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So, for me,Poetry is about feeling,A way of exploring emotions,And not a conduitFor erudite allusions.I don’t give a damn about Typhoeus,With his hundred heads that never slept,Or Sphinx, who killed anyoneWho could not answer her riddlesAnd then drowned herselfWhen Oedipus could.Wonder and awe,The warmth of the sunAnd the coolness of the full moon,Speak to me…

The Golden chords that link usShimmer with eternal lightWeaving a web around the worldAs Archangels sing into lightWe share peace in our hearts.Gaia’s future may yet be bright.

The grey days creep back in –but with something missing:some brief spark, now lost.What was it that passedso fleetingly?The grey days: weren’t theyalways grey?Or were there moments,just moments,of light?No more than that, surely,or how could it fadeso quickly? If there was light,perhaps it will come again.

I don’t know whose idea it was.I figured it was just becauseI was there and so was she. I stayed for a day or so.She asked was I eager to go.I said not particularly. So she asked me to stay instead.Could’ve bitten off her tongue, she said.She scared the hell out of me. I slowly…

I don’t love you less, although you Stalk my bare feet in the mornings Claim rudely half of my toast and Spill the coffee with a tail wag When you command most of the couch By extending your limbs exaggeratedly I don’t love you less My little sultan of sofa I let your head rest…

Is that you Back already dressed in blue Like the sea today. The sky too I thought you said you were leaving, for good taking your forever lying love to who knows where that left me in streets where wind blows through open windows and strokes the broken sob where hearts lie downand beat loud…

At the end of the road is a pot holeIt’s been there for a year at leastit’s grown so very largeit could be home to a beast At the end of the road there’s a pot holequite deep it now appearsIt’s been filled with earth and a saplingthat’s watered by motorists tears at the end…

I opened a bottleAnd it opened me,Secrets spilling out,Emotions flowing,Visceral, bloody,Red as the wine,Until both the bottleAnd I were empty.

(Allow me to translate) Like an alligator struggling at a river’s wildest confluenceLike a translator working at an international conference Outrageously this train has left without its guardSubconsciously my brain is working extra hard Sometimes it leaves me so verminous that I cannot copulateSometimes it makes me so nervous that I cannot concentrate In nursery…

A Crust of green and whiteHoar, grass and hair frostSoon to be lost.As Spring’s warmth slowly thaws Winter’s blight.The dawn sun turns the water silver.Then Orange and bright. Longer days and less night.From beneath the earth bulbs.Seeds start to push and fight.To work their way to the sun’s delight.To appear yellow, blue, red and white….

“We are now approaching Seaford…”came the voice of the train,as it slowed. We had come to look for our new home –our last home: a home to settle and stay in:a home here, perhaps. We wandered slowly from the train down to the seaand there was the sea. The first thing was the sea, next…

I walk down Rodmell’s busy street with my two stout sticks,with a bright yellow jacket on, for warning so much traffic,bought for me by my loving wife. If I’m lucky, she comes along as well,Wearing thick gloves and furry hat.Sometimes it’s with someone else,OK, but not the same as a loving chat. I am generally…

There’s an ongoing struggle to survive!Somewhere, a career path is doubtful,Somehow, there’s a need to thrive! This Curriculum Vitae goes live!‘Learning the ropes’ isn’t very hopeful,There’s an ongoing struggle to survive! Imagination goes into overdrive!Job-to-job, getting ever stealthful;Somehow, there’s a need to thrive! Rising suspicion is fast to arrive!Tactics are getting less useful,There’s an ongoing…

1.Little by little, it’s taking shape:Not quite ready though.A bit of this, bit of that, bit of the other thing: got to get it all just so. With a tiny tweak here, and a slight tap there:don’t need that part, better check this part, nothing too radical, twiddling till it’sSpot on, top to toe. 2.Won’t…

The Valley of the house hides the river Rushing mountain-chunk-smashing water Down from the peaks into the up Of the valley hanging over the plains below the mountain. The valley of the house channels the gale To rip hatred at the rock-huggared walls Of the slate-roofed scribing house Of the resider, the last abider of…