poet

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.

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.

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.

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.




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
with small 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 Monsieur
in dirty grey-white trousers
that matched his coiffed 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.

Hope

I long for the day
when the apricot sunrise
looks at the world
and feels only pleasure
rather than pity.

I await the evening
when the blushing sunset
kisses the world
feeling satisfied
in place of sorrow.

I hope for the night
when the moon
illuminates our souls
the glow melting
her morose melancholy
so she can experience
the true warmth of love.