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The rudeboy's anthem

for the love of ska..

THE RUDEBOY'S ANTHEM (a skatality in progress..)

i wasn't born in '69
but when i hear the music i feel just fine
that infectious Jamaican brassy beat
with my docs on i start to move my feet
what is this music i hear you calling from afar?
that my friend is Bluebeat or two tone ska
the braces are on, am shaving my hair
working on that rudeboy stare
but tonight th...

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heritagelovemusicpunk poetryreggae

No more heartfelt apologies.

This poem was written in the wake of the Windrush scandal and a look in my past life as a child been racially abused in my school days of 1997. the words I have used here may be considered offensive to some but are used here to hit the nail home they are and never will be acceptable in this time of age, as I am sick of the halfhearted apologies people make for saying them. 


This one goes o...

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angeranti-racismHeritagepunk poetryracism

Mostly Welsh

I grew up in Wales

Around the Swansea docks

I walked beneath huge cargo ships

Held up with props and blocks


I was made in Wales

Around the southern ports

I watched the big ships dock

My family guessed my thoughts


I was mined in Wales

Near valleys black with slag

And closing pits and picket lines

With many a mine lodge flag


I was forged in Wales


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docksexperienceheritagehistorylifemerchant navyportsseafaringshipsSwanseatravelWalesWelsh

The Voice of a Quill, Now Silent

I am but the mottled bark
of a tree once firmly rooted,
peeled from its stately trunk

and within my hollow carapace
echoes an inert drumbeat
that keeps the cadence for
a march of ornate trappings

soon and sooner still, one day
this crepuscular orphelin song
resonant in its languid longing
shall surge with the rising tide

the sound of its condescencion
as it strikes th...

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In the Footsteps...

entry picture


In the footsteps of our fathers

we took the restoration trail

through wooded hill and wetland

from Aspull through to Haigh


sucked up the coldness

of a late winter sun

reflected on

the stillness of it all

each sunken dead tree scrum

on mirrored flash

no whispering grass

all secrets to the grave


and in the distance stark reminder


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Fruits of the Narrow Seam

entry picture

Close the coalhouse door, lad

There's bones inside

(Alex Glasgow)


Fruits of the Narrow Seam

frozen tears

on a mossy stone

beneath a sundial

which has swept out

one hundred and thirty seven

years' worth of days

since they were


at Christmastide

When time stopped

and a mother wept

while in ignorance and velvet comfo...

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