Wednesday, 20 September 2017

Second-hand prose

Second-hand prose


The faces, held with bated breath,
in a book's dusk-dusted pages,
congregated in the pews of twilight,
drawn down upon their ages.
Each slice of their hearts delight,
desiccated in the spume of tears
torn from their rants and rages,
to lay warm, wrapped in dust, 
and fast within the pages.

I can smell their sadness there in must.
The hands that held the book,
cheek to cheek, dusting dust,
swirl fast a gazing loving look.
Or, cosy in brown paper shroud,
you haunt the time machine, 
tip toe through the mausoleum,
wherein we all do dream.
Waltz me forever, tight to your bosom,
in love's long pirouette.
Down all the fastness of our time,
for not one minute do I regret,
our second-hand repose.

Monday, 18 September 2017

Great Brexit

Great Brexit

Britain, on the catafalque of lies before Europe,
who, sitting around the empty, rattling tumbrel,
whisper of the Thuggee garrote. Tighter.
Britain, to be interred in the mausoleum of Empire,
by those so minded of the glory days,
that they forget the way back.
Their misty ways, now so irresistible
to the dew-eyed, dyed-in-the-wool
old Englanders of the viceroy plumes.
The flag is at half-mast. Going up or down?
The last post or the reveille?
Never before has so much been ....

Uncle Jim's Poems for Children

The illustrations
My poems for children now on Kindle £2

Poem titles:

Flight of sand
In the deep midwinter
Lazy lizard
Modern man
Fair feather
Water boat
Mariah, Mariah,
The three bells
The frog
Snowy the abominable snowman 
The sun
The race

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

The frog

Look through this frog's speckled eye
  and you will see black spotted spawn,
and all the wriggly tadpoles swimming,
  in the well where he was born.

Why do you think he is watching you?
  With his skin shinning wet and bright.
Perhaps he fears you will pick him up,
  and stop his trip tonight.

For he is going on a long hop,
  across the fields and dales.
Until he finds that same old well,
  where he was born in Wales.

He is looking for a wife to marry,
   so she can jelly lay frogspawn.
and all the little froggy eggs
  will be shining in the dawn.

They will leave them there in a gang,
  where they will grow little legs and tails.
Until they too will go on their long hops,
  to find their own homes in Wales.

And big mister froggy?
  Well he is living in a stream.
Eating worms and juicy slugs,
  having forty winks, and a dream.

Saturday, 9 September 2017


the salt pans of tears
                     flamingo city
the cat rolls            upon the shoreline
                     high ho
                    the snow falls
on                                   Christmas Eve
sing     anolis carolinensis    
                        the breeze 
in one window
                         out the other
  fire me timbers
  safely gathered in
  the wood pyres

the wooden cats soak up the sun
          cooked in their fur
             to sleep upon
                 the night

twiddle my rock-cakes

nash                                             nash
         nosh                           nosh
                  nash          nash
 nish         nish           nish         nash
         nosh         nosh        nosh

the sun explodes the horizon of infinity
at the back of the front of the black hole
such a very small t whiskey
down the highlands of your mind
    bottoms up

the Who tore up the Sixties
did they not
as the red wall absorbed everything
                   and was gone