writing a poem

writing a poem

the non-trance equivalent of being in a trance

stepping back in mind as the sluice gates open

watching a poem

run along the channels of the lines on a page 

genocide

 genocide

remove the person

who squats

in the mind of a person

who says you are not that

sort of person

when of course we all have

that sort of person

inside us

who indulges us

by saying you are not 

that sort of person

kill that person to ensure

that you will never kill a

person again

genocide is in you

kill it

global warning

 global warning

after my sea swim

i am bruddy freezing 

the sea level rise places me

no closer to the shore

global warming leaves

me no warmer 

some time after 

you say beware

i say i don’t believe you 

i seem to be biased 

but when you say biased

i do buy it

i really do

but it is

cold comfort 

on this day 

of your cold warning

the anguish of a poem of anguish

 the anguish of a poem of anguish

not wanting to read it

but by the end of it

it was too late

to rewind time

is not our gift

so i killed it

but in my memory 

it refused to die

so i killed myself

in it’s memory 

do me a flavour

 do me a flavour

the first daffodil 

so welcome in the spring

but ten thousand of the bloody things

bile for mile after mile 

st david’s had his day

i’m going for a leek

oh i say

haiku me an emoji

 haiku me an emoji

haiku me an emoji

for my attention span

over the gorge of life

has had 

no time at all 

for a long time 

now

say that again

i didn’t quite get it

first time

ah

at last i get it

i understand how the sand

drifts from one dune thing 

to another thing

and

as we are on the subject

now where was i 

black (humour?)

 black (humour?)

jammed my thumb in the car door

now the nail has gone black 

and it’s throbbing

we were out of town 

so couldn’t ply the hot paperclip trick 

to save the nail

will wait a few weeks for it to fall off

then bury it under the runner beans

well it looks like a runner bean seed

oh don’t make me clap my hands

it’s bloody sore

what?

oh it’s my left hand

now there is opposition to apposition

i will point that out

it’s also cut

and the antiseptic stings

and the plaster keeps slipping off

and  and

oh bugger it

where’s the paracetamol