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Bubble and froth

December 26, 2016

My love never left

My lungs, to bubble into

It was there
All along
The words
To bring the feeling
Into being
Not just a concept
But tangible
Not just a fiction (friction)
But a real person
Not just a thought
But a bone-deep longing
To pat you down
To drum into you
The morse code
Of my affection


I held back
I knew
I pushed
I knew
I tried to hide
I knew
I cried, but remained alone
I knew

I knew you;
You were like the sea
All around
But ultimately inhospitable
To a sky-breather like me –
In turns warm and all-consuming
Next dark and unchartered
Compressing my chest.
Crushing me.

My love never leaving
My lungs, never finding
The will to bubble into


Poems on Brexit Day

December 26, 2016

My poem ‘The Sight’ was included in this collection, put together a few days after the referendum on the UK’s EU membership:


The only criteria for inclusion was that the poem was written around the time of the referendum, but not necessarily taking it as the subject matter.

Here’s to more published work in 2017, I hope.


December 26, 2016

Night time brings
The dark but often clarity
No light but often sharper
As the body lays
And thoughts are given space
To form into shapes that
Make sense
That morph and digress
Shout loud across
My silent chest
The words, bouncing from slumbering walls
The sensation of falling
As the mind, not so much whirring as searching
For the foot of another
Across the bed
To find solid the form
To make alive
What is in my head.tmp_30494-IMG_20161225_175205519105417.jpg

Not all things

December 26, 2016

Are we only allowed to mourn what has breathed?

What about those things which grow inside
But never see the breeze
To inflate the love
That’s held within?

Sometimes life
Doesn’t have a chance
To cry and stretch
Sometimes, before the wail
Of celebration, comes a mourning
But we do not speak
We stand, silent, observing
Pretending the swelling
Of promise had not been
And like a sweet, too large to swallow
We gulp, we drink
And at last the memory is dislodged
And we slowly edge away
Eyes diverted, hearts shrouded without words to express, what was meant but has not been.

How can we find the forms
To show they were.
To mark a passing.
To hold the sadness
Like a candle, inconsistent light
But constant flicker?
A passing sight, a feeling
Is still real; how can we celebrate
A resonance fading but resonating still?


Off the cuff

March 23, 2015

Lamplight sits
on heavy shoulders
shrugged with attempts to
make sense
out of thoughts
half eaten
cuds of consideration
rolled around
for texture
and interaction

but no words
seem to evolve
out of motion
just the relentless
tethering to what
can only be glimpsed
in passing

the bells set off
a chime inside
and suddenly the pace
races through veins
and over internal
terrains of night times

another day
chalked up
to (in)experience.


March 23, 2015


It isn’t that you don’t

it’s that you opened

the possibility,

(when you opened your mouth)

that you did.


I had never considered

the possibility

until your touch,

in the half formed light

began to seem


and somehow safe.


My appropriateness

primed to retain the barriers

held their own,

but something in your expression

endured, began to settle,

and so it began

I started


to look again

to think again

to consider touch

to look, to check

if I could

if it could be


And because I am

who I am, I had to

poke, probe,

to check,

if the words spoken

(in sauced breath)

could be real

could stand up by themselves


your response

steeped in twilight

broke the burgeoning hope

that you had previously

strove to ignite

You reminded me


I’m not good with passing fancy

as your statement hit the pit

of my stomach

like a kick – if only you hadn’t

thought to share, with words

for which you gave no thought,

then perhaps I wouldn’t

be caught, as I am,

in flexion.

Wunder Baum (a poem written about many moons ago)

March 23, 2015

I try to hidemagic_tree_forest_fresh
my modesty
as I climb into
the taxi, outside
where my life now lives

and as I slink into the seat
you greet me in the guise
of a thurible
magic tree
your smell,
part upholstery,
part lynx,

waft and layer the air,
like softest cotton shift;
the anachronistic scent
of our summer
spent swiftly
roaming around each
and the other.

My eyes mist
as your adolescent face
crazes across the rear-view
mirror: a waterspout,
gathering recollections
like condensation
along the window seals
each triple set
of double swings
reawakens your relic
rocked shut inside me


when all at once
I readjust
to the familiar
musk of what might have been,
I finally exhale
to add my breath
into the drift
of what will never be.