Categories
Poetry

Nurture

velvet sand
tickling my back
blades of crystal water
cutting away doubt
driftwood logs
silently whispering sea shanties
a carefree horizon
casually glances
feeling content
as do I
a connection
with nature
always nurtures.

This is inspired by days spent on Northumbrian beaches, always serene.

Categories
Poetry

The Fishermen

early morning
with the light muted
the sky still
a patchwork of slate and coal
they set sail
favours asked
of Pontus & Poseidon
hoping they are heard
over the wailing gulls and terns
they yearn for a return
to bountiful days
and bulging nets
of catching shoals of silver
in their pastel gilnetter
on the North Sea
once brimming
with fish glistening
just below the surface
when the Captain and his Crew
were daring
wide eyed wanderers
braving thunderous waves
and caressing calm waters
beating their adversaries
to the best loot
today they’re older
grizzled and weather-worn
with eyes the colour of their quarry
wearing woollen hats and neon overalls
they only dare to dream
of a fair catch and a fairer price
hoping to stay afloat
in a sinking industry.

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This poem is inspired by the hardworking fishermen who work the North Sea. Once a booming industry in the North East, sadly it has declined over the past 20-30 years.

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I love hearing your thoughts or any feedback you may have.

Categories
Poetry

War

we mourned all summer
when they decimated the woodland
murdered ash, oak, sycamore & beech
all in the pursuit of profit
the lives lost from the hedgerow
collateral damage to make capital gains
no concern for refugees
concrete foundations poisoned the rich earth
bracken & bleeding brambles scythed down
by strong yellow tanks
cheerful and bright grim reapers
sullying soil and sod
bricks, mortar, slate & glass
now occupying forces
and in final insult
they named the new avenues and boulevards
after the casualties they inflicted
not in memoriam
but as a warning
that in wars
between man and nature
man will win
because man’s nature is death.

Categories
Poetry

Time Travel

Taking a carefree stroll
through an inviting burrow
of oak, ash, cedar, elm and yew
I allow myself
to talk to the trees
and travel through time
the history stored
in trunks and roots
is phenomenal
whispered secrets
shared by the world
filtered through canopies
of bronze, emeralds and golds
could fill all the libraries
in all the world
woodland sentinels
silently observing
passers-by
witnessing the same
litany of mistakes
made by multiple generations
the main one being
that your present
is already your past
and the future is now.

This is something I’ve learned
by talking to trees
while travelling through time.

I hope you’ve enjoyed reading this poem, inspired by wandering in the woods and listening. I’d love to know your thoughts.

Categories
Poetry

Home

I felt at home
in Copenhagen
at winter’s twilight
under the glow
of warm vintage lanterns
our breathing visible
through knitted woollen scarves
the air was kissed
with scents of
cinnamon, clove and citrus
the nearby sounds
of mirth and merriment
interspersed with delighted
roars and screams
from the roller-coasters above
warmth came
from holding your hand
and the chewy crunch
of sweet-spiced almonds
while opulent flakes of diamond snow
fell graciously
each one uniquely dazzling
lining our pathway
already a vivid spectrum of technicolour
we sat on plastic and pine stools
dropping kroner into the palm
of a great Dane
and laughed with love
as we tried to make wooden horses
gallop to the end of a straight line
taking our time
appreciating life
as it’s meant to be.
Together.
That’s why
I felt at home in Copenhagen.

Categories
Poetry

Atoms

It’s important
to remember
the same atoms
that felt
silent rapturous awe
at the big bang
stared with intense curiosity
at the dawn of time
that bathed
in the liquid gold
of countless stars
embraced the purity
of moons
and appreciate
the endlessly evolving
elegance of the cosmos
the same atoms
that built
and inspired
the greatest minds
and put words into quill, ink & pen
the same atoms
that are architects
and demolishers
are in all of us
and everything.

We are all
the planets and their chaos
the stars and their fury
the moons and their melancholy
we are universal
we are infinite
we may feel different
but really
we are all the same
atoms.




Categories
Poetry

Leaking Twilight

Razor sharp winds
needling heavy clouds
perforating
those miserly grey temples
the leaking twilight
beaming warmth
like celestial beacons
reminding Lady Earth
and all her children
the sun is always watching
observing
the mundane and insane
and when it may seem
the bleakest and blackest
the hope of light
is real.

Categories
Poetry

The Barley

The barley shook it’s head
in disdain
at the nonchalant breeze
it’s golden hue
dulled
by the constant
back and forth
vibrant only days ago
it now looks antiquated
a stoop has formed
and the barley
struggles
to stand tall
so it allows itself
to be cradled
submitting
to the inevitability
of losing
it’s glorious
shimmering
halo
but the barley
doesn’t despair
because it knows
it will return
shining brighter
than before
under cornflower and magenta skies
what started as seed
will return to seed
nature is endless.

Categories
Poetry

Can’t See Her Cry

She’s grateful
her kids are away
at their dad’s
for the weekend
she likes quiet
when she’s thinking
she doesn’t miss
the boiler’s hum
she wraps up
warm under
two layers of clothing
waning woollen sleeves
try to keep
the cold at bay
saving the £2.31
that’s left
of the emergency fiver
on the electric meter
she’ll dine well
she lies to herself
calling her
Chicken & Mushroom Pot Noodle
a takeaway
technically
it’s a withdrawal
from the food bank
she used to make deposits into
her account there
now in negative balance
the only levelling up
she ever witnesses
is the poverty
and the ‘isms’
fuelled by the rich
to stoke fires
in the poor.

She’s grateful
her kids are away
so they can’t see her cry.

Categories
Poetry

Parisian Lessons

It’s easy to get lost
in the romance of Paris
in the mystique of Paris
you can taste it
the aroma of sweet spice
and lingering vanilla tobacco
you can hear it
seductively whispering
notes of music
and conversations
from streetside cafes
you can see it
in the architecture
both masculine and feminine
lustily snapped by tourists
as evidence
that for a brief interlude
they were part
of the city of love
but
I’ll never be that naive
because
Paris
will always be
a den of wolves
in designer clothing
to me.

Aged 8 dawdling
feet struggling
on a cobbled urban jungle
a metre behind my parents
my protectors
when the city tried to tear me away
a candy-striped shirt
greying white trousers
that matched his hair
the strength
of his rancid breath
more powerful than his tanned arms
silent screams
searing my lungs
survival instincts kicked in
a case of
fight then flight
catching up with my father
fury igniting his face
powering his legs
as he tried to chase
the man down
like a lion
whose pride had been attacked
but wolves are cowards
and hide until it’s safe to attack again.

A couple of life lessons learned.
Aged 8.
Early for some
Too late for others.

Paris is only romantic in print.
You only see what they want you to see.

Wolves don’t scare me.
Face your fears.
Cowards retreat in the face of confrontation.

I have a lion’s blood.
Family is everything.