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Poetry

Poem: Liar,Liar.

Liar,Liar. . . So, is gritting your only job, Constantly spreading it underneath Every conversation that we have In order that you don’t slip-up. . .

Poem: Love Me Do.

Love Me Do. . . Although I would move Both the heavens And the earth for your love, The simple truth is That it is not in my remit But in yours. . .  

Poem: Christmas Eve.

Poem: Christmas Eve. . . It’s hard work trying To swim against the tide Of office workers Released from the pen, Moving through the spaces like salmon Going home. . . .  

Poem: Setting The Scene.

Setting The Scene. . . The newly caught kindling Showed flames behind the glass, Which lent a glow To the still unfriendly room Full of glowering Gothic Furniture. . .  

Poem: Fat Caterpillar.

Fat Caterpillar. . Racing across the bridle path Intent upon it’s own business The fat and hairy caterpillar Has no time to worry about mountain bikes. . .

Poem: Buddleia.

Buddleia. . A buddleia bush. Rangy arms thrust In every direction. Not tidy, or well ordered, But decorated like a masterpiece By butterflies that congregate Upon vivid blue flowers. . .

Poem: Contact.

Contact. . . A late night call From someone you love, For no other reason than That they are thinking about you, Is what makes sense Of a sometimes puzzling world. . .

A Lost Sheep Comes Home.

Hi, . How is your week going so far then! Mine has been quite interesting. . Yesterday, I received a comment about a poem of mine which I uploaded last year, called Lost Sheep. . Here it is…. Lost Sheep. . He is a little lost sheep Through no fault of his own Out beyond […]

Poem: Small Pleasures To Be Had.

Small Pleasures To Be Had. . . The high point of the day Is toast and Marmite Cut into little fingers, And then there’s the postman, Bringing the promise of a letter, Or something unexpected. . .

Poem: Friend.

Friend. . . Each time I take a walk Along by the river It is a pleasure. Though not so much the water, The hanging trees, Or pillowed grass, As much as it is The large and purry cat Who lies in the dust of pink flowers, Waiting to greet me. . .