When I die,
I don’t want to be famous,
Too many people,
may then bestow greatness,
On my stiff corpse,
laid, coffin-graced;
Too late for me,
finally-erased
…..
When I die,
I don’t want to be famous,
Too many people,
may then bestow greatness,
On my stiff corpse,
laid, coffin-graced;
Too late for me,
finally-erased
…..
Long-strided
pylons ahead
loose loops
of cables
…..
One piece of advice,
to the younger writer,
Maybe two more,
‘cos I’m a rhyme-fighter
…..
…..
Another flight home,
wait-slumped,
in the Alicante lounge;
my temporary carers,
beyond the call,
pool-restored my soul.
Pollen-flared
a bee
settled
preened
out of the wind
me and this gatherer
What we can do
while we still can
this poetry
these words
…..
Just like Roald Dahl,
The best writer of stories,
I surrender too easily,
To sweet-tooth fairies
That paper-boy
dawn chorus
in half-light
played
shrill here,
again garden-deep
…..
I donate to Wikipedia
Five quid every month,
For that small remittance
I am no more a dunce.
Table-trapped,
In the heaving,
Squeak-stepped,
Sports hall