Category Archives: Poetry

the slushpile

Here is a little ditty I wrote this morning attempting to get the attention of a little poetry publishing house.

If you are that publishing house and are now reading this – then haha… It worked.

the slushpile

some would question
whether this is wise
to somewhat ruin the surprise
of what is to come
when you look round the corner
and see the lyrics buried
in my tiny eyes.

but reach out I must
to cast my wears
upon the slush pile
with the rest…
…why is there no rest
for those who would rather toil
than smile.

so here is my work
the chicken scratching
of my finger tips
that may be worth
a penny to the masses
and if it turns out not
they can come after me
with their fiery whips.

Station Platform

a pinch of salt in the air
gritty faces stare down their tracks
looking for something to whisk them on their way

doves settle on the sewage works
Waiting for the warmer climbs to return
and those on the platform long for them
and for the jubilee line’s revival yearn

changing times and changing lines so often effected
by the strength of the will against that of the pound
and the need to rage against the machine

mr evening standard shows no sign of The Times
yet his decline lies deeper than his pockets
or the lines around his eyes

crows feet pitter patter in puddles on the platform
equaling their knowing discordant song
they truly see what’s going on

for changing times and changing lines
are all so often another sign
that we are buying the lie

the people on the platform look back
down the lines and track the fact that
they no longer search for what’s to come
but long for what’s dear, but long gone

Wembley Skies

As today is National Poetry Day, here is a little one of my own from the Sunday Latte Lamentations Archive, which I am hoping to include in a published volume someday *sigh*…

Thoughts welcome!

Wembley skies
Arch raised
Ablaze with roars
Of soul’s unfazed
Empty poster boards
Remind to mind the gap
And stay on track
Tell me to keep it down
Not for country or crown
But for peace.
Not much found here
Except the dripping drops
Of inspiration as the
Teams scores for the nation

Another stop passes
One more unmasked station
It’s not my stop
But hearing my destination
A promise of home
Turns into expectation.
So I mind the closing doors
And release the emergency handle.
Focusing on my candle
Stick maker, I forget,
The butcher and head on into
Baker Street, to take my pick
A fleet of franchise
Each providing a new need.

Grabbing my companion in a cup
The beer ad’s ‘wassup?’
Leaves no sting,
A warm sofa seat,
Whose heat I don’t feel.
Just His warmth as the layers
He peels back, reveals
That little bit of His,
That is already mine.
Beyond this congestion zone
Is something more glorious
Not just ‘fine’.
Beyond this groan
Is a place called home.
Not just where the heart is
But where I know and am known..

Worlds stage

If all the world were a stage
Would you still come on and play?
Or wait out the world in silence
Until our dying day?
But then how would you know,
In the next great show,
What to do? How to stand? What to say?

7.5 Minutes of Dark

Packed in tight
Faces knit with early morning woes
Others enraptured by tabloid poetry
A select few in broadsheet prose
As we descend in to our 7.5 minutes of black
Between walls never seen
Staring dully back
At commuting communities
Whose names not even they know
Track lights flicker
Shuttled forward in to their days
Disgorged into the light unchanged
Wishing they had arrived quicker

So the search continues

So another knock back
Another rejection
Why is there so few acceptance emails
Buy so many to improve your erection?
All I’m asking is for one
Just someone to see this talent
Step back from qualifiations
To see a man trying to pay the rent
They said the world is my oyster
But all I’m left with is shellshock
Trying learn the lessons of patience
With life built on the rock.
I know that Jesus loves me
Of that I have no doubt
He’s got credit no crunch can touch
Enough fight to win any bout
Just wishing he’d give me more
A sign a touch a vision
Until then I’ll stick
With prayer and petition.

Pixel imperfections

A picture paints a thousand words
and the poet write in visions
pixels producing imperfect verbs
Syllabbles searching souls
No more than scratchings on a page
But with which we wage war
Visual and spoken imagery
Giving us room to imagine more