Tag Archives: poetry


Women of a certain profession
Draw up at nail bars
In their boyfriend’s fast cars.
While priests hear the confession
Of those impaled
On nails.


I Knew A Young Lady Called Mable

I knew a young lady called Mable
Who collapsed drunk under a table.
I offered her my hand
To help her to stand.
Though willing she was sadly unable!

Many Who Are Given

Many who are given
What they have striven
Find in the experience a poor
Shadow of the ideal they so adore.

If the longed for kiss
Brings no bliss
Then off they lurch
In search
Of their extreme
And in the supreme
Moment of joy
They do themselves destroy


On Reading A Book About Poetic Craft

Render words
About poetic craft

Am I daft
To seek
For knowledge in a book
When I could upon nature look
And hear the birds speak?


At The Start

At the start
A heart
I sought.
I thought
That I caught
Delicious fish,
A dainty dish
For a sorrowing king,
But the thing
Was an eel.

The first deal
Being done
I continued to run
After fun.
The sun
Sometimes shone
(As it does today)
As I half-heartedly did play
At romance.

I still dance
From time to time
And, perchance
The false
Is set down in rhyme.


Are You Still Writing?

Are you still writing? I have lost count of the number of occasions on which this question has been asked of me.

My response to anyone posing the above question is always an emphatic “yes”. For me writing is an integral part of who I am. It constitutes self-expression. I could no more give up composing poetry than I could abandon an old and dear friend. At times friends can be irritating. We disagree and even argue, but true friendship survives such disagreements. Likewise, with my writing I sometimes find myself becoming frustrated. I swear at my computer (I never swear at my friends I must hasten to add)! – and close Microsoft Word in disgust. However while I do abandon specific poems I can never envisage giving up my writing.

Writing is, for me, an itch that must be scratched. While on my way into the office or walking in beautiful places, the germ of a poem often develops in my brain. I feel restless until I’m able to get it down on virtual paper (all my writing takes place on my laptops).

Writing is both pleasure and pain. The frustration of sitting at a computer for hours, only to throw away what I have been working on, is balanced by the pleasure of producing a poem which is (in my opinion) worthy of seeing the light of day via this blog and, perhaps also (ultimately) to find itself within the leaves of a book.

So when people ask “are you still writing?” I shall continue to answer with an emphatic “yes”.


Nameless Numbers

Nameless numbers,
And unquiet slumbers
His heart
So he does set
Each regret
Down in art.

Each forgotten face.
The silk,
The lace.
He does hide
A rhyme,
Where the good time
Girl who
Never was … Lost her shoe