Posted on August 19, 2016

Poems are important,
secret passages to another realm,
another world where life itself is a poem,
night and day, the sun and the rain,
the leaves on the trees and
the troubles of men all part of it,
a poem where life, death and rebirth
all have their place,
and everything rhymes.


Posted on July 26, 2020



I passed a woman on my

early morning walk today

and as I did I said, ‘Morning’.

She looked up from her little dog

who was peeing against a tree and said,

‘Mornin’, then we went our separate ways,

she with her dog and me with my thoughts.


I walked on, over the railway bridge,

past the purple buddleia growing out of

the cracked pointing between the bricks,

I looked down the silver tracks then up to the sky,

it was beautiful, soft and gentle, gold and pink

under light clouds and so peaceful, so very peaceful,

just to walk in that light was healing.


I paused for a moment and felt sorry

that I had missed the opportunity to share

more with the woman and her dog.


As I made my way home

over the iron footbridge

further down the track

to my great good fortune

I met the woman with the dog again,

I wasn’t going to miss my chance

a second time so I nodded to the sky

and said, ‘Beautiful sky this morning’.


A broad smile spread across her face

and she said, ‘And a beautiful moon last night’.

Church music

Posted on July 5, 2020



My head feels like a sack full

of brown beer bottles and horseshoes

in the back of a truck on a bumpy road,

there’s just too much movement

and clatter to take aim properly.


There’s nothing I can do about it,

I’m the passenger, not the driver,

the driver is out of his mind on drugs,

foot to the floor and eyes popping with terror

as if driving away from it all will make any difference,

hasn’t anybody told him the world is round?

He’ll just end up back where it began

and we’ll both have to start over again.


But the sun’s going to get us all in the end

and after the vultures have finished with us

our bones will bleach in the desert,

you, me, the driver and everyone else,

what’s left of us will turn to dust and

our children’s children will walk over us

not even knowing that we ever existed.


By that time we will have become

one with the wind, moving through the air,

whipping the oceans into a frenzy

or feeling the clip of an eagle’s wing,

tearing down the old and the sick

to make space for what is to  be,

we’ll sing in harmony, with one voice,

a symphony played on telephone wires,

a low moan over the heath, whistling in the eaves,

or howling down the valleys and through the trees,

we’ll play like the organ pipes of the gods

and at last, we’ll know why we came.


Posted on June 10, 2020



What would it be like

to have known the scent

of roses your whole life long

without ever having seen one?


Then how would it be if

one dewy summer morning

towards the end of your years

you found the key to a secret garden,

unlocked the door and there, for the first time,

you saw the blooms, would they come as a shock?

would you be curious or maybe disappointed?

Or would you lean forward, inhale the perfume,

then step back and think to yourself,




Posted on May 21, 2020



I was looking through some

old photographs when I came across

the most perfect picture I have ever taken,

if the truth be known it probably took me,

as I looked at it the memories swam back

like a great tanker emerging from the sea mist,

the picture was of a sunset reflected on a wet beach,

deep blues, orange and gold, dark sand and black kelp,

captured on holiday during what was, without a doubt,

the most dreadful and painful period of my life

but as I looked down at it I felt no pain, no regret,

I saw only beauty and all I felt was gratitude.


White men

Posted on May 11, 2020



When I opened
my computer this morning
the screensaver showed a photograph
of American Buffalo grazing in the snow,
at one time they were almost wiped out
by white men with guns, men who knew
nothing of the ways of the people.


When they’d finished with
the Buffalo they started on the native people,
who now live as half-bloods and quarter-bloods
in apartments and graze in the snow themselves.
I am a white man and unless we change our ways pretty soon
I think my brother will be coming for me.






Posted on May 3, 2020


All my life
I’ve lived with failure
and the feeling that I’m not enough,
I have spent hours and hours
with therapists who have told me
that it’s to do with my mother,
my childhood, my family
or growing up
in post war Britain
and I have agreed with them all.


But now I think that they
aren’t enough either,
all tooled up with viable theories
but talking about things
they don’t really understand
any better than I do.


I feel like a failure
because the world is broken and I am part of it,
because people will do anything for money,
because we’ll shoot first and ask questions later,
because we are clever and greedy and ugly,
because drugs are cheaper than education,
because the TV is full of mayhem and violence,
and we are treating this beautiful world
like a landfill site.


I feel like a failure
because I came here to help
and I am at a loss to know how to.

Mary Oliver

Posted on April 26, 2020


As I was reading

the work of another poet

I thought, ‘I could have written that.’


But I couldn’t,

it was hers, not mine,

it was she who burgled my house

not I who burgled hers,

it was she who left her prints

on the light switch,

her feet light on the stairs,

her hand on the door

entering the room where

I was quietly reading,

it was her voice whispering in my ear

and her tears in the words she wrote

mingling with mine as I read them.


Posted on April 19, 2020


Why is nothing working anymore?


Maybe it’s because the Gods

want something different from us now,

something new, something fresh,

something we haven’t thought of before

or once knew but have forgotten.

But nobody is asking what it might be,

just applying the same old same old,

things that set one against the other,

seek security and certainty where none exists,

things that place wisdom in the hands of others

and not in our hearts, our beautiful human hearts.


Where are the prophets,

the visionaries and the peacemakers?

Not the leaders of men but the leaders of light?


Posted on April 13, 2020



So death is out

walking our streets again,

don’t follow him to see where he goes,

don’t catch his eye or touch his clothes,

just look away and let him by

and pay your respect with a silent sigh.

Know that in time your heart will soften,

you’ll recall the person, not the coffin,

and in their place new hope will rise,

it’s always the way when a loved one dies.

The night bus

Posted on April 8, 2020

The night bus 

dropped me off here

nearly seventy years ago,

I watched it go, it’s warmth,

the smell of diesel

and it’s golden windows

disappearing into the night.


It wasn’t long before

the dawn came and I could

see where I was, but it

took me much longer

to work out why I was here.

I’m not complaining,

by and large  I have

risen to the challenge,

it wasn’t always easy

but I’ve had a lot of help,

now when I sit in the evenings

I sometimes think I can hear

the old bus coming to pick me up,

growling over the distant hills.


It’s got a way to come yet

but still I find myself

checking my pockets

to make sure I haven’t

lost my ticket.