Friday, 7 December 2012

There's no place

 It's been a cold, wet, and miserable winter's day today, but I've had the benefit of a fire to warm my backside by, and hot food and drink.
Others aren't so well blessed.

There’s no place….

Today has been the kind of day that
shows a man no pity
sarcastic showers of icy rain that
laughing, cut him cold
they’re driven on by gusts of wind that
if dry, would be gritty
but even without dust and grit they
make his joints feel old
The cloud conspires to fill the skies and
block the sun from shining
and driving rain is crystalising,
turning now to sleet
his threadbare clothes are not enough,
without their inner lining
hands thrust deep in empty pockets,
split shoes on bare feet.
This young man stands dejected without
solace in this cold world
his empty heart is lonely, with no
friends or loving care,
Society has rejected him, he
struggles to connect again
but people have no pity on worn
clothes and matted hair
He keeps on walking, even though
his journey leads him nowhere
It’s all that keeps him warm, he’s had no
drink or food to eat
for several days it’s been like this
he’s feeling quite beyond care
he dreams of tea, and egg and chips
or God forbid, some meat.
All the while, he’s looking out for a
warm and cosy alcove
somewhere that he can hide away from
Winter’s boning-knife
and if he’s really lucky, there’ll be a
grille with warm air venting
from a kitchen in the basement
that will maybe save his life.
But sadly, that is not to be,
this mere hallucination
is all he has to cling to
just a dream within his head
For come the morning under snow
his rigid body will be found
In a corner with some rubbish
curled up, foetal, frozen, dead.

Monday, 19 November 2012

Lady Hedgerow

 It seems I am transfixed by all things to do with Nature and the seasons at the moment.  I have become so much more aware of my surroundings this year, and enjoy noticing the changes taking place daily. I've been taking lots of sky photos ,and nearly all my poems are to do with my feelings about the changing seasons, and this one is no exception.

Lady Hedgerow

The chilling breeze rips off the leaves
in flurries they keep falling
poor Lady Hedgerow's golden dress
is being ripped to shreds
To strip her gown this time of year
is thoughtlessness appalling
as it leaves her standing shivering,
grey and naked, in distress.

'Twas not so many months ago
with sun so full of promise
She donned chemise of palest green
and stretched her arms in splendour
preparing for the Summer Ball
in clothing bright and honest
with thoughts of days so clear and gay
and evenings warm and tender

The Bryony and Honeysuckle
clad her thighs with stockings fine
and wild Hop clambered over all
to vainly make her bonnet
but having fruited, they no longer
care to make her pretty
and a stocking soon is fallen
when there is no garter on it.

So, where the romance? Where the love?
Where the lasting passion?
What of all the twittering birds
that round her shoulders flew?
Dowdy now, she feels the cold
no longer in high fashion
the rime adorns her shoulders
and her fingertips are blue.

So sleep, my Lady Hedgerow, sleep
and let this Winter season
pass you by unnoticed,
just as clouds care naught for me
The birds will sing when come the Spring
and wake you shall with reason
to dress again to cheer my soul
and render spirits free.


© Rob King 2012

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

The new dawn

....and thus the daylight comes again
I never doubted that it would
The darkness of the night recedes
The dawn creeps in, and all is good.
Today we will be bathed in light
and even though it cloudy be
light will prevail, at least enough
for us the distant features see.
What only in imagination
in the darkness we have dreamed
we now discern, but with our eyes
and all is not quite as it seemed
reality the picture paints
fear, with the darkness fades away
for what we see can now be touched
and truth begins another day.

 © Rob King 2012

Friday, 26 October 2012

Early memories

This is one of my early memories, when my Uncle took me fishing for the first time.

Was I four, or five, or six
when Uncle Bob first took me fishing?
down upon the tannery steps,
an alley off the market place
Damp dark morning, rain-drops hissing
on the river’s oily surface
black and swirling, gloomy, brooding
almost brutal, without grace.
I remember being frightened
by the unfamiliar sounds
How I wished that we were fishing
on the far bank’s open ground.
Barges moored there bump and jostle
Leviathans of black steel plate
With creaking voices they rub shoulders
grunting, groaning, misery-moaning
stretching chains that grind and grate.
There were high walls built of red-brick
reaching up on either side
four floors tall, the shops and factory
cave-like alley, eight feet wide
My fishing rod was three feet long
a little taller then than I.
made of stiff wire, wooden handled.
to me it reached right to the sky.
The reel was just a tiny bobbin,
with little bobble float and hook,
and if a fish had seen my maggot,
it wouldn’t take a second look.
I remember stench of leather
from the factory long since gone
just the thought will bring it back now
Ah! But sixty years have flown.
Kingston’s changed now
Gone the coal-yard, tannery, wood-yard
barges, cranes
and all the closed-in, dark, damp alleys
gone for ever, naught remains
Uncle Bob, (who was a postman)
last fished forty years ago
taken early by The Reaper,
heart attack, poor so-and-so.
And thus, it’s only in my memory
that this vignette still replays
unless I put the pen to paper
write about this, my first caper
Times of happy, scary days.

 © Rob King 2012

Saturday, 20 October 2012

One wet autumn night.

The sticky tapping chitter chatting
raindrops splatting on the glass

The leaves beyond Wisteria frond
and shallow pond  upon the path 

The black night framed within the window
sucking light without the room

The soul inside determined bide
refuse to ride into the gloom.

The warm moist air beyond the stair
calls body down to guard the fire

The cracking log upon the dog
glowing, fills heart with desire

Would winter come and winter go
and leave my weary soul forlorn?

I know not, care not even dare not
be aware, not 'til the dawn.

Friday, 19 October 2012

Autumn again

All too soon
the Summer sheds her gown of green
and dons her cloak of rust
impatient to be moving on
and filled with next years lust
No sooner fitted and attired
she throws her garment down
upon the floor, and naked stands
and lets it turn to brown.
November mist will hide her shame
though sullen sun expose her
and shivering through the winter months
the white flakes cling and clothe her
The winds of March blow fresh thoughts in
and waken her from sleeping
and thread by thread, the green appears
and sets her heart a-leaping
and none too soon
She's gaily dressed
and all the world is smiling
her warmth and colour fill our souls,
Her prettiness beguiling.

© Rob King 2012

Friday, 12 October 2012

Onset of Autumn


Onset of Autumn

The low grey morning cloud
in the wake of the cold night rain
scuds swiftly from the windward,
attempting to suck the light
from the growing day.
The half-clothed Poplars
rustle flimsy petticoats
in protest, attempting to halt
the clouds progress
but they are relentless
in their drive toward
the North-East, their sights set
on the cold North Sea,
Scandinavia, and beyond.
Little know they
that their progress will be checked
by Earth's rotational forces,
and their heads will be turned
like some wild-eyed
reined in from bolting, having spooked
in the dark wet night.

Drawn back toward the land, they tire
and give up the fight for flight,
and with the sun on their backs
they meekly evaporate

 ©Rob King 2012

Thursday, 6 September 2012

Starting My Day

Opening the back door, I stepped out into the cool September morning air. With the
first draught of fresh air filling my lungs, I revelled in its intoxicating flavour, and
helped myself to another lungful for good measure.
Mounting the four brick steps up to garden level, I noted that the paving slabs were dry this morning, although there was a heavy dew on the slightly unkempt mossy lawn, and the cobwebs that laced the teasel heads together were hung with tiny crystal droplets like a fine diamond necklace designed by and for Mother Nature herself, the weight of the droplets pulling the long threads downward in a perfect catenary curve, one of natures mathematical wonders.
Bright Phoebe was already climbing heavenward on the rungs of her invisible arched
ladder and had dispelled the early morning mist that there obviously had been, and was now glimmering through the leaves of the Ash tree at the end of the garden, causing a flickering dappled light to play across most of the garden, which, coupled with the absolute clarity of the air now, gave one the feeling that all was well with this day.
 A light breeze raised the hair on my uncovered legs, for I was still in my dressing
gown, and I felt as if a ghostly cat had just brushed past me on it's way into the house
for food. I shivered lightly, a just reaction to that feeling, but thought little more
about it.
Taking a sip from my coffee mug, my thoughts turned inward to reflect on what this
day might bring; what good fortune the Universe would provide for me, for it was all
there for the asking; all there to be enjoyed.
Setting my coffee mug on the mesh-topped patio table, I looked up, and my breath was stolen by the formation of clouds that was stretched thin across the sky. The mares' tails looked like dry white brush strokes dashed in straight lines but with a wind-blown curl at the eastern end. The washed out vapour trails told of a multiplicity of journeys passing over this country. Off to the North, a patch of Mackerel sky added another texture to the painting. I slowly turned full circle, taking in the heavenly sight that this pristine morning presented to me; the delicate white lace on cyan background stretched high above me, and as far as the eye could see.
I was truly grateful that I lived in open country, where no tall buildings could hem me in, for it is then, without nature’s constant reminders, that one can become forgetful of the truth of life, and become completely embroiled in the culture of Self, with it’s adherents - loneliness, and discontent.
Turning round once more, I took in everything that I could see, slowly absorbing every colour, and every shade of every colour, from the multitude of greens that gave each of the trees their own identity, to the misplaced earthy terra-cotta of the pantiled roof, each tile of which had its own patch of discolouration from the dust and soot that the rains had washed down the rounded valleys of the vertical rows.
The flower gardens were now past their best, with only the stragglers of the late perennials still in bloom, but it had been a magnificent show, considering the extremes of weather that we had experienced this year; very warm very early in the year, then the wettest second quarter on record. Haymaking was difficult, to say the least, and lucky was the farmer who got some good grass in store. Then the harvest weather had been dismal to begin with, brightening later, but by that time, the crops were in very poor heart, with the grains empty and shrivelled.
The fruit trees around the garden were very variable in crop, as there were a couple of wicked air-frosts around blossoming time. Only the later blossoming trees bore fruit, and that in abundance, Cox and Russet apples a-plenty, but pears, plums, gages, none; but the peach, the heavenly peach,  against the Southern workshop wall held out against the frost, and produced half its normal crop, but still plenty of juice to dribble down my chin.
The Wisteria, which graced the Southern and Eastern walls of the house, took the frost very badly, and the flower buds, which were on the point of opening, turned to rotten pulp and dropped off, allowing me to think that she would not survive another year, but nature having her own mind, gave her a second petticoat of flowers in the late Summer; not the usual magnificent show of pendulous pale blue blooms, for by now, there was a very heavy growth of leaves, which wouldn’t normally be there at flowering time, and the blooms had to fight their way out of the foliage.  This was the chosen home for a second clutch of Blackbird’s eggs, the products of which were now scuttling around the garden, turning leaves and wood-chips in their hunt for food.

Breathing a sigh that belied the smile on my face, and quietly thanking the Universe, I turned back, picked up my mug, and took the steps down to the house, where I would prepare myself for the day ahead.

 © Rob King 06-09-2012

Monday, 16 July 2012

The Weybourne cliffs

The Weybourne Cliffs

Walking on the Webburn cliffs,
on a clear bright July morning
so much to be seen
in the plant-life on the tops
the summer having been so wet
the wild flowers all were blooming
together, not in sequence
for the prettiest picture yet.

The larks were singing Glories
as they rose into the cyan air
their vertical ascent distracting
raiders from their nests
they were likened unto angels
not white, but brown, and miniature
and filled with Hallelujas that came
tumbling from their breasts.

Looking from the cliff-top
out to sea, beyond the pebbles
the bobbing of the marker buoys
told tales of crab-pot lines
their coloured flags were waving 
briskly on the rolling waters
like some celebrating seals
at Coronation party time.

The sky was vivid blue
and that self-same regal hue
was reflected on the waters,
normally sandy brown and dull
and if a cloud should intervene
the colour changed from blue to green
but there was nothing in that morning that
could cause the soul to lull.

Walking inland from the shore line
cross the railway 'long by Scots pine
eating chocolate on a bench
then stepping back into the sun
heard the steam train's whistle rent the air
and watched it chuntering along
A July day enjoyed, and then
remembered when it's done.

Saturday, 14 July 2012

Where to, Guv?

Where to, guv?

In spite of analytical thought
the heart desires a difference,
the tossing of a coin or maybe
leaving things to chance,
for in thinking, there's no flavour
of the unknown life to savour
and the pattern of the timetable
has no feeling for romance.
We define our lives by fences
that shut in all our senses
and don't allow the passing thought
to gather any strength
so we suffer mental atrophy
resulting in disharmony,
and spiritual dysfunction
we must avoid at any length.
We must learn that risk is certain
to draw back every curtain
and relieve us of monotony
that stultifies our mind
so go where your heart takes you
rather than where your mind makes you
go, and Universe will see to it
that wonder you will find.

Friday, 6 July 2012

Oh look! It's raining!

The rain falls perpendicular
the wind is very light
so it will just keep falling
as it has done all the night
The loke* is like a river
the surface washed away
but on the bright side
dust will not be
blown about today
The garden won't need watering
but I'm not pleased somehow
for the vegetables need mouth-to-mouth
resuscitation now.
I hope my mother Blackbird
who's sitting on her nest
can keep her baby chicks from harm
for wet weather they're not dressed.
The harvest will be late this year
We really need some sun
and of course there's peoples holidays
they'll not be having fun.
so aren't we really lucky
that in this steady stream
that despite the cold and soaking wet
we can close our eyes and dream.

*loke = lane in Norfolkese

Tuesday, 3 July 2012


Looking through the window at the mosses on the ridgetiles 
on the rooftop of the workshop where I earn my daily bread
I see them cling precarious, coloured various, quite gregarious
with persistance for existence and resistance, never dead
They hang tightly to the cement in between the half-round clay-pots
gaining foothold from the roughness that the gritty sand provides
and if a piece should tumble off dislodged by clumsy pigeons
down the terracotta pantiles to the troughing then it slides.
A heavy rain will float it like a boat toward the downspout
where it drops down to the bottom, getting stuck there on the sides
and if another lump of moss should follow in its footsteps
then they'll both get tightly jammed there and a blockage it provides
and so, in heavy weather gear, I'll be having to dismantle it,
'cause water's overflowing and its running down the walls.
and I'm feeling unappealing, my blood pressure's hit the ceiling
'cause the water's running down my neck like Niagara-bloody-Falls

Monday, 2 July 2012



The rain against my window beats
but I shall not be broken
for since I found out who I am
my spirit has awoken
there's nothing now can hold me back
for I am in control
my happiness is up to me
I own my very soul.
I have no deity to fear
nor hellish fire to flee
for I am part of everything
and all is part of me.
I now accept that everything
has bad and good together
and how you see it's up to you
just like this English weather
So when the rain is falling hard
I will not be downcast
I know the sun will shine again
when this wet weather's passed
and in the meantime I'll just think
on all the good it's doing
replenishing our aquifers
and saving us from ruin
for without water we won't be here
life would not exist
and I would not be writing this
- think what you might have missed ;0)

Sunday, 1 July 2012

Oh, how I miss my sense of smell               
I never realised quite how much
it contributed to my life
along with sight, sound, taste, and touch.
I took for granted those aromas
wafting past my nose each day
that gilded all the other senses
completed them in such a way
that memory could quickly draw on
if that scent should reappear
and conjure up the complete picture,
whether it was foul or dear.
The strange thing is, I can't recall
exactly how a smell should be.
I know the scent of fresh cut grass
but the memory is eluding me.
So many things now I can't savour
far too numerous to list
a few have changed, but most are missing    
they've said farewell, but never kissed.

Today I walked the local lanes
the verge and hedgerow in full bloom
with meadowsweet and honey suckle,
dog-rose, poppy, privet, broom.
All these flowers heaven-scented
this I know from years before.
but it fills my heart with sadness
I can't smell them any more.
So now, I look, and look much deeper
than I would in times now gone
colours more intense, and brighter,
my retinae alight upon.
I've heard it said that loss of one sense
often would the brain provoke
to hone the other senses keener,
give them all a lusty poke.

It seems it's true, for all this Spring                
I've noticed that my ageing sight
has taken on a bold new palette
painted life with colours bright.
I stand astonished at the visions
that every day assail my eyes
with shades of green that number thousands
and endless white-puffed, cyan skies.

Saturday, 30 June 2012

Day One

Day one

This morning I decided that if I'm to be a poet
I must write a work of verbal art each day
and if I'm really clever, and I work very hard
I might even make this rhyming writing pay
I've written quite a lot so far, and some of it's quite good
at least that's what my faithful friends have told me
so I'll double up my efforts and not wait for inspiration
I'll use my brain and write it as it should be.

Sometimes I've written poems where I've merely held the pen
and the spirit poured the words out in a flow
that I'd really no control of from beginning to the end
for the poem knew just where it had to go.
At other times I struggle, changing sentences around
adjusting words to try and find the metre
or searching in my memory for another rhyming word
and I'll find it, or my middle name's not Peter (tee hee)

I like to write of things I see, just ordinary sights
and ideas and sensations that assail me
of friendships and of concepts and other abstract stuff
that just pop into my head as they avail me.
So this is opus number 1, the first of many works
that I intend to add to the collection
And I'm hoping by this time next year, I'll be publishing a book
containing a significant selection.

Monday, 25 June 2012

My Hands

For most of my life, I have been dependent on my hands to earn me a living, so I thought I ought to give them a poem to all to themselves.

My hands

Would I give these hands to thee?
these worn-out tools my life has used
with calloused palms and knuckles swollen
and scars that shout "We've been abused"
with liver-spots and wrinkled backs
and nails all brittle now and broken
bones distorted with arthritis,
veins that stand out - hard work's token.
and yet these wonderful machines
my life record in what they've done
from violent shocks to tasks so fine,
grafting hard or having fun
hammer-blows to threading needles
music played or poem written
tying fishhooks, catching, juggling
making baskets, Willow smitten.
In the winter, fingers frozen
still they turn to do the task
always working, never failing,
they just do the things you ask.

I mind the time when they were younger
slender fingers, soft and smooth,
before the skin was rough and broken
before I had a life to prove,
when fingers worked with such precision
skin so delicate to feel,
hands that never had a tremor
that now would over-use reveal.
And yet these hands have been my fortune
without them I'd be not who I am
vitality to my life they've given
these hands here have served this man.
so would I give these hands to thee?
Never  - not while I'm alive
they've been my friends and close companions
they've wiped my tears
and yet still strive.

Friday, 15 June 2012

Brief Storm

 Brief storm.

Rain is falling, straight as stair rods
shortest route in heaven descent
bouncing hard upon the concrete
raising spray of droplets rent
now the hail is rattling earthbound
striking hard on pantile roof
hard ice pellets bouncing sideways
missiles that provide the proof.
Lightning flash, and seconds later
growling grumble thunder roar
then one more, and yet another,
cold wind rattling at the door.
Leaden skies have switched the sun off
all is sombre, heavy, cold
the storm has cast its heavy mantle
extinguishing the orb of gold
But, what is this, this chink of light
that lifts the mantle's corner fast?
Storm-cock sings "Awake! Awake!
All is safe, the storm is past!"
Blackbird joins in with the singing
jubilant that all is well
and Phoebe smiles, the clouds move on,
and leave the freshest ozone smell.

Early Summer

 Once more the summer sun is smiling
nestled 'tween the lacy clouds
not fully formed in morning splendour,
whispering, not shouting loud
the birds compete to sing their hearts out
singing tales to everyone,
"Listen! Listen! I'm the loudest!
Hear my song! Enjoy the sun!"

 Last night's rain on grass-blade lingers
lupin diamonds - teasel cups
filled with freshness, purest water
whence the bird and insect sups
The path is drying, heat reflecting,
warming stone beneath the foot
and yet the soil remains dark coloured
demanding still the gardener's boot

Soon the sun will reach her zenith
soil will lighten, dry to dust
watering can will be in use for
needy plants, for drink they must
I love the early summer colours
long before they dry and fade,
the warmer months will lose their brightness
but that's the price that must be paid

Later summer bears the fruit
of early care and gentle rain
the gardener rests indoors at midday
too hot outdoors to remain
later naps reclining deckchair
hat pulled down across the eyes
gentle smile while quietly snoring
dreaming early summer skies.

Monday, 11 June 2012


Today, I got to thinking about friendships.
I have been very lucky in that I have always had friends.

Friends come in many different guises and sizes. Some may just dash into your life, leave a pencil-mark on the margin of a page of your book, then dash out again, never more to be seen. 
Others you may know and relish for most of your life, and may appear in many chapters in your book; and in the betweens, there will be those who will contribute a word, a sentence, a paragraph or more at various times, and on various pages of your story.
There will be those who will always be in the footnotes, who keep you on the right track; those who require Italics for their empathy, and yet others who deserve bold emphasis for their strength of character.
Very occasionally, there will be those whose friendship is all these things and more, and they will write whole chapters with you.
But there is one thing that they all have in common, and that is their unquestioning acceptance of YOU.

I am indeed a very fortunate man.

Friday, 8 June 2012

Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.....

This is an amazing piece written by my God-daughter, Daisy.

She is not quite 17 years old at his moment, and yet she has come to these same conclusions that it has taken me most of my 64 years to reach.

Such wisdom at such an early age - may your life be blessed Daisy. You are an extraordinary girl.
Thank you for allowing me to post this
Much love
Robbie XX

One For Yourself

You should never regret any turns made in life, you should only learn from them. When you are young, carefree and finding your place single handed, you turn to those around you, those you meet and those who care, to find out who you really are. You allow yourself to fall in love, to cry and to seek known comfort. However, one thing you forget in those few days of naivety is that this is a one way street, there is no going back. This is a life painting made by you but structured by others. This is your exam paper, written in your hand.

Learn one thing: Don't be afraid of putting your trust into people you know, just be more afraid about putting your heart in it. Relationships live and die for everyone. You allow yourself to love and wear your heart on your sleve, but it is up to you to remember that this is your life. This is your road which you take on your own. You will meet people, love people, lose people and remember people. Just remember that all these people are significant yet insignificant. They are there to teach and lead you on your way to finding out who you are.

Saturday, 26 May 2012

On a day such as this

On a day such as this,
The sun too white to paint
set in a sky too blue to believe
over trees too green to colour
the air too clear to see
in the breeze too cool to feel
with silence so quiet you can hear it
walking on stone too hot to touch
flanked by grass still moist with dew
against the shading hedge.

Not for me the heaving beach
the froth of humanity
with sandy sandwiches
and dripping ice-creams
salmon pink flesh
in unaccustomed exposure
squawking children
blissfully unaware of anything
but their joyful play
Dogs body-surfing
and snapping at the waves
with gilded Phoebe relentless
in her melting light.

I stalk along the edge of the wood
the shade inviting
the silence quieting with leaves shimmering
in the cooling breeze
The field of barley set beside me
with breeze blown waves
drifting across the standing ears
too early yet
for the heads to be hanging.
I stand
perfectly still
and absorb this heaven
that today was made
just for me.

Sunday, 29 April 2012

The Last Dance

A sad poem this one. I was at a dance last night, and I imagined this scene taking place on the dance floor

Reflecting from the ceiling
the strobe light lit her face
as she leaned into his shoulder
and the teardrop left it's trace
She worried lest her make-up
should give away a sign
that her heart was near to breaking
but she couldn't cross that line
He'd wanted her to leave with him
to leave behind her life
her family and her husband
and live to be his wife
She knew she couldn't do it
she couldn't even try
she'd never ever come to terms
with living such a lie
She'd have to tell him sorry
the affair was at an end
and the way that things were going
He'd not even be her friend
This dance would be the last one
they'd linger on, and then
her heart would beat for no-one
they would never meet again.

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Do You Mind?

Not if you don't.

It has been said that I'm losing my mind
but I'm not sure I had one in the first place
As a child I was told
I didn't have a mind of my own
but I was frequently asked
to make my mind up
so I did
then someone shouted "Mind out!"
so I got rid of it.
then someone else reminded me
but not liking that one
I changed my mind.
I started to wonder
where my mind was.
That question
was on my mind for ages.
Was it inside me?
Nope - they said
I must be out of my mind,
so I guess I must have been inside it
at one time.
Unsure of my position,
there came the dreadful realisation
that possibly
I was in two minds.
While searching for it
my boss told me my mind
wasn't on the job
I told him to mind his own business
so he gave me a piece of his mind
and a sack to put it in.
I didn't mind
it was mindless work anyway.

© R King 2012

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Another Poem

Don't ask me where the idea for this one came from - I know not. 
It just started with that first line

Jack the tramp

One foot before the other
that was all he ever did
just one foot, then the other
all intent and purpose hid
the direction didn't matter,
nor the speed at which he moved
but he had to keep on roving
through this country that he loved.

The weather never held him back
to his comfort gave no thought
the faded coat upon his shoulders
fitted where it caught.
its pockets jammed with treasure
that he'd rescued from the ground
amazing bits and trinkets,
a record of his round.

He lived from Nature's bounty
along with gifts from those
who've known him all his walking life
who'd chat, share food and clothes.
some were touched by envy
of his unencumbered ways
but few would follow in his steps
in Winter's sullen days.

He'd been travelling this road for years
he'd witnessed so much changed
the changes too had witnessed him
as constantly he ranged
the metalled road beneath him had both
chilled and warmed his feet
but nothing stopped him, nothing would
'til his life was complete

and when one day his body
is found stiff beneath the hedge,
or curled up in a corner
covered o'er in snowy dredge,
The word will hasten through his round
that Jack's finally reached the edge
of the Kingdom he'd been searching for forever.

His friends will gather round him
when comes his funeral day
and they'll pay their last respects to his
coffined body as it lay
in the finery they'll have clothed him in
to warm him on his way
as he sets out on his final,
final journey.

Friday, 17 February 2012

Some new poems


sometimes I am full of it
but sometimes I have none
at times like that I'm boring
when I should be having fun
sometimes I'd really like to fly
just too close to the sun
but I imagine that it's pretty hot up there.

I wish I could imagine
just how bonny life could be
if I leapt at all my chances,
took the ones
would set me free
but my feet are welded to the ground
and that's 'cause I am me
and I can't imagine being someone else.

It really is quite difficult
to rearrange your life
find positive, lose negative,
and do away with strife
when the person that you really are
is holding up a knife
to your throat, and saying
"Go on then, I dare you"

I imagine that it's really nice to
disregard the past,
to say it doesn't matter now,
because it's gone at last
We're here now, and the future's coming.
better change things fast
or we'll miss It, and then
It will be all over.

These next two verses came when I struggled to write anything for a week, then a couple of days later, all was mended.

The missing Muse

Has anybody seen my Muse?
She was here the other day
but I started to write a poem just now
and She seems to have gone away.
I've looked all around inside my mind
to see where she could be hiding,
but all I could find was a jumble of words
that neither rhymed nor made sense.

(at that point my computer froze, so I took it to be the end )


Two days later:-

She's back! She's back! My muse is back!
She hadn't gone away,
She was just playing hide-and-seek
and giggling like She's fey
She really is a rascal,
but she always gets her way
'cause She knows I really can't exist without her.

She popped up in an email
and chuckled on my screen
She winked and blew me kisses
like some little Faery Queen
but when I get my hands on her
I'll ask her where she's been
and tell Her I just can't exist without Her.

Such is Life.

Tuesday, 31 January 2012

Another Poem

First Date

We shared a bench for lunchtime
Miss Amanda Trott and I
she had a pot of salad,
And I had Grosvenor pie
I really liked her company
but couldn't help wonder why
She'd asked if she might share a bench
with me.

The sun was very pleasant
neither too hot, nor too cool
and childrens voices cracked the air
down by the paddling pool
Amanda chatted easily so
I didn't feel a fool,
I just answered all her questions and
we smiled

I could feel the threads between us
building layers like a rope
Her easy manner helped me,
made me feel that I could cope
and although I wasn't confident
It really gave me hope.
that we might do the same again

My watch relayed the message
it was time for us to part
but I really felt attachment
by these strings from heart to heart
so I blurted out the question
"Do you think that we could start
to see each other when we aren't
here working?"

She looked at me quite kindly
and then she gave a wink
and she said "I'm doing nothing
Sunday lunch-time - do you think
that if I gave you my phone number,
you could take me for a drink?"
and I just sat there with my eyes and mouth
wide open.

Well, we couldn't leave the park through
separate gates now, that was clear
although that was the way we entered
when we first came here
so she took my arm,(the rope intact)
and I grinned from ear to ear,
and we walked back to work again

Saturday, 14 January 2012

Butterfly Mind

I've grown so tired of busy-ness
all my life to work and slave
to have, to make, to grow, to own
is how I was taught to behave

But was I meant to be tied down?
My mind is as a butterfly
from this to that, uncharted course
in nectar search, no question why

I find a flower, I dip my tongue
to find sweet sustenance within
I taste new flavours, fill myself
with pleasures new, just mine to win

I seek the sun, I search for warmth
I rest and spread my wings to dry
then sensing breeze, I lift again
as others watch me flutter by

I was a caterpillar once
and all I did was eat and sleep,
Now memories of that trying time
would, if I cared, just make me weep.

I know my days are numbered now
and winter soon will vanquish me
but 'til it does, it's my intent
to share my beauty, and just be!

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

January 11th 2012

I can't believe it's January
the sun has shone all day
the thrush is singing in the Ash
there's not a hint of grey
and though the day is still so short
it makes me want to say
that Spring is only just around the corner.

The catkins hang like lambs' tails
in the nutbush by the hedge
The moss is looking brighter
where it grows upon the ledge
and though I know there's plenty time
for Nature's snowy dredge,
it feels like spring is just around the corner.

Not three weeks yet since solstice
yet it feels we're halfway there
the garden has an air to it
that doesn't have a care.
Let fill-dyke February come try her,
but still she'd best beware
even though it feels like Spring is round the corner.

Tuesday, 10 January 2012

A poem about my poetry.

Sometimes I like to write in verse
sometimes I favour prose
I’ve no idea why which I choose
it’s random, I suppose
but it seems the poems start themselves,
but do they? Heaven knows.
It matters not, as long as both
the word and feeling flows.

my Muse will take the day off
and I’m completely bereft of worth.
No words to lay,
no rhyme to play,
I have to wait another day
before the things I want to say
will all come tumbling forth.

Oftimes, I’m thinking,
Where is this poem
Sometimes I write
without an end
in view.
but rarely
am I left with
no conclusion...........

this time.

Monday, 2 January 2012

Art Exists

I woke up in the middle of the night with this poem forming in my mind, so got up and let it happen. I have no idea what prompted it - maybe a dream.

Art exists
as in that thinnest ribbon
between the sand
and the sea;
that point of constant flux
twixt ebb and flow,
foam laced
or rivulet,
catch as can catch,
one second here
the next begone.
Too often the pundit
feels need to explain
but alas
has already missed
the moment
for the want of
his own existence.
Art requires nothing of you
other than the
need to be
that you might see
and enjoy,
that you might feel
and be changed by it.
Absorb it!
Love it or hate it!
But feel it!
Art Exists!