Picture of brooch with three little pigs.

She stood before me, a mystery, unafraid,
the perfect compliment, youth and beauty,
casually leaning, feet unbound,
loosened blouse over a simple skirt,
low-waisted, pleats of Burberry plaid,
entwined with brass, as buttons to clasp
three little boars to taunt the wolves, almost
in line with my eyes, black, of dark desires,
purple veined, from earth’s warm grip,
as I knelt before, pressing,
the damp, warm moss, “this,”
her hands explain, as almost caress,
“is the verse you wished you could write,
the innocence you yearn to enslave,
but age can never possess,”
she knew, beyond her years,
the base and coarse of all others, decrepit
looking away, leaving her watching me,
alone, wishing to fulfil
her basic need, education

“I offer nothing but everything, knowledge
unbound, wealth beyond dreams, and to tell
the secrets of the dead,” there were none
but whispered this, my only line,
though plain a plan was enough,
her confidence cocked, unbuttoned curiosity,
she took my hand, bit the soft flesh and seeds within,
the air sweet, still, the scent of her rose,
tracing lines of her curves, deep, from carnal
to the cavernous caves beneath the crust,
scorpion lairs, lilies of death, and
the gates to what lies below
the nymph now mine,
to grace the graves of mortal men
fire in their groins, now sated
they turn, face down again,
to sleep some more, and I
must hunt new game.



Picture of sheep in transportation

Something strange, of the night
about the eyes, as staring back,
between the slats, from lorry’s side,

Huddled, woolly, while I,
driving slowly to a stop
by the light, waiting, watching,
for colour to change;

Green to red, just for them,
my nearby flock, do they suspect
from pastures lush, to butchers hook?

Or am I just a blur
ahead of the roller coast?
The winding of country lanes
before grinds, slowing,

Clatter down, wooden gate,
then a calming little nibble,
humane, like a bolt from the blue.



Picture of a deer.

Remaining, for the rains to clear,
after weeks, the final days,
whole world a round, in limbo,
behind the crest, primed, to be released
as nature relaxes her guard
reveals herself, one last time

Watching the opening, a confused tangle
of leafy twigs, nothing more, for hours,
pausing, often minutes without a breath,
the interminable ache, hunger,
now a blanket embraced, no room
for emotional stutter, only purpose.

Blending, pressed to ground,
gentle breeze on her face,
scent of the earth, reflecting,
waiting for the tell, a rustle,
betray another cause, a bird,
foraging, or curious fox,

In bursts, anticipation,
her view encircled, clean,
save the faint cross hairs
showing the course of fate, death
or life, the hesitation between

Simplicity, the beauty of a clear mind,
empty of thoughts, distractions,
her father’s words, ingrained,
patience passed on, discipline learned
and the respect the forest demands,
to be at one.


Priority Boarding

If priority meant love,
this date’s an impatient,
passionless affair
clearly undesired by Dolly,
delighted, pointing down
nor fixed smiley Svelte,
a dab of Chanel,
arm also extended,
instead we have Tasha, (hint of hairy)
with Chubby, (not so cheery)
at the rear,
“the back side crew”
so sharply defined,
no reclining with ease,
perusing the papers,
but, in place, wedged by the window
view of the rain, tray with a wobble,
maybe, like me,
a little unhinged

Tight squeeze, bee’s knees to steerage
passes “content”, “at ease”,
“ready to snooze”
to mum on her knees
pushing bits into gaps
between the seats, mine
as her child, bored, tests
the extent of his legs, my patience
on the back of my seat
until I growl,
a response I regret
as all around begin to stare

Attention diverts
as we limp off the ground
watching little and large
in their safety dance
my mind drifts across
the unlikely couple, her
too much beard for this career? him,
perhaps demoted, an indiscretion,
caught short on a long haul?
our eyes meet, I’m better asleep.


Limerick Girl

Picture of girl’s face as a silhouette of broken glass

She’d only try drugs of one syllable,
And only gave payment in kind
Always found at the bar
With a drink you’d go far, yet,
Was always a girl on my mind

Her range, mostly men was expansive
But to a man, all had money to loan
When her shopping was paid
She lay down and got laid, then,
Rose early, crept out and drove home

She could swear with her father’s temper
In the ten different tongues she could choose
She’d remembered the list
That he’d used with his fists, so,
Was numb to the bile and abuse

The love of her life was a soldier
With a baggage that went to his core
And like daddy would do
Bust her face black and blue, though,
Would often just scream back for more

I asked her why she didn’t leave him
Said, ‘I know you think I’m just a whore
But true love is a lure
And I know there’s no cure, ‘cause,
With losers like you I’m just bored’

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


Dictators Kill Poets

Federico García Lorca

They sat me down in the highest chair,
as a child, maybe my ‘small’,
made everything taller, but this
felt larger than life itself
with the air, a polished weight,
time and time until smooth
with a lingering history, austere
and I, new king on their throne

Which is later, how I dreamt
, while trying to make some sense
without a crown, perhaps
a lowly pretender, kings,
surely aren’t layered,
question on question?
Why were you there?
What did you see?
What was he doing?
Are you sure that’s what you saw?
until you, even you aren’t sure no more…

Even when I said
I didn’t see that much,
just a man in green, dull
like that, a uniform and he,
was just standing around,
near on the ground, a boy
and the boy was shouting,
seemed angry, in a rage,
yet the uniform, still, pointing
as if calming him down,
on the ground who was moving
an echo, stunned, and then
he wasn’t…

…and I knew I should run, far away,
I wanted to run, never stopping,
escape the noise, still ringing,
underneath my fingers, in a fist
clenching, but, for none,
no clear reason, even now,
just slowly crawled towards,
and as I looked, I realised,
he was my brother, sir…

What did I mean?

I couldn’t answer then, not until
years, on years had passed
those crusty suits, grey hair,
long overgrown,
by layers of dust in my mind,
no idea why, I said
what I said at the time
I knew less about nothing, then,
especially the kid, now cold
born to privilege, too stupid
to stay quiet when told

But maybe, it was the way
he held my hand tight, saying,
‘look after Bel’, his dying wish
the girl lying besides, and she,
always so pretty in a white dress
or would have been if alive, Isabel,
the one of us, so far to go, our peach,
who was always kind

Then nothing, his eyes died,
and mine went black,
that’s when, the child was lost
and even your kiss,
tastes bitter, sour and strange

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


For a friend…

For the visually impaired, or those with a very dodgy device, the picture above is of a fiery red dragon on a white background. It has absolutely nothing to do with the poem, but it looks nice and it’s very easy to visualise and besides, I’m feeling very Welsh today.

You twist my cells until they almost
snap, then a tease until they do,
every move this mountain that burns,
steep falls, deep in the night,
flesh on fire, from every touch

What used to be such a carefree task,
a swim, run, walk, crawl, even,
this simple kiss, now becomes
a marathon, each mile, an effort, each
its own wall to overcome

Death? I have felt her breath, many times
her enticing grip, promises
of lilies and other valleys
which may be true, who knows
they often say they do…

But they walk whole, untouched
hands delicate, precise, know they care,
but still, it’s a knife, cutting
the she from me, slicing my veins
until I fail, or feel to be me at all,

Only when I write am I free
whoever I want to be, the girl
revealed, her light, skimpy skirt
flirts with the wind, dancing dirty
with my latest flame, my muse
for the night, he, with permission,
I can use and abuse, who, (a tiny tear?)
I may never see again

Only when I write can I ride
the largest wave, jump
from the tallest building, stopping
just before I touch the ground softly
as the world looks on in silence
stunned, as was I, that was a close call…

Only when I write
have I got you in my hand,
not the hand that tries to grip and misses
but that hand that holds so tight,
never lets you go, until we both laugh,
naked in our thoughts,
and I know, it’ll be alright.

Only when you write.


Queen of Clubs

Queen of Clubs: Raphael Vicenzi

Standing, arms outstretched
toward her seas of shamrocks, parched
as waits, gentlest gust to slip
the lonely spade, or
if there’s more to play

Noble tongue, forked, of fragile gift,
and you, my King of hearts
revealed, a Knave, scaled and claw,
although denied, to moult would,
in a blink destroy this house of cards…

Life, most precious of all
and his young heart, relies
milk of his Queen, arid
as skull’s lost love, in empty silence,
suckles slow, in darkest mind

A million miles of desert sands,
As none, understand this tantric touch
your hand, the casual glance,
of meanings, and far beyond,
to searing sins in spades

Standing, and still, fading less
as sun breaks through the cloud
the nudging breeze, a nod
towards the warmth of clubs,
decision made, their Queen returns

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!



Elle, with the arms outstretched
as a ballerina, balanced
waiting for the slightest gust
to decide if the time is now
or the cards have more to play

A girl with a foreign taste,
and you, the most tender heart
and yet, already taken, her loss,
although you would exchange
in an instant, destroy this all?

Life, the most precious gift
and the innocent, relies
on mother’s milk, drying up,
like your love, lost, in empty halls,
shadows of a brilliant mind

A million miles from this, she said,
where no one understands,
the touch of your hand, the casual glance,
their meanings beyond, leading
to the room I don’t belong

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


The Gift

Lying together, the summer’s edge
‘It’s a gift’ she said, ‘for you’
placing carefully in my hand
I looked down, confused,
then explained the date
a wash of feelings, in a wave
burst to break through
as any act of kindness, worse
when unexpected
‘Are you crying?’ denied,
a weakness strangely prized
by sensitive types, but
from my side of the tracks
the face you try to hide
self preservation, common sense
call it what you will….

She touched my skin
‘What’s this one mean?’
teasing, knowing full well
it was ours, the hidden heart
then ventured lower, guiding my hand
‘this one’s for you too’, and giggled
in that lovely, natural way,
only girls, like her, could

Looking back now, no place for emotion,
the smallest view, cross barred, of broken glass
not hard to say ‘those days were the best’,
the last of the child in her, although
mine grew up long before
an alley between blocks, overgrown,
the stranger’s threat, sliced between
pressed right home, the babbling brook
his mouth becomes, and her first lesson,
my gift, a future, wiped clean

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


Walking with the birds

They say ‘Don’t look down’,
but when you’re standing on the edge
with no one around, there’s nowhere else
apart from there, where everyone else
can stand and stare, pointing

Some say from here, they’re like ants
but they’re unaware, how this feels
a God with his audience, poised,
waiting, on every word,
watching, each muscle twitch

They’re infected by life, afraid
to take a step, they think
it’s the safe side, normal,
maybe, that’s why the birds fly away,
as if no one else knows…

They’ll say he was surely this
and that and why, but death
is down there, the streets
addressed with their filth
all leading home, eventually
to play the charades, forced
to listen day after day, same
sane, essential truths
as they bury you alive, in their lies

‘Your luck’ll change’, and yet
living proof, as the dice roll wrong again
Lady Luck, the comedienne
‘Work hard, play hard’
watching, your life drift, always upstream,
and off course
‘Cherish, have and to hold’
until they find someone else
to scratch their itch
, but never in your face, no
much more subtle, and
‘No one cares about colour’
the only one that’s true, truly
no one cares, not even her…

‘Buy on the never-never’
until repossessed, getting
ten cents a dollar, if only
you could buy that cheap
‘Believe and you shall be free’
I kneeled, I prayed, only
to be chained to the wheel, circles
ever decreasing, until they nail you down
in that box, prepaid, where now she lies
your innocence, after the final lie,
‘She’ll be fine’….

They’ll say…but I don’t care,
I’m not trying to die, just breathe
I’m just talking a walk, up here,
where the air is fresher,
walking with the birds
…one small breath is all I need

If you are affected by this subject or would like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


Will I be loved?

‘Sphere Within Sphere’ by Italian sculptor Arnaldo Pomodoro

It was a strange question
but I knew what she meant
only a child, but half her face
ravaged by circumstance,
geography really, grew up
in the wrong part of the world

What can you say?
‘Of course you will’, people
will see past the scars
and blistered skin, as thumbing
through perfection, or pretty close
in the weekly magazine

‘The beauty is in your heart’
which is true, but who will it take?
a special kind of blindness,
like a Christ, see past the daily
reminders; brutality and pain
the truth, a different lifeline

I see the perfect marriage
of convenience, she cooks, cleans
he drinks, turns her round
takes what he sees as his
from behind, then shouts a little more
before walks out, never to return

Are these the harmonies
of the carol singers’ bleak midwinter, dressed
in their Timberland, super dry,
with hats and gloves, scarves
to laugh in the cold, before walking home
to warm fires and wine?

Or is this the vision of the lower steps
next world in this, already arrived
the queen of the underpass, bags and rags,
frost forming under fingernails
a shot of something burns to forget
like an unmarked grave?

Don’t look at me, child of picket fence,
white, unless you’re ready to pay
never read my story, never stopped
to listen, no idea who or why,
though, the parents gaze averted,
hurts just as much

But then I saw, and a small tear
pure emotion, without controls
the woman, in her broken home
holding in her arms, a small bundle
of hope, wriggling, screaming perfection
and at last, I could tell the truth

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


The Dinner Party

The problem is, even though
I care, each word of what you say,
your art of crafting sense
of syllables, every one adored
deeply, and I admire, as do we all

I have this thought, a clever play
tip of my tongue, it’s just arrived,
it’s here, right there, a couplet
might disappear, fade away
so interject I must, apologies, without delay

Believe me, when I declare, fully
I understand, more than slightly rude
an interjection, but this speech,
poetic prose, inside my head
these lines of life, may instead

Of articulation, subtle innuendo
abrupt, stature deflation, I’ll be the clown
smiling wide, yet aware inside how sad,
all for a line, what should have been,
a perfect interlude, the look-at-me

An example of my repartee, then, will forever
be forgotten, abandoned badinage,
so I’m sorry, but not too much,
I’ve a reason to be curt, so dear poets…
damn, it’s gone, and no one heard



As if ordering her lunch,
“Tuesday, eight would be grand”
address in lipstick
on the back of me hand,
had a fling with nonchalant
but where not to stare,
not back at those eyes, inviting
as she played with her hair

Not too tall, with the curves just right
for a meal for two, and then replied
“I’ll think of something….”
with the something, hanging,
with a laugh, a look, knowing
dessert could be mine,
if followed her course
said the right things a little, at the right time

It’s always the same, I’ve been told
talk’s for the hands, not the mouth, but;
so much in common, she was Cork too, well knew
how it felt, from a small town
so felt perhaps, true soulmate
and more to be gained
delve a little deeper, ask
maybe listen for a change,

As we sat on the floor, laughing,
having the craic, and her arm snaked round
I thought of a kiss, but bottled,
instead, calls a cab,
I know looking back, you’d say
it was the wrong thing to do,
but at the time, didn’t want me fumbling
messing, spoiling the mood

The following day, and it’s all over
literally all over, her mates, me mates,
strangers, the whole bar knows
she’s given me the shoulder
scurried out, a virgin?
like a scared little rabbit
I think was the gist
of how she described it

About a year it took, before
the ‘rabbit’ hops out again,
to that mysterious world
of girls and their games
and the next time it was offered
let’s just say,
a lot less uncertain
the right strokes, and how to play

So ‘as Larry, the following night
as I enters the bar, acting all coy,
me riding a stool, trying to get her eye, but
already moved on, found a new toy,
now, I’ve no complaints, it was fun
being used and abused, but know now
I’m just the starter, appetiser,
until the real meal shows.

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!


Over the net

You need to move on,
she needs to realise,
tomorrow’s a new day,
plenty of crabs on the beach,
this one’s scuttling away

Start searching, not thinking
what might have been
but of course, wouldn’t listen,
tried to lighten the mood
after doing the deed

A waste of time, complete,
who wants a better rejection?
so doomed to failure, but
stupidity persists,
like a child’s unending question…

Tennis for two, seemed
such a sensible choice,
civilised sport, showing
lovers can be friends, but truth
a different shade to intention

Tennis, solo, a last resort
to save the day, badly thought,
because for two, the net
is a barrier
between you and stupidity,

On your own, it’s an obstacle,
to catch unawares, all going well
until, as flying across,
catching my shot
, caught by my toes

Landing flat on my pouch, pain,
like you wouldn’t believe
left my lungs, as if someone else
in an airless scream, not the look
was wanting, not faintly amusing…

But the strangest thing, as if
slipped back in time, the girl
now a beauty, laughing, without a care,
and, as my pain prolonged
so, seemingly, did her joy

So the moral maths, dear chaps,
plain to see, don’t try to placate
don’t try to ease
the pain of rejection
should be what it is

A girl has to realise, a man’s world
first, suffer their pain for days,
weeks, months, even years
better that, than an ice pack
On a wounded pride

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!