Friday, 30 November 2018

the last bus home

the last bus home

glowworms quiver in all colours,
drooled behind the wet windows
of winter that just got on the bus, and
is sitting somewhere behind me now;
and the only warm sense is my inner world.

hook the hookworm out of the night,
depart on the chance
that it would carp no shoulder,
or the wet spell of the necromancer.

akin to which footfall to chose 
on the wet cobbled way of a 
day sapped sherbet rare
upon a street of gardens 
de-dentured by their shinning cars.

still on the last bus home,
emptied of hands the bells
hang pink and waiting for the stops 
that will never be;
and me? i wait for the fogged 
stop to appear through the window
wiped sleeve sleazy, and i will alight 
and say good night to the driver.

I’m home!

Thursday, 29 November 2018

the storm

the storm
leaves fall upwards
and were last scene
running away from
the seething sea 
leering tooth white
and snarling
for the sun has run
away with the baton 

Wednesday, 28 November 2018

sunday morning

sunday morning 

slowly, morningly, stirring slow,
slowly flow the dreams and down
in the sun pale creeping 
through the autumn leaves,
that sleep on their sundry beds;
that sweep along the long 
slow shadows shortening, 
as the day stirs knowingly,
to ask why we ask:
why are we here at all?

Tuesday, 27 November 2018

see it’s the sky sea

see it’s the sky sea

    morning swim
just look
    and look
look at how the
opal sky pools freckle the sea
pools ivory under the sky sea 
pearl clouds all over
just look
    and for ever and ever
never will you see
anything to compare
to the skeins of this morning
the breath of an angel
curls wings around me
oceania i call her
on my swim from 
here to her eternity

Sunday, 25 November 2018


the leaf street sweeper
ignores the insisting wind
the stones stay silent 

Saturday, 24 November 2018

soars the boy in his full sap

     soars the boy in his full sap
(on kilvey hill above swansea bay)

soaring higher than the windmilled hill
sky larked up and high and blue eyed
above the fork-tongued piers
docked upon the sea of his morning 
flowing along the sun-arced bay
dazzling away on this hazy day
heather bees nit-comb dusted
pouring over the warm rocks
lizard-lichened the low fallen walls
and so it turns this boy’s day
young and rising and bursting 
just this one time of his life 
it goes running of his full sap

Thursday, 22 November 2018

Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Swansea Bay sands on a winter night

Roosting crows, a black blizzard blowing,
November the 5th_ing down on this winter day;
across, along and darkening, lowing;
darkness falls across Swansea bay.

Enveloped in that velvet blanket spotted
by the baubles of Townhill and Brynmill lights.
Dockside the piers, red and green lamp-dotted,
with Mumbles lighthouse bookmark the night.

The lace-torn spinster moon, saddened, grey,
lies shallow along this night’s deafened spine,
between the sea, and the city’s murmuring way,
as insensate as the slow moon’s slow incline.

Over the shoulder, looking around, and arounded
for the presence - there behind you, now; and now 
the welcome crunch of shells ashore and grounded,
confirm that this is terra firma, n’er terrored brow.

Depressed under this black night on night;
dark down feel the salty temple pads,
electro-convulsive shocks the night light
bright, to reign supreme, happy, and happy glad.

Silence so deep where no silence is,
upon the wind-wink of a star;
we see there is no linear end to this, 
for a multiverse might be intersected far

down the Swansea river Tawe flows
the grey/pink clouds, heavy with snow;
rolling down from Brecon Beacons,
with promise to whiten this black bay right now.

Around, around, spin around; arms outstretched,
sketching in white on this black palimpsest of memory;
Swansea bay on this night be so there etched,
that you know, you just know
that this is where you are meant to be.

in the dungeon of depression

in the dungeon of depression

no one wants to be there
i hope you are from there soon
but while you are there
keep tapping the mosaic into place
you will rediscover it one day
in the archeology of your mind
and in a strange way it will shine

Wednesday, 21 November 2018

there there

there there

stare into the distance 
there is no pain there
but here
every doorway a goodnight kiss
shadowed in rapture
every bus a departure
a fracture
see the snow swirl 
the lamplight closing
off the way 
closing closing down the day 
closed                                and
you are left standing there
there is pain here              and
there is pain there
on the departing bus
tomorrow is calling tonight away
tomorrow is another day
isn’t that what they say
when there is no reason to stay 
isn’t that what they say
there there now
there there
there there



to an age before age
we turn back the page
but the wind from the grave
turns it back - queue up and behave

up the down escalator of mud
our eyes filling and filling with blood
the glamorous adverts jeer
going up cheer up cheer up dear

for the ghost of christmases past
has unwrapped the last parcel the last parcel at last
the perfect gift for the end of my days
a diary of blank pages and pages that says ...

Tuesday, 20 November 2018

the barking              the barking
                    so light
       upon the scree of night

black           crack          window

     head laid back 
        the idle book
          the outstretched hand

  the slow breath of a thought

i ought                              i ought
                    but no

the barking              has stopped

Monday, 19 November 2018


The Mirror: Is life on the coast better than in a city? 7 writers from across the UK explain why they love living by the seaside - Mumbles, Langland is one of them ...

Sunday, 18 November 2018

lance the abscess of an absence

lance the abscess of an absence 
kiss the lonely throb away
bind it tightly with the essence
of your only love who is here to stay

Saturday, 17 November 2018

it is all in the mating mind

it is all in the mating mind

in all the world 
                        the womb is all
for all mankind is
                        the mating mind
whatever permutations of gender 
     are by gender so preferred 
the algorithm holds

for in all the world 
what else is there
for whatever you think there is             

it is all in the mating mind

bring it down upon us all for this i know

bring it down upon us all for this i know

that poverty does purge all decadence of mind,
and so annealed in this village way resolve
to draw close all such kindred kind,
and, with all of those that we love,
will relax the penury of imagined richness,
and replace it with the richness of that penury;
where such as i have i will share with thee,
as thee would do for me i know.
such largesse bring down upon us now,
but dare not call it poverty, 
rather, call it the hardship of love true blind,
that once pinioned, is in and of itself eternity.

Thursday, 15 November 2018

love me sea

love me sea

such a moment to behold,
eyelids suffused with morning gold;
the cat is curled up in the sun,
for our day is only just begun.

such a gaze floats mused away,
to where the tides tirade the bay;
and i am off to taste the sea,
to bite the surf that surf bites me.

such a blue-cold grips my core,
that one could easily say no more!
but where else is the sky is so high?
and where do tumble-gulls cry and cry?

such an horizon calls you longing lay,
and give your heart to her this day;
madam sea i plead my love to thee,
and i will devote my life while i am free;

as such i plight my troth when each day i swim
that your minion sands say this is him;
the lover that you have timeless sought,
and that your siren smiles have caught.

such time now to take him on the tide,
for he has pledged to take you as his bride;
and down in the depths of love lay deep,
to dream the tears of salty sleep.

but, as you guess, all is not as it may seem,
for i awake from a dream;
and as i sit at my breakfast table,
the sea is but an ongoing fable.
but ne’er the less, it is all quite true,
i love the sea, and of this i can assure you.

swimming in the waves

swimming       waves                in the waves
                  in the        swimming

there’s a wave coming
do i 
dive under 
                  and hook my fingers in the sand
dive over
duck under
turn my back on it
stand up
body-surf it in
shallow dive through the surf
swim towards it before it breaks
arms up and take it sideways
float on my back 
                             and let it cleanse my brain

make the wrong decision 
it will slap you in the face

but hey                 that’s life                right

       and here comes another one
               and here comes another one
                       and here comes another one

yessssss   yesssss   
fun  dive  fun  dive  fun

Monday, 12 November 2018

black body

black body 

festering night; 
such a stench from 
the wound in the
steaming neon-slashed rain.
much has streamed astray,
in the way footsteps falter
following a falling star.
rue the night that
wrapped the day away,
and bid our souls slip down,
to beat upon the testament
of the damned. 

the artist in his garret

the artist in his garret

the artist in his garret studio
flooded with the light parisienne 
falling across the chaise longue.
garbled table coppiced with brushes,
leadened with swirled tubes of paint;
empty wine bottles, stale bread,
and canvasses stacked 
but every which and where;

and there i would love to rest,
to write the whole day through;
it is where my mind is now
as i sit here next to you;
for it is free to roam,
to find itself a home,
where the cookie jar of great poems
sits aside, to be plundered
by the poet who’s days are numbered.
Who will bequest this loft to me?


cat whiskered sunshine
staring at the wren that has 
already flown

Sunday, 11 November 2018



in every marionette sinew
he mimics me in perfect 
mirror symmetry 
he sits in every leaving room
that i leave as the me he is
and he stays with the me in he
mimicked in imperfect
broken symmetry

100 years 11/11/11

100 years 11/11/11

The snarling of our genes prescribe it,
  even as our minds proscribe it;
the self-immolation goes on and on.

Be quiet!
  the bloody war poets 
  are mad hammering on the door again.
A minute of silence please!

lock them out,  lock them out,
they are drowning out the playing,
as our military bands go marching off
to prevent another war.

We hope to plug the volcano
upon which migrant words astir,
but the dry staring eyes
of the aching the dead
do not deny it;

although they scream to prevent it,
a hundred years of turned deaf ears
ensure that it is true.

They march heads held high,
asserting, it is death that will die!
Yes, and pigs will fly,

I respectfully do aver.

Saturday, 10 November 2018

pangs of angst

pangs of angst

the angst of a teenager 
is as raw a nerve
as ever went blind 
on the retina of
a blurred rainbow 
tunnel vision days 
spent searching for
the pot of gold   oft told
but never found

Friday, 9 November 2018

not without the love of this muse

not without the love of this muse

i have a date tonight under the snow light 
with a poem i locked eyes with
in my sleep
she is late and i hope she has not stood me up
because she looked like no other
here she comes 
in rhyme on time
i will make her mine
if she will have me 
with all my imperfections 
see how the light in swirling snow throws 
her shadow on this page of snow
i will trace around her 
with this twig of a pen 
and she can throw snowballs at
every cliché i trip over and
she will laugh and laugh at me
and with me as i stand up on the ice
and learn to skate around the grit words
and the thorns beneath the snow
and she will kiss my bare footfall blue
and massage the frostbite from my toes
and hand in hand we will skip through my poem
and play with the damsel flies above the water meadows
of the long and golden summers she saw
form the beginning in my eyes 
and i see now her teases were love’s dew
on the young shoots of an eternity
that was promised in my halting words
that are now sleeping under our tree
as the shy sun slowly sets
embarrassed at our union
in front of the whole world 
who will read these words 
where are we now
i ask you