Wednesday 13 May 2015


Still here, nobbut just.
Managed a new poem
still needs editing
sending it anyhow.


What a time we had
What a time!

Counting our chickens
Breaking their eggs for Crepe Suzettes

Kicking open the stable doors                       
Dragging the horses down to the river
splashing and choking, laughing, joking

What a time!

Making massive mountains
from mud-covered molehills
no problems there
we were invincible,
unbeatable, unassailable

We even woke sleeping dogs
and took them for walkies

Never noticed
waiting for NOMAN
for us.

Thursday 29 January 2015


                                            NOT TO REASON WHY

                                   Following Holocaust Memorial day I thought it appropriate to post this poem.
I was 16 when I first saw the newsreels of the liberation of Belsen and I had difficulty in relating what I saw with the world around me. For a long time I thought that the people who carried out the necessary labour of the slaughter-houses must be monsters. Eventually I realised that we all carry the potentiality of behaving as they did. Who amongst us can claim to have never felt afraid of being different, afraid of standing out from the crowd or apprehensive or subservient to authority? What worries me is that given the situation that existed then I would not have been able to resist, and so, I made this attempt to express this concern.


Yes, that was me,
I typed the lists,
Who were for the labour camps
Who was dispensable,
Not me, I made the lists.

Was that you in the office next door?

That was me
Herding the crowd onto the trucks
drying the tears of that young girl
before bolting the doors.

Was that you shouting?

That was me,
Splitting the families with promises
of a happy reunion, and a rifle butt
The healthy to the left
the rest to the bath-house

Was that you retching?

Taking my pick of the women,
Bribing them with food
and the promise of life,
for a while.

Was that you playing with the children?

Yes, that was me
logistics officer
in charge of supplies
drums of fuel, gas-cylinders,
mechanical diggers
whatever was needed.

Was that you watching me?

Yes that was me
Tipping the canisters through the trap
doing my job
keeping us safe.
Scared shitless at the thought
of losing my little Anna.
Was that you in the last batch through?
Shouting as the doors closed;-


Was that you?


Friday 7 November 2014


A subject not on the official syllabus perhaps but studied by many students?

                       'A' LEVEL

My ambition as a youth was to serve the human race
Though through modesty I'd remain quite anonymous,
I'd find a cure for cancer and conquer outer space,
With Superman my name would be synonymous.

But my studies were neglected, my pure maths a pure disgrace
My science and my French marks less than minimus,
My English teacher said that my poems had a place
But to tell me where it was would be quite blasphemous.

Frustrated in my ambition to serve all human kind
I searched for intelectual stimulus,
Something of compelling interest which would excercise my mind
So I made a lifelong study of the female Gluteus Maximus.

The endless fascination of that double global symmetry
Rejuvenates my libido and animus,
The contrapuntal motion and sweet celestial geometry
With Marlowe's 'restless spheres' appear synonymous.

In some quarters my studies are considered 'not quite nice'
And some lady friends have kicked up quite a fuss,
But to achieve fame one must make some sacrifice
And I'll endure all the jeers
And offer to my peers
My thesis on the subject of
The female Gluteus Maximus

Wednesday 24 September 2014


It must have been on a tour of a stately home, being directed by pointing cardboard fingers on stands to the next 'must see' that triggered this piece. Re-reading it I realised that it is a rhyming piece of apparent prose.
If that sounds a bit puddled blame it on the Shiraz.
                                                      A RANT
Forefinger, first finger, long finger points to the Gents to the caff to the walk by the lake, the finger that tells you where you should go, this way that way, don't deviate and the finger of the teacher who drags you out,  to the front of the class as she calls you a lout, and the finger of the bully in your chest as he sneers and asks you what you're looking at as you hold back tears and the finger of the sneak as he says it was you and you wonder what you'd done as the feeling grew that no matter what you did it wouldn't be enough 'cause the world is not for weaklings and you've got to be tough and the girls took no notice of you 'cause of your name and when you got home it was more of the same and no wonder you were weak 'cause you never got fed and your Dad was always pissed and your Mother stayed in bed so I thought is was time to 'off' in the blue when the finger in the poster said 'The Army Wants You' and I thought why not, it couldn't be worse so I signed and left to my father's curse, now I'm fit and I'm tough and it feels real good and I don't give a shit if I draw some blood and the best thing of all was they gave me a gun and they're teaching me to shoot though I've just begun to learn not to pull but to squeeze like a tit and then I'll be sure of making a hit and that stiff pointing finger is better when it's curled round a trigger as that's what rules the world.

Last line --cynical? true? depressing?  what do you think?

Saturday 13 September 2014


Our local library was moved from the original building to a newly built complex 5 years ago and for the bit of a do that is planned I was asked for a comment on what the library meant to me. Libraries have always been my 'comfort zone' and for goodness sake they are always full of BOOKS! so I couldn't resist stirring my poetic muse with this result;-


 in this quiet place
I hear a thousand voices,
Telling their tales
The rights and the wrongs
Dreaming their dreams
Singing their songs

Telling  me
Of triumphs and failures
Loves lost and won
Regrets and deceits
Promises undone

And they say to me
The tales that we tell belong to you all
The stories you hear are also your own
And so, in this peaceful quiet place
I know I am never alone.

Thursday 14 August 2014




On the smooth cold tiles (non-slip, simulated marble)
Between Dixon's and Smith's
A child lies screaming,
His red face creased, wet with misery,
Legs kicking out, back arched,
His fists beat the earth
Beneath the smooth cold tiles.

Oblivious of censure and his mother's embarrassment
He screams his frustration at the world's deceit
No one understands him
Or his need to beat the ground and scream 

I wish I could do that.


A couple of poems about lost childhood firstly;-


Politicians and princes, forever they come,
The corporal, the general, the man with the drum,
The strong man, the weakling, the clever, the numb,
The artist, the poet, the fluent, the dumb,
The lawyer, the felon, the kid from the slum,
The down and out drifter stinking of rum,
We're all in the playground, crying for Mum,