City View Hotel (2009)

There she lays
among winking neon lights.
Behind a heaving bus stop.
Beneath a fiery sky.

Her doors open.
Yet curtains drawn.
There's life, lots of it,
but one can't be sure

to whom it belongs.
The hustle spills out
onto the street.
Yet she's motionless.

You can't help but notice
but it's easy to forget.
The City View Hotel
is 'bound' to please.

But is it really right?
It's not even a boarding house,
merely an enterprise
she fell into.

Which now has her trapped.
She's packed to the rafters,
shutters rattling,
as sunken hearts pound.

They await turns
on her broken bed.
Springs pierce, cries shriek.
Her downfall's relentless.

Pocketmoney for Paris (2006)

We were young, and lost.

How were we to know

there is no such thing as magic?

Kids believe the hype,

Paris is hyped.

So every Saturday,

when the pocketmoney hit our palms

it went straight to a jar.

We saved for you.

Our parents. Our divorcing parents.

The date loomed eerily overhead.

Like a vulture awaits

its inevitable swoop.

The dinner money joined it,

as did the busfares

when it didn't rain.

Sometimes, when it rained.

It was raining in our young hearts.

Yes, we were trying to save our family.

But back then we didn't know

you can't play God.

We'd seen the flights

in the Sunday paper.

Only our financial clout wasn't quite enough.

We were left in a broken home

with a jar full of fifty-pence pieces.

It was a monumental failure.

We were sentenced to two Christmases.

Only they have the feel of quarters

compared to the others.

Brighton pier (2017)

Oh little army of starlings,

you flap so eloquently,

as though you aren't real.

Nature at its gentlest.

Nature at its greatest.

Orchestrated so tactically,

a tight formation of gladiators

darting from the heavens

into our lives.

In the dimly-lit,

wintry witching hour

you show no hesitation,

floating wistfully with the wind.

I chase you up the pier,

until you disappear,

from the peach sky into the waves.

Though I still hear your singing.

The signs forbid jumping.

Diving is ruled out too.

Were you lured by the sweet smells

of doughnuts and crepes?

Then deterred by the bright lights,

slot machines and football shirts?

Me too.

But we can make it here.

Don't abandon us for

warmer climes just yet.

You look too delicate.

You might not make the flight.

The bird of sorrow (2008)

She pumped her arms full of junk
until they fell off.
I might not have fully understood
back then,
but I recognised her pain.
I cared.
She was a real glossy one,
my 90s pinup.
Only real.
Living down my street.
Taking my bus.
Even attending my school,
occasionally.
I had to watch as the wheels fell off.
My unrequited first love.
Her dark nourishment
frightened me.
I didn’t smoke until I was sixteen.
But I have since been catching up.
I know she’ll fly to new skies
before I reach her.
For we were not meant to be.
Who wants to be a toyboy anyway?
Not me.

An old Chinese proverb says
"you cannot prevent the birds of sorrow
from flying over your head,
but you can prevent them
from building nests in your hair".

Can you?

Whiskey kisses (2009)

Unabridged and not withstanding

they flow intently,

while we lurk in the shadows

which form our solace.

Bourbon-drenched,

by no way slurring,

subliminally-subterranean

and forever flowing.

Whiskey kisses wherever 

we could snatch them,

subterfuge to our sanctuary,

reminiscent of past dreams.

Sluts of junk (2005)

It's all just a social event

for you, I'll see ya

when it's finished, through.

Transparent as their complexions pale

and as shallow

as undug graves,

They scurry out of their sewer

homes, to spread

those identical germs.

To crusade for their Fair Lady

Vanity, or whoever it is

this week.

And voyage across oceans

of insecurities.

They were seen

scene

obscene.

Offering themselves

for the sake of a step

up social hierarchy's ladder.

They were the sluts of junk.

Souls of empty.

Faces of gunk.

Ode to divorce (2005)

That morning

that day

those words

long since blocked

from the mind

went a little

like this:

The world

isn't how

you know it.

"One day

you'll understand,"

were the helpful

words of

an uncle.

The shattering

from the innocence

of youth

all too real.

The veneer

washed away

by my father's

tears rolling

down

his cheek.

As the condensation

did the window pane.

This is why

morning

is called

mourning.

I was

wide awake.

For the first time.

The first of the gang to die (2010)

We spent hot summers out on dying grass.
A yellow jungle of dirt and defeat.
With a deflated leather ball,
we kicked around our dreams.

And chased them off to a bigger city.

Our innocence was the first to die.
Thick as thieves, holier than matrimony,

we never looked back.

A spent youth is never wasted.
Drinking beer. Smoking pot.
We could even pop a few pills
and make it to work the next morning.

Only that’s changed now.
I went after a bigger city,
forgetting to look back.
And you? You’re in another world now.

Le troisième temps est à jamais (2009)

Those strangers in our beds

are excluded by our love.

This time we must be sure,

for it'll be forever.

There cant be doubts,

nor any games.

We must draw a line

in front of the past.

Those whispers in the corner

are excluded by our love.

People will always resent

something so sought after.

We can no longer let that be

or we wont have learnt.

This is about us.

Nobody else.

The mistakes and doubts

are excluded by our love.

For this to be, we must allow it.

There can be no looking back.

The good times always

outweigh the others.

But if we want more,

we will have to earn them.

They are far from burning out,

like a thousand hollow stars.

For when I look up to the sky,

they are still as bold.

As though science and reason, are also,

excluded by our love.

A Sleep in the Gutter (2001)

And you swear that death will evade you,

do you really believe this is true?

Wounds heal, hearts mend

and people move on,

the only thing losing is you.

Katie (2001)

Solemn faces

and a young girl's fright.

Looking like Brighteyes

on that fateful night.

Lots of judgements

and points of view,

the only thing missing

was how about you?

Your rights did seem waivered

by those 'who knew best'.

Me your big brother

felt the pain and unrest.

"Abort, abort,"

the words tore you apart.

But i stood beside you

feet close to my heart.

A song for Bekaa Valley (2015)

They were only babies.

Some of them young enough

To never have known

The outside world.

A place without

airstrikes and snipers.

Where a night's sleep

isn't broken by fear.

All innocence left behind

as they walked the road from Damascus.

A community of makeshift tents

offered a temporary reprieve.

The first sanctuary

their short lives had ever known.

Only they weren't safe.

Their presence unsettled the neighbours.

Mired by indifference,

beleaguered by war.

I faced the children of Syria

on Mothering Sunday.

But I saw no flowers.

Or chocolates.

Just unaddressed cards.

These were no longer babies.

Starting a fresh ...

I kept this blog for the best part of a decade. It was littered with my written thoughts that I believed to be prose, alongside those naive poems I'm sure many young writers are guilty of. 

Then I got a proper job and decided it wasn't wise having the past eight years of my life serialised for the whole world (and my employers) to see.

So I took it all down. A decision I've since regretted. 

Yesterday it was World Poetry Day. And since I was guilty of producing some fairly dubious poetry I figured now was as good a time as any to make amends.

Don't get my wrong it wasn't all bad (I got 9,000 hits - a higher number than most poetry books sell in a year) therefore I intend to resurrect the better stuff. Albeit with a slightly more mature voice. Boy becomes man. Or something like that.

For Herbert and Enid (2012)

The prophet said ...

There are some people who should
have mountains named after them,

to bear their names to time.

Gravestones are not high enough, or green,

and wreaths are prone to the inevitability of nature.

For we are all inevitable to nature.

Even he who tended to his flock

in the bitterest of winters

and she who nurtured her flowerbeds

throughout the cold snap of spring.

And as such, it is for these two,

Enid and Herbert, Mum and Dad, Nana and Grandad,

that I stand in front of you today

and propose we name a mountain after them.

Whether it be metaphorical,

when a challenge seems too daunting,

or physical,

when a fight appears too hard.

Let us name these mountains after them,

for through their strength,

which we draw from the relentless love

and care they bestowed upon us,

no challenge, or fight, could ever be that hard.

Let us climb whatever mountains life has in store for us

and let us reach those peaks.

For when we do

you can be sure they will be right there beside us,

smiling and watching over us,

still showering us with their strength and love.

proud of what we achieve.