Tuesday, 31 July 2018


sunned in siesta upon a
basking breeze
wasped with hatred



do you know how many?
how many died in the great wars?
how many died in the great plagues?
  wait! wait!  come on,  read on a bit. 
and, yet, the world is now overpopulated.
do you know how many?

  we need

another war, or another plague; no!
no more! no more! i scream at the moon.
 - it’s always the moon isn’t it? -
it changes nothing, 
nothing changes,
it changes nothing, 
does it?

global warming, yeah, yeah, boring, right?
droughts, wild-fires, famine, water-wars?
epidemics? but, it’s always been like this, yes?
  yes, yes, it’s always been like this,
down the ages. but mutual assured destruction,
what a cabaret show that will be;
what an unusual permutation of
football results, or lottery numbers.
pop another pill, not in our life-time, 
but our children?
  our grandchildren?
silly old bugger! There he goes again;
he could worry for wales, that one!
ha, ha, ha; that is so funny. 

and now the cat has peed in the cat tray, and missed!

  laugh it all away; 

"the end is nigh" "the end is nigh"
ha, ha, ha; how we laughed at that;
  yahboo sucks!
but we all have our end - don’t we?
these thoughts going around in circles,
and i am so tired; we all are so tired.

are the bugs and beasties waiting
for us to exit stage left? so that
they can take over the world?
it might be for the best? not for us, 
of course, but for the world. 
but this insensate blob
of rock and molten iron. what does
it know? it is dead sure.

so what am i to make of it all?
what am i trying to say?
do you know?
i’m buggered if i know!

phaw! phoo! stuff it you!
i’d rather have a cream cake any day;
i’m away to me bed.

Monday, 30 July 2018

just one of tide’s many of days

just one of tide’s many of days

the wind in the trees, and the seas that roar,
pelting beach-ward and slipping, that lanyard deride;
and whistling, and rattling, and pebbling in shells,
fall exhausted and star-fished on an ebbing of tide.

Sunday, 29 July 2018

the secondhand poetry book

i shake my upturned secondhand book of poetry 
and the sighs fly out like bats from a cave 
with their long years searching for the moth-moon lines 
to hang a thought upon
and the ghosts of previous readers scurry up the sand dune pages 
dislodging a scree of words

Saturday, 28 July 2018

the sea swimmer in winter

a video with voice over of one of my poems


the writer

writing is the lightening 
in the humid air
the writer the kite flyer
who puts the words just there
and when they are dry and done with crying
the writer says "look here"
i am a writer now you see
it was me who put them there
but quick as lightening the ink winks
and thunder slams the book

Friday, 27 July 2018

the sensual beauty of a woman’s body

the sensual beauty of a woman’s body
is placed before you for her child
for gene’s tender trap
is designed to send you wild
with wide-eyed anticipation
two honey dews collide
and the web is spun
the deed is done
as you take her for your bride
you are now the rock of daddy
and she is mum, mum, come quick!
and now the beauty of a mother’s mind
will bind you to her child

Wednesday, 25 July 2018

the rocking of ages

you might fling yourself upon that rock
like the sea 
                      like the sea
and then draw back 
   then draw back
 to be and be 
unto your deity

so now you think 
  you understand 
but "it" is one step ahead
  one step ahead 
it has just left the room
  just left the room
just around the corner
  around the corner

so turn back now
  and turn back to
this your daily bread

for reluctantly 
   the reluctant sea
has seen it all before
has seen the tides 
of humanity
ebb and flow
  ebb and flow

so now you know 
   so now you know
      now you know

Tuesday, 24 July 2018

the 3a

the 3a
the voices on the bus an esperanto 
of hermaphrodite tongues that ignore the
passing scenes that blend
into a never-never land
that and that 
the wind cannot get out
of the window it came in through
because when the fresh air
gets into your lungs
some soft apeth slams it 
oh yes all human life is here
let me off
      let me off

Sunday, 22 July 2018

music returns to auschwitz and a lone voice sings

music returns to auschwitz 
   and a lone voice sings


such longing, such an aching lamentation.
why do you not scream out, or 
laugh in an inconsolable madness
and release me from the gibbet 
of your anguish?
that i could manage,
that i could cope with.
and, no, i do not want to forget, 
but there is beauty in the purity of the 
voice that impales the pain;
it holds me spellbound.
i weep now for all mankind;
doomed, doomed, as we are, 
doomed to relive a myriad deaths 
and shades of suffering
before the end. 
oh, i bleed down these ochre walls,
as i relinquish into a sea of wailing
all of my sorrow; 
i dread what yesterday will bring 
unto the ‘morrow;
it lacerates my sadness 
to hang empty upon the night air, 
and i wail and wail, but to no avail;
for alas is never enough;
is it?

Saturday, 21 July 2018



she is only twelve, and yet she is already
a seed bursting in a summer pod. 
sometimes she may be as bitter as laburnum; 
but taste it you will. 
she is fired in the yellow of tomorrow’s dawn;
she has her chin upon the clouds;
she is going there, stop her if you dare!
cage the spirit and the bats will beat the bars; 
can you claw the air back into a cage? no! 
so let her breathe, say goodbye then she might tarry; 
spinning at the other end of the skipping rope, 
head in the stars that orbit her sun. then whoosh! 
so be gone my lovely, wave back now and then?

Friday, 20 July 2018



damp is the crooked valley of that smile 
the dark musk road to procreation 
believe unto belly into belly
for mile upon mile of the time
when the footfall along that road
set the future from here to year
love is such a strange desire
don’t you think
under the mountain of that smile
in the sighs between the thighs 
while all the time
it was and will be 
for it is preordained
and so it was 
       and so we did
              and so it must be

Wednesday, 18 July 2018



he is custard-suited, sun-seated, on
the promenade-smiled bench. 
these newspaper days. when he can say
that he has seen it all before and lived 
to tell the tale. to tell it to the breeze
that brings the tears that dry as
quick as they are cheek-borne.
how this late summer is to be savoured,
just beyond his flaky fingers
that lean upon his silver cane,
to tip the day bonsoir, au revoir;
tomorrow will be straw-boated
once again,
and the sun will shine.

Tuesday, 17 July 2018

my mother used to say that

the things mums say are
forever tattooed in your mind
they never fade with the years
tears make them shine brighter
they will die with you
they are the pillow of
your last goodbye

the doldrums of dawn

the doldrums of dawn

the bees are sawing the morning,
as the flowers flute come on;
  then the sparrows tutt and tit tit it,
  but the great-tits have flit and gorn;
and the cat? well she’s stalking the breeze,
that clacks the crows to clack back, "black-cat"

until ...

the wood pigeon (l’m a big bird don’t you know)
soothes "who wants a second cup of tea?"
"me! and how perfectly purrfect" mews the cat,
and so - hi oh - another morning moment,
goes yawning down the fair dews of dawn.

Sunday, 15 July 2018

laverbread (bara lawr)

laverbread (bara lawr)

give me your ebony tears,
my darling sea;
spill your black maidenhair,
over sea’s rock and chair;
this laver bred, 
from the menu of the sea,
so deliciously a minded.

the sad blood of dulse is moaning
on the battle-tides of wales
rumplestiltskin bladderwrack
is swaying on the loom of the sea
the booming sea-sky a gloaming
above the haunted forests of kelp
on and on the sirens call
come on, come on, come on.

long in picking,
under the chiding sun;
long in washing, 
until the moonshine;
long boiled down
in fond anticipation.

in oatmeal faery-dusted,
fried with bacon and cockles;
this breakfast from gower
fit for the king of neptune.

wide eyed,
welsh-hat black,
black as the coal in our veins,
the steelworks at night.

    it is,
  in our way,
eaten by us welsh,
swansea market stalled,
a memory in taste
of the sea, 
 for you,

Friday, 13 July 2018

for john guzlowski’s mother

gritted, her words
have sucked the sadness from the earth,
so all that’s left is mirth.
time’s up death, down time retrace,
and wipe that smile from off your face;
for this is my rebirth.

Tuesday, 10 July 2018

cat o the morning

as i smooth my cat
she opens her soul to me
then a bird alights

Monday, 9 July 2018

there - it’s gone now

sounds of the sixties;
an old song slices my heart.

who was she?
where were we?
who were we?

there! it’s gone now.

Saturday, 7 July 2018

a sea of emotion

as the cat’s paw pauses
above the other paw’s spot
so my toes in the ocean 
stir a sandy plot
in the drawing back
of a tide of emotion
what was long forgotten 
suddenly overwhelms
my fortification

Wednesday, 4 July 2018

spider spider

spider spider

a long trough of milky sibilant satin
breathless in hanging the dusty way
our gaze hypnotic along and into
this fate this fly on his fateful day

wriggling waiting waiting wiggling
tiptoe-eyed it seems belies
that presence is resident here 
as we in turn this wait denies

once again the dark childhood corners 
eye what the dark in darkness hides
for exploding across this mithril meadow 
a belly on eight stilted legs in rapier glides

the spider jumps and we jump back
ancestors scream quick hide and hide
as "got you" is pulled back quick as a flash
it’s fangs remaining chew on our insides

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

timeless each time

where have all the maidenheads gone
 long time parsing
where have all the maidenheads gone
 long time aglow

where have all the vestal virgins gone
 long time falling
where have all the vestal virgins gone
 long time a bleeding

they’re collected in a silver jar
 long time shrivelling 
collected with the puerperal prepuces
 long time shrivelling  

where have all the maidenheads gone
 at this time of asking
they’ve fallen to brave hearts everyone
 multi multi-tasking 

when will they ever learn
 when will they ever learn

that it’s on your tube now
  that it’s playing
a golden disc for a golden gate 
 to a very secret garden

when will they ever learn
   when will they ever learn

Monday, 2 July 2018

the ages of a book

a prequel said the squirrel
 i’ll bury it in the pages 
a sequel squeaked the mouse
i found it under the leaves
a postscript said the cat
pouncing on the words
as the pages of the book of life
turned over in the breeze 

Sunday, 1 July 2018

the air show

the air show 

it’s that they are killers that kills it;
these beautiful killing machines.
and will they crash? maybe they’ll crash?
wills the crowd of cannon fodder.
the wow wows of engines
wow wows the crowd;
but it was only yesteryear;
that their mums and dads
said "we can take it",
as the bombs rained down
upon this town.
there have been air shows,
there is this one, 
there will be one next year;
unless there is another war;
and it’s that these killers will kill again
that kills it;
it’s what the bloody air show
is showing you.