Biography

Graham is the musicless musician, the philosophy physician,
also known as the Jack of Piel, the official poet to the King of Piel Island. (Hows that for a title). Often spotted wearing a ludicrous hat and riding round the fells on his Penny Farthing Chopper Bike or performing amazing feats of juggling while perched atop his enormous ego, Graham is definately one to watch out for.

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Questions, Questions everywhere, but not a drop of truth.
Why are honest answers always so aloof?

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Graham is a mysterious bearded fellow.
like the Gingerbread man, catch him if you can.

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Check out the anthology, 'Disparity'
Published 2007 by Ars Longa Publishing house

'The Tongue Tied Travels' Published in 2008 by Coppertrees Press

Books available via e-mail

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Graham is available for bookings,
do you require a poet?
why you would need one, who knows.
but if you do....

email: justice-poetic@hotmail.com for details


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"Don't be fans, be fantasists."

Samples

The tongue tied travels of the pie eyed piper and his elephants
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Up the steeply sloped road, i tip tippy toed my way away over the hill

then i spied i a view, so i stood stiffly still 'til i'd greedily had my fill

Pan-like, on the hillside, i pulled out my pipe and blazed a most excellent tune

then, by the pelican neck, curve of the beck, i sat with the fish to commune

mossy rock, couch like, i sit where i like, mother earth provides seatage wherever i hike

along boulder walled borders i boldly bumbled beside,

i spied creeping creatures just trying to hide

like, in the twist of a tree branch, sat sitting upon, a proud as punch robin he taught me his song

and, as the newly sprung, spring sun warmed my back, i wandered wondering off the beaten track to enter the woods, like a saw.

On the woodland floor i beheld before me the ruins of conquered trees,

their furry peoples refugees, like a million before and a million before that i am sure

since the making of the first axe, but, enough of that.

My eyes back on the trodden track i imagine my love and i,

our bags on our backs and our eyes on the sky,

treading trails through terrain and time,

trekking to the tops of lifes mountains together, but then,

as always round here, that depends on the weather.

Ligging out on a log for a moment i considered the elements,

which, in poetic style, brings us on to Elephants,

obviously there are no Elephants in the wood,

but i thought a little mention might make the poem sound good

anyway,

another pied piping, and climbing a tree gave me a completely different perspective on things

if birds didn't have wings there would be much more room in the treetops for everyone else,

so, i propose, if it grows as big as a tree, build a house in it.

Invest in a nest, i have to confess, is my radical new solution to our housing crisis.

Yes. Allah be blesses. This is my new manifesto,

i know you are impressed, though you don't show it.

Vote for me, and i guarantee, to each, a tree.

anyhow, the call of a crow said it was time to go, and the clouds were getting rather low,

so off i go

and i tiredly leg toddled a few miles or more, til i, though not bored, found the walking a chore

and dozily dreaming, as i usually do, unawares i was looking around

hastily hopping over horse droppings i ended up on rocky ground

then stumbling, like a drunken shepherd, i tripped and slipped and flipped like a record,

by and by, crash landing i stared at the sky.

My journey was over, i was in pain all over, so over the bridge, arched like the back of a yogic

i tenderly trod, then toe tippy tipped my way home.

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House of God
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So, this is the house of God
Another one, eh?
How many houses do you need?
I thought you lived in Mount Sion
Or sat on your throne in the kingdom of Heaven
But here I am, in your ‘house’
Where are you?

I’ve been and called for you loads of times
But you are never in
Look, I know you are busy,
But I think you are taking the piss now
Even your Son seems to avoid me

So, I’m sat here on your cold tiled floor
(What, no carpets?)
I took my shoes off
I know you like that

If this was my house I might fix those loose tiles
There’s a creaking cobweb over there too
And, just look at those cobwebs

I heard that once you were always here
Now you only pop in for an hour of a Sunday
Holiday home is it?
Why don’t you just sell up; retire.

You could feed your flock then
You’ve got too many starving sheep for my liking
Not a very good shepherd, are you?


A sign on the wall says
‘Who have you forgiven today?’
Well, I forgive you God
I forgive you, for abandoning us all to Hell
Hope you are well

Did you get the Christmas card I sent
You never sent one back
Is it the stamps you lack?
Or are you just too lazy to write back?

I sit here looking at your fineries
I put a penny in the box for the fabrics
And another one for the church roof
Where’s the box for the poor?
Don’t you love them anymore?
Now your Son is rich and famous, has he forgot his roots?
Have you?

There’s a lot of marble in here too,
But you seem to have misplaced yours
To believe that we believe in you
When it seems that you don’t believe in us anymore

Look! I don’t want to make a fuss
So I will leave now
So sorry, I forgot to bow.



P.S. You really need to repoint those walls,
before your whole house crumbles

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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