Monthly Archives: March 2011
















The ‘futures’ boys
don’t interest me
with their tax-free handshakes,
their couldbewouldbemaybes,
their trading floor predictions
and their ipad-clad Hades.


Silence the history books,
what’s past is past,
gilded, steadfast,
locked in, locked down,
shackled to the mast;
what use a regurgitated
last repast?


I want here, I want now,
enraptured, captured,
hot heavy molten,
soldered in this moment,
liquid-lost with you
holding me golden.






Filed under Free Verse


Sitting in this five hundred thread count womb,
inhaling the scent of lavender and chamomile
as it wafts along the cotton warp and weft,


I am soothed by the muted colours that are
only visible, when we allow ourselves
a moment to slip inside.





Filed under Free Verse, Poetry











There are no unforgiving heather hills between us;
you do not roam the loamy moors calling my name
like a madman, chasing the wraith of a girl long gone.

Masefield’s sea does not separate us; you do not stand
like one of Gormley’s men, gazing at the horizon,
while I wrap myself in Pinter’s whore’s cape and wait.

You do not wander the skies in a chariot, searching for
your huntress, under the watchful gaze of the scorpion,
its eyes glittering malevolently in the amaranthine ink.

We have no use for playwrights and poets, for we have
quiet words of our own that whisper down the centuries
and anoint the Beltane ribbons that bind us in our pledge.





~  The ancient Pagan and Celtic ceremony of handfasting marks the taking of a partner.  The couple’s hands are ritually bound together to symbolize their union. Some people choose to use a ribbon that they have both signed. Between Beltane and the Summer Solstice is the most popular time for handfastings.



Posted for the wonderful  One Shot Wednesday at One Stop Poetry



Filed under Free Verse




The house is filled with books that lay unread
Moroccan leather bindings thick with dust,

for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.

These first editions steeped in printer’s lead
that should be treasured, cherished but it’s just
the house is filled with books that lay unread.

These shelves where clichéd angels dare not tread,
where fact and fiction both are left to rust,
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.

Between the leaves of romance, crisp and dead,
amid the thrillers, mysteries and lust,
the house is filled with books that lay unread.

Compressed, controlled, contained, so word can’t spread,
where spineless villains creep there breeds mistrust,
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.

Deep paper cuts where crimson ink has bled
across the creamy pages, once robust,
the house is filled with books that lay unread
for fear the truth will raise its hoary head.




Posted for One Shot Wednesday at the wonderful One Stop Poetry


Filed under Poetry, Villanelle



















~ Inspired by and dedicated to my poet friend John Magpie Congreve – a seagull by any other name.


As he walks the grey rain-slicked streets,
steep scaffolding – Sycamore trees,

runs fingertips across railings,
barbed metal; embroidering leaves.

Young arms outstretched turning circles,
two-tone gull in the ocean’s breeze,

chimerical brushes painting
beauty over urban disease.



Filed under Couplets, Poetry