not yet still

I love to see ivy on dead trees.
Sublime, insinuating.
Covering, to become other.
Slender tendrils probing forward;
Like fingers of a monster
On long scrawny hands.
Trying to raise the dead?
What hope of succeeding?
While the bitter churchyard birds
Peer with bright eyes
From sinister leafy places.

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Rag Remnants

And now the leaves will go,
Already frost-damaged in January.
Here are those sly, black birds
Gliding nearby.
They’ll peek and peck
Until the shivering stalks of branches,
Quivering cold,
Lose all their early buds.

And what’s to come?
Rag remnants, perhaps,
All torn to lace.

The ducks are flying over Deptford.
Their quacks blend in with traffic noise,
Small shadows
In an amber sky.
The city skyscapes
Show distant crags in an endless sea.
All is grey and sinister
Just on the edge of churning.