Night Lights

For Jo & Glen

I need,
This short-lifted
Escape from
Cold derision:

In darkened sky,
Remind me that,
We’re not designed
To fly.

Glen and Jo,
As all those coupled,
Ensure my landing
Is flat,

Taxi, terminal-ease,
Through Ashdown Forest,
We return to Uckfield,

Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States:

Jeremy Hunt, No Cockney Implied

I don’t think I’ve penned
’bout Jeremy Hunt,

It would be,

Offending word-use,
Rhyming a poem,

I can hear the rune,
‘Hunt’, then going..

The distaste such doggerel
Could inflict on your ears:

Perhaps our doctors
Can suture my fears:

Stitch the Hunt tight,
Allow nothing to pass,

Then he will truly
Talk out of his arse.

Sleep, Removed

I can stand all night
At my hip-high desk
Tapping this keyboard
Facebook requests
Whilst my family slumbers
Under duvet-sleep
And I will wonder
Why sleep is a treat

This disease removes
My covered requests
To bury my dreams
In the double-bed rest
Settled, sleep, chase
If I could, I would,
Forgive me my wife
For sleep removed.


Severin (Severin) / CC BY-NC 3.0

Saturday Shopping

I dreaded when young,
Dragged, another lashing
Off mother’s tongue!

Then into my teens,
And shopping alone,
Woking by bus,
Woolies, Smiths,
(slow route home).

I always bought enough
Note books to be,
Responsible for one
Rain forest tree.

Back then, in web-less
Nineteen eighty-five,
The Amazon, green,
Was hugely alive:

But ‘Amazon’ now
Is a rack of shelves:
Redundancy due
for Santa’s elves.

A Black Friday,
discounted, marathon;
Queue up now,
Cheaper trees @Amazon.

Consent: no expectation

mariette grandfather
The story behind this poem – link here

For Mariette Robijn, and her family.

Mariette stated:
‘No one wills
A favourable reception
Of any illness,’

By Oma, her Grandmother,
Over a century, under God,
Recalling, her husband,
Landelijke Knokploeg.

Hilbert ‘Arie’ van Dijk,
Executed, too cruel,
Helped leading the few,
Their Resistance,

Her youngest son died,
A few years later:
Her great-grandchild died,
in grief’s labour.

Despite these tragedies
Oma carried, ill-eased,
She’d always say:
“Be brave.
You have to agree,

To embark upon the journey..
with an unknown destination.
Without knowing why, or .. how..”
no expectation.

Stone Cutting, Cure Parkinson’s Trust

We were gathered,
To Stonecutter Court,
Each labelled,
Unique in comport.

The presentations,
Learned discourse;
mindful of our
Stem-buried thoughts.

Us, enquiring people,
Sat stiff,
As London’s pile-drivers
Hammered next door.

Our driven excitement,
Talk, some of a cure:

St. George’s Day

Saint George
born high in Syria,
now lies low
from our media:
Caught in Calais,
no marching on,
he lost his horse,
along with Ascalon.
God-battled lands
flattened his hope,
so George put his faith
in a leaking boat.

Now wrapped, red crossed,
in a rug,
his sight is on England,
but his heart is not:
Seven hundred years
we held him high,
waved him at enemies
and in football cries,
adored him for securing
a maiden’s life,
but now we ignore
his French-field cries.

If George can sleep
through winter’s maul,
and wake to breathe-in
Europe’s thaw,
to hear the death-rattle
of the Euro-dream,
quietly loosened
from treaty-schemes:
Shipped over the Channel,
no law to halt,
He could attend
asylum’s full court.

Hounslow, beneath
a wide flight path,
bedded in rooms,
three to a berth;
George can rest
his travel-tattered wings,
attempting to battle
our parochial sins:
Instead he’ll put
his head to his chest,
And wish to return
to the people he left.