I have been writing since I can remember, but its only the last few years that I have considered myself a poet. This coincides with my performing poetry at various gigs, and the changing political climate which, I feel, demands we speak out on socio/political/arts issues. Wilfred Owen alluded to the fact that 'Love, Comradeship, Compassion - these are mans compensations - all the poet can do is to warn'. I agree. My seminal influence is Bob Dylan; though Whitman, Wilde, Eliot, Ginsberg, Kwesi-Johnson et al. are all in the mix.
THERE’S A SHOTGUN IN THE CELLAR It’s harder than you think to disappear, To lose yourself, then reappear, with no trace of why, Or what went before. You can get lulled into a false sense of security, Become blasé about the little things; Like never answering the phone when it rings. There was a shotgun in the cellar, wrapped in hessian sack, I took it out a while ago, intending to put it back. When we first came here, I had some grand idea of self-sufficiency, You know, living off the land. When you live out in the country, everything’s a risk. The weather can turn and set you back. Few people know of this old dirt track. There’s a shotgun in the cupboard, no one knows it’s there. It’s well concealed in a cubbyhole, underneath the stairs. The old shoe box has three cartridges in it, lubricating oil, And a special tool for cleaning the breach, High up on the top shelf, out of reach. You can’t be too careful with a child around. I have more time on my hands now, since my last little venture failed, But the summer has been glorious. This is a special place to be when the sun rises over the river, Early in the morning. But things can change without warning. It’s like that when you’re on the run; you never know when they’ll come. There’s a shotgun on the table, my wife and son are in bed. The neighbours said they heard a truck backfire 3 times, Or it could have been poachers, after rabbit and partridge. I can feel warm steel from the barrel as I load the last cartridge; The smell of gunpowder on my clothes. We left before daylight, nothing unusual in that. It’s not a 9 to 5 existence around here, People come and go at the strangest of times; Mending fences and digging holes. There’s a shotgun on the kitchen floor, how it got there, no one knows 2019
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
STAND UP (23/04/2019)
LYING IN THE ARMS OF MORPHEUS (23/04/2019)
THE NEW RELIGION  (23/04/2019)
TOMMY BILLS (18/04/2019)
PERMISSION TO SPEAK (02/04/2019)
DECONSTRUCTED SUBTERRANEAN SOUFFLE (30/03/2019)
WORK IN PROGRESS.......... (28/03/2019)
IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE (14/03/2019)
I DREAM IN POETRY (06/03/2019)
WHEN IN SOME DISTANT TIME [For Imogen] (18/02/2019)
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