A compilation of recent poems

THE PASSENGER                                  (1st draft Oct ’13)

(With apologies to ‘The Windhover’ by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a poet whose amazing kaleidoscope of vocabulary I greatly admire)

In vorsprung rhythm

I caught this morning morning’s first bus, commuter to London’s sole hope,

Fume-belching rattle-trap in its tardy thumping o’er the pot-holed highway

Low-way, no-way, go-‘way unsteady lurchingwards hold-oh-so-tight ding-ding-a-ling

Tintinnabulation in my misery! Then left abaft, swing lo sweet left hand turn

And throw the pensioned biddy to the deck. Ah! Rich misery of age upon the floor

The scramble for the papers cast adrift

A farce for a pass, the treachery, the unrestrained loss O! Weep or move along inside.


Brute power, gross noisy lump hurl’d down a thirty limi-it’d lane

Black-smoke emitting diesel, in its trail

Coughing birds, flatten-ed mice and griev-i-ous unmischiev-i-ous ex-vitalis-ed bunnies.


O! No surprises there then. Sheer speed and lack of sleep and feeble brake

Make rough the morning dash to catch a train

And tumbled bleeding travellers pay due salute with pale smile and bitter-stomach’d thanks





Held her body

Bright fire now releases her

Hurls her sunwards free to dance light

As smoke



SONNET ; UK 2014                  (1ST draft  Feb ’14)

This country is 10th wealthiest on earth

a place of peace, of people ruled by law.

Our countrymen – by accident of birth –

can make free choice, move forward or withdraw.

Religion is no threat, we freely vote,

our press is biased, yes, but it is free.

No secret watcher damns us with a note

anonymous.  Here we’re at liberty

to be as loud, opinioned, critical,

as can be tolerated by our peers,

and leaders – wealthy, hypocritical –

brush of with smile and guile our misplaced fears:

Yet I believe statistics, and they’ve said

The lines are growing longer for free bread.



NEW COMPUTER                    (1st draft Mar ’14)

I’ve bought a new computer

And it’s going to change my life

It’ll cook an English breakfast

Whilst it’s pleasuring the wife

It’s going to write amazing poems

And translate them into Latin

Then check up on my BMI

And keep me safe from statins.

My PC is my new best friend

It’s small, it’s black, it’s shiny

Its memory is massive

Even though its footprint’s tiny …

Oh no! my poem’s interrupted

The f.. f.. file’s corrupted.


3 April ’14

This is the blog place where I’ll be trying out writing stuff: some of it for my OCA course, some of it for my writers group and some for no better reason than I wanted to write it! At the moment the site looks pretty daunting, but I have plans to become more adventurous as I become familiar with the way in which the site works.

For the writers group meeting today I tried a poem.


The land lay drowned last winter;

lanes, gardens, homes, lives overwhelmed.

People wept and sent their animals to safety

in strangers’ trucks.

They shouted out in anger at witless ministers of state

on badly timed and ill-considered photo calls.


Two friends died last winter;

victims of the same death-dealing malady –

were gone abruptly, leaving shopping lists, unread magazines,

bewildered widowers.

Two hospices gained funds from grieving friends

But the crematoria were grey for want of flowers.


Here’s spring, and snowdrops droop aside for daffodils,

blossom frosts the hedges, soft new leaves

blur dark angled branches of the trees

and birds sing.

The clocks move forward to official summer-time

that the cold, damp earth does not yet know.

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