Poetry And Prose

This category contains 8 posts

A Bitter Ode To English Summer….

Let’s tell a tale of England fair,

Of willow, cork and leather,

Of journeys to the countryside,

Where old friends come together.


A day off work, a timely break,

Release from mundane task,

The hallowed turf, the whitewashed crease,

We’re there- no need to ask.


The cars arrive, the pitch prepared,

The changing rooms all-chatting,

The toss to come, decision’s tough,

Are we bowling ? Are we batting ?


Yet warbler’s tune, so soulfully played,

Does suddenly fall still,

As angry cloud and sharpening breeze,

Now shroud the nearby hill.


Once sky so bright, once hopes so high,

Another splendid game,

No ball will bowl, we’re going home,

It’s pissing down with rain….




My Time


A gifted moment in existence-a priceless experience,
readily accepted without attention or respect.

No light consideration-not a moment to be wasted,
lest the joy of memory be the pain of regret.

Growing Old

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He stands at the bus stop, listing like a ship in a North Sea gale.


The plainness of his war torn face hiding the pain of his existence. His aura tells it all…


The splendour of the October sunshine no compensation to a picture of loneliness, in this suburb of relentless footfall.


I’m afraid of being old…..


The bus arrives, like a Good Samaritan, but in duty not benevolence.


A pathetic figure slumps forward- clutching the stairwell like a tortured prisoner climbing the scaffold, aware of his inconvenience to youthful humanity.


Hurried shoppers stair with thinly veiled annoyance at his palsied hands shaking in their search for loose change.


I’m afraid of being old…..


The full cabin of this mobile shoe box offers a single crumb of connection. A stranger smiles and offers a relieving seat…


Conversation in brief, yet relief for the mind- but too soon the bus ends its duty.


He leaves in best haste, and plants his stick to the pavement and firms himself , slightly slipping as he heavies on a leaf, both crisp and sodden.


I’m afraid of being old…..


Pangs of kinship, from pleasant exchange, disappear with the watery autumn sun. Ever distant memory of his sole exchange this day……


He ponders his empty itinerary, and slowly gathers himself.


Then alone he hastens into the encroaching night and tries to harden to the loneliness it brings…..


I’m afraid of being old…..

The Ode Of The Satanic Seagull…..

Look, your tormentors, your coastal Kings, the rulers from the edge of your eyes.

All seeing, all evil, our name means fear, our deeds much more….

Gazing, watchful, and ready- your comforting fare the exposed and mouth ready prey..

Our providers, our clowns, our culinary captives….

We were here before you, and will also be after. Our domain, our rules- harsh and without remorse.

Such desire for you, so unloving and cruel, from the stomach not the heart, from our twisted minds- but not our conscience.

So stay a little longer; for our supper is due, for our bowels are weak, and our warped gay abandon needs its subject…

A Cricketing Life…

I defend is defence is needed,

I drive when the ball is there,

I hook when the risk isn’t present,

confidence grows everywhere.


I now see the ball oh so clearly,

but my brain wont force me to rush.

If I don’t take leave of my senses,

I’ll be there when stumps draw at dusk.


The bowling is fast and hostile,

the wicket uneven, not flat.

The umpire can make wrong decisions,

it’s not always easy to bat.


But i’ll trust my natural awareness,

I’ll play from my heart and its source,

for me will come my first century,

resplendent with sixes and fours.



Nature’s Twisted Humour…

 Brighton 2008-12 (208)

Snowballs and sleighs, indulgent fun, an event of bemoaned infrequency.


You make your way from A to B in spectacular performance- scenes from Victorian cards of seasons greeting-

gaily enjoying your powdery steps, delighting in feigned festive spirit, loaned disruption to your mundane daily cycle.


Oh happy snow! A joyous landslide of white flakey fusion- warms your hearts-if not your fingers….


But await the morn with fear and trembling! the pending divorce of shoe and soil! Scarved, hatted, wrapped up against every hovering infection-your happy countenance turned stoney concentration as you meander your doomed and frozen course…


You fools! Headed soon into slippery demise, subjects of my twisted humour!

September’s Beautiful Delusion…..

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That watery yellow circle of summers fading dreams lowers west, and another day of September’s teasing warmth ebbs away, as if conducted to a close by an invisible orchestra, a silent symphony of colour, the conductor slowing the baton as night creeps in.

Freshly coated folk, their countenances awoken, soured, rusted by the sudden reality of chilly dusk, make haste to their abodes. The Indian summer promises new dawn, eternal weeks of radiant autumn heat, often penance for the June of disappointment, that July that never was, an August most forgettable, and laughs as its victims desperately ignore the truth of the seasons.

Wardrobes now greet the relics of summer for months of uninterrupted companionship, as if they ever parted… The pathetic schedule of many a Saturday nights viewing, that lowest denominator of winter bliss, more appealing by the hour. Hibernation and long nights of ‘what to do’.

You fool us so ! you seasons of mocking condescension, you predators on English longing.

September, your beauty is the last meal, and, like condemned prisoners, we partake wistfully in its morsels, pensively sorrowful in the knowledge of summer’s pending doom. Wishing away your beautiful delusion.

Dear 81…

81- possibly the most comforting number I will ever know on a sodden Saturday afternoon in St James’s Street.

They said that 42 was the answer to the universe, and for a while it was, until about 1987 that is. It was around then that the number 81 took over the Queens Park route and has magically stayed ever since.

This mobile shoebox, this timeless cabin, the bringer of relief to tired legs for whom Egremont Place brings a hill too far..

Sometimes, in particular on a dull day, the misery of its inhabitants gives it the air of a mobile prison. I guess these folk, faces that become evermore familiar despite my more infrequent trips nowadays, appreciate little of its history or servitude to Queens Park life.

Then perhaps it’s just the elements, but I hope their facial expressions are not a summary of their existence. Maybe we should have a Carpenters C.D playing softly in the background. Not ‘Rainy days and Mondays’ though….

My dear 81, though your fares may rise and your customers moan, I love you still. You’ve always been there for us hill dwelling folk, sometimes two or three of you at once to the belated rescue….

Hurried commuters, hassled shoppers, and nine ‘o’ clock pensioners of Queens Park unite… and celebrate our servant eternal !


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