Poetry Blogs (2018, irony)
This isn't the last train. But the late train
has no quiet cars. If a baby squalls no conductor
shushes her. You must shush her yourself.
The late train has no dining car. So board
this train now, or pack a picnic, your own
tablecloth, napkins, napkin-rings, silver,
porcelain. The late train has no schedule.
Depends on how many girlfriends the brakeman
wants to vi...
Wednesday 13th March 2019 2:00 am
Come down from among the Clouds
Come down from among the clouds and seat yourselves.
I will set plates for y'all. There will be no wooden flatware,
no metal cups, certainly no raggedy napkins. The ceramic
made in China, flatware in the USA, tempered glass in
Argentina, and napkins cut and sewn by a little old colored
lady in Little Rock, Arkansas, while her great granddaughter...
Friday 1st March 2019 12:38 am
There we stood in the officers mess
Like three musketeers under duress
One a sheep in wolfs clothing
One a wolf dressed as lamb
Me a wolf in the middle… Cos that’s who I am
Which of us is the CO?
Answers on a blueeeee
Thursday 13th December 2018 7:09 am
The sharp-toothed skirmisher of January past
passes its knives by her cheeks;
the hillside heralds its shredded brown visage,
winter’s wolf howls the bitter conquest of the moors.
The season of concealing crowns and faces,
of cautious feet across the maze of wilted souls
to reach the lone tree, grey lightning petrified in time.
Frozen into the bark are age and time.
Monday 9th January 2017 4:51 pm
He believes her to be beautiful beyond compare
She knows him to be as slow as a brain-dead hare
He believes she is a goddess wrought in alabaster
She knows him to be a servile fool under a master
He believes her to be witty, brighter than the sun
She knows him to be one with brains next to none
He believes her to be as precious as the furthest star
She knows him to be as dumb ...
Thursday 10th March 2016 2:21 pm
They can now breed blue roses, and breed blue violets too;
Horticultural references don’t quite fit the array of hues.
Yet they are not concerned with, perhaps never knew
Of the silent ones whose spouses leave them black and blue.
Sunday 14th February 2016 10:15 pm
And the troops go marching proudly by
as she wipes a tear from her weary eyes,
the one that she seeks, she will never again hold
for he died at his post; he was thirty years old.
The colours fly high on a cool autumn breeze
as man and boy march with well practiced ease,
so glad to be home after being so brave,
with flags overhead and not covering their graves.
Monday 24th August 2015 11:59 pm
Here's to all Performing Ranters
The whoopers', and the waving panters
Stuff academics licking asses
Scowling through rose-tinted glasses
Before I get my recompense
What is a 'Poet in Residence'?
A girl who writes
Lives in a tent
Is she a 'Poet With Intent'?
Let's have a workshop.
Make a bid
Then charge the punters all five quid
Liquid lunch and ...
Tuesday 15th July 2014 11:55 am
Everyone's a writer
Poet, playwright, scripted scrawler
5am, cigarette, red wine bawler
Everyone's a writer
It's the craze or just a phase
I don't know
But it seems knee deep in the linen of our lives
And the answer to any creative
without a clue
who doesn't know what to do
Or who rides the wave
in a depndent haze
of the ones who script our days
when they ha...
Tuesday 8th July 2014 2:10 pm
He was planning to go with his mates to the fair
With the money he’d saved from his newspaper rounds.
He’d promised Leanne that he’d lend her a fiver
She’d promised to sneak out a six-pack of cider.
But crossing the road on the way to the grounds
She got killed by a hit-and-run driver.
He was planning to bike round the Cape of Good Hope
With the money he’d made from a day at the r...
Friday 6th January 2012 6:42 am