Poems 2014

Thack moorA Cumbria peak has been declared a mountain after amateur surveyors found it was three quarters of an inch (2cm) higher than originally thought.

Growing Up

Thack Moor rests still,
No longer a hill,
In a moment something more.

By three quarters of an inch
It is, by a pinch,
Now a mountain.

Men, GPS besotted,
Have visited and re-plotted,
Stark Cumbrian thrust.

Its straining bleak peak,
Now exceeds two thousand feet,

Without pause, or hiatus,
Gaining rightful status

Neither moor, nor tor,
But established for sure-
As England’s mountain, two hundred and fifty four.

November Meeting


Lazy cannon fire of hooves,
Swathed in dragon’s snort mist
A morning dew of sweat in the 3.15
Rippling haunches kissed
By a reminder of the task
Bunched together, poised
To do what is asked
With gaits of silk
Pygmies carried by giants

Only the finish counts, blinkered
Riding the swelling oaths
From willing stands
With galloping heart, from standing start
And it is over in a flash
To a sauntering gambol
Amidst the slips of misfortune
Before weighing room judgement
All is in the balance.

In a moment

Bright light blasted all it touched.
White sheets, clear glass,
silver instruments intensified its stare.
Hope defiantly yelled,
staff whispered,
then mumbled.
Not wanting to be heard.
A short sleeved robe is comfortable in a warm room.

LED lights struggled to define their declining numbers,
tumbling in silent toll.
Soft shoes hummed in urgent sprint.
Fast enough?
You can only do your best,
The next leg in the relay will come soon .
Note boards rustled,
doors opened and closed,
And I strained to hear each shallow breath amidst this cacophony.

A Narrative Verdict

Perhaps that is all there is?
No judgement by human hand
Just a few words, to help us understand
A life summed up
In a sentence

Absence is the ultimate certification
Of what is no more
Unlike a sentence
It has no end

Princes Park, Burntwood

Prince's Park

Not quite a forest, with only three trees,
They even have names, faith, hope and charity.

Yet on the United Kingdom it has made its mark
As the country’s smallest park.

For the marriage of Prince Albert, and Alexandra,
It was created in commemoration

As a gesture of appreciation,
From a very grateful nation.

Neatly fenced, with bench seating too
It welcomes visitors- but just a few.

I’m Just Against It


Do they put
That slice of gherkin
In their hamburgers?

Know junk food
Is bad for me yet
Sometimes I am weak

Token green
Tastes and looks obscene
Mister MacDonald

Girl on a Motorcycle

She is wearing leathers now
Coating her skin, saliva slick
Legs astride, ready to go

Androgynous helmet,
Betrayed by supple curves
In glorious anonymity

Her hand grips in soft caress
Throttle waiting to be touched
Its power unleashed

Wild wind strokes the nape
Of her just exposed neck
As she likes it

Braking late, so the rubber hesitates
Tantalisingly, on harsh asphalt
Teasing its deadly kiss

Accelerating away in kaleidoscopic blur
Sounds drowned in pursuit
Of the horizon

Be Afraid

Fear Africa, blacks and Ebola
Fear inadequate precautions
Fear Travel

Fear the Islamic State
Fear the butchers knife
Fear Jihad John

Fear Russia
Fear invasion
Fear tanks rolling across borders

Fear Climate change
Fear being too hot
Fear being too cold

Fear for our children
Fear they will not be
As clever as us

Fear for tomorrow
That it will not be
As perfect as today

Fear that inflation
Is too high
Or too low

Or grasp the day
In such a way
That fear is no more

The Tip

It could win
It should win
It can win
It cant lose
It might win
It didn’t

All Politicians are Bastards


Politicians who travel by rail, first class are stuck up bastards

Politicians who travel standard class ,thereby depriving standard class travellers of a seat, are thoughtless bastards

Politicians who give up their train seats to the pregnant and elderly, when they could have driven by Ministerial car, are inconsiderate bastards

Politicians who use Ministerial cars are traffic congesting bastards

Politicians who cycle, demanding that police open gates for them, are pleb hating bastards

Politicians who fly, are global warming bastards

Politicians who walk, taking up valuable pedestrian space from those who cannot afford other forms of transport, are inconsiderate bastards.

All politicians are bastards


Le Pen

All that it takes is a brush, rushed

A choice, to find a voice

Or a silencer

At a stroke, a line, bullet straight

Poised, for the noise

Of confusion

Expression and repression

Pouring automatically from the muzzle

Escaping, leaking ink, distorting

Born free, yet chained

This is my truth, tell me yours

Of what you can do instead of what you do do

Arms linked, fingers crossed


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