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Where I’ve been

In an effort to try and stimulate myself to write about where I am right now, this is a page of older poems written about where I’ve been.

I’ve got 1000’s of poems from over the years so I’ll put a few of them on here when I’m tired, mardy and can’t be bothered to write anything new for the blog! So keep checking and hopefully you’ll discover new stuff on here now and again.


The slam of the front door
predicates natures’ own boom;
liquid stones pelt bowed heads
and strident footfalls reiterate the
crescendo, in the morning gloom

Pavements become slipstreams
legs causing crests and breaks
to fall everyday majestic
onto slabs made like gemstones,
clear filmed like still lakes

drains, overfill and spill their excess
above heads in offices, like someone peeing;
the trickle of relief from bloated pipe work
the buildings sigh with the loss
as busy business men lift collars, shirk

fall out of day clothes and into the fray
where people gather, mature, deciduous,
their lives, shed and whirled into tiny tornadoes
whipped by the howl of passing roles
washed away into the crack and the holes.


The thoughts
come less, like clouds
I watch them, let them
roll past my sight
never grasping
and so in time
they slow
to just
viewed, strobe-like

staccato images
or barely uttered words
which I push
to make sure
they don’t stick
like a plastic bag
around my face
to suffocate
the many reasons
I have to be thankful
to be rid of you.

Song II (a response to W. H.)

Sometimes we move forward, when we wish we could stop
simply reach out into the world, and silence all clocks
shout out into nowhere “cease I wish you would”,
there are moments when we’d put out the stars, if only we could.

We want minutes to be hours, and days to be years
to stop all progression and dry all our tears
to put a halt to life at a point we find good
we’d all control time, if only we could.

Yet time marches on regardless, to its own given end
untainted by mankind and the wishes we send
if only our hands could reach to infinity
what a shame that time will be the death of me

The death of you and all that surrounds
one day it will all waste away, even the earth and the clouds
the forests will grow no more, there will be no more crops
there will be no more music except the sound of the clocks

striking the minutes and hours that have gone
forming together their own maudlin song;
the last sound on earth will be a distant chime
everything will disappear one day, even time.

One day there will be nothing but stasis and space
and the faint molecular reverberation of a now extinct race
there will be no more movement, no sound and no sight
time will have exited and turned out the light

yet if we remained in the darkness, perhaps we’d be moved to sing
“behold the sheer beauty to be found in nothing”
no more wars, no more shouting, back to the never in which we belong
some argue that this world should last forever: They are wrong.

Because life can be a struggle,
learning to grow can be tough
but if lived well,
one life should be enough.

Volga Flow
Sour soldiers
standing firm
their raw welcome
forcing the mouth into a puckered reply
of surprise tart taste
taken to conclusion
in leaves laden
with poision

yet cultivate
with the slightest interest
allow stability plus
a year to pass
to build
as pilgrims past
reserves to yield
stems of proud robust red
couple with goache greens
plucked by times firm grasp
and just a splash
of sucrose hit

As harvest passes
allow to grow
dormant like hibernating
vegetable voles
awaiting first frosts fingers
to massage their crown
and awaken once more

with loving force
enclose in succulent
fertile night
where warmth shall fool
that spring begins
while under gentle stealth
of candle light
allow hands to grasp
this ancient purge
once again.

Our Story

The mouths of others
form unlikely words
tell tales of pasts
that have no tell-tale
signs in the skin
which slumps and sighs
on bones creaking
with the past
a sound akin to a door left ajar
a beckoning from without
to within a life
which becomes “the lives”
of many all the same

or so time rubs them that way
all smooth, the edges
removed and chiselled
with the dedication
You Are Old
when really that’s not even half the story

(if you listen, really
listen to the wars that been
they are fought in living rooms
and bedrooms
within families
where members are lost
for the greater good).

Lonely Wandering You

Inside myself,
just left of the minor
irritation I feel when I stub my toe,
and just a little past the outright
anger I feel
when I look at the starving
in countries I’ve never seen
there sits a place
that is reserved for you.

Most of the time
I don’t even bother to lock
the door,
because most of the time
I am intent on denying
there is any door at all.
It’s not made of wood,
it’s made of ever-changing
colours, to suit the season
to hide you from my view.
Never brightly coloured,
I try to go for the muted hues
so not to draw attention

I know, somewhere deep,
this place
where you sit
leaves me feeling shame
and secrecy,
a fat girl on a diet with my fingers
in the biscuit barrel
each bite like a gun
between my teeth


Months can pass, the door remains
not just closed but
overlooked, left to get dusty
and beyond dust to grow still
until one day I get complacent
cocky that I can sneak a peak
just a little look for curiosity sake.


All at once the door blows apart,
the detonator ignited by my naïve
interest and parts of you cover me
leaving me splattered with the mess
just like it was straight after
with no ability to wipe you clean
with no-one to tell of my distress
because it’s not just the door
that I deny, but my hurt.

Yet there I am.
Showered in parts of heart
and brain, the latter screaming
“Why didn’t you listen, look at you now!”
and I want to run,
to vomit your image out of my stomach
where it flutters
to fling the scent of you from my skin
like burning clothes, I want to drop
and roll until your ash
so I can inhale and blow you
into nothing in the air

Instead I inhale and you stick
like fingers in my throat,
so I can’t even sob
all that leaves me is shadow
and the shadow becomes your absence
and your absence makes me sad.

But then, I don’t know
why this time I don’t just curl up
like all the other times, I look
past the screaming brain,
the shadowy form, the pieces of you
laying over me like soot

And I look into the room.
And it’s empty.
All the fear was in the explosion.
All that remains
Is one tiny box
and inside is my eye
that I continue to allow
to look to you.

And I realise that I mattered so littleTo you,
that I mattered a little less to myself

And now I take my eye, and I close the box
And I leave the room
And I leave it open, with a big cross
Marking the spot so that
I will
Never make
The same mistake


The body sonant
My eyelids
clatter their way open
the slight scum of sleep
cracking as I blink
and my chest sighs
with the heavy bass of a cold

I breathe to the sound of crunching
autumn leaves trapped in my ribs

from the bed I swing
to the slow moan of my knee
crooning in time to my foot
landing with deadened fish-flop
onto the echoing hard wood
I stretch and the numerous
morse code clicks send the message
that this is the beginning.

The Metta Bhavana
I sat at the feet of the Buddha
considering you pensively
I squinted
to try and obscure you
the image just too sharp
to sit comfortably beside me,
astride the round cushions
that support me

my sense of you rises
slowly like a shipwreck
weighed down by the experiences
shimmering with the green of neglect
and stagnant years
spent amongst the silt
far from the eyes of anyone

and in amongst this placid place
another feeling rises
in tandem – a flash of anger
so raw and large
it breaks, a giant wave
against your wreck
and whips away the coverings
revealing the truth underneath.

I tolerate you only
because I feel you have been punished
that the hell you opened me to
was noticed by the fates

Our past continues
to punish us;
me with my memories
and you with the echoes that will
never be.

Mattock Lane Serenade

Chords whip
from the window
which frames
the choristers
(who cannot remain the same)
holy pronouncements
between the content
and the form
through open eyes
(to glorify change)
listeners rendered
mesmerised as leaves
(what is being heard)
through thick
Autumn air
coiling to the grey
slabs which hold
(what is being said)
firm to the form
of salutation
lulling us
(from the point of pause)
from the house
our backs to the park
(to the point we stride ahead)
as it changes
(lapse for breath)
for each of us
(the sigh the momentary)
the colour of the afternoon

mouths surprised
by notes
(you must change)
held, collective
listeners mottled
with resonance
of previous
discharged sound
(you cannot remain the same)
of what is remembered
(you are)
like droplets of rain
from heavy clouds
which remain
once touched
(you should not be)
they are passed
the mere wisp

to hold interest
(were never meant to become)
their departure
holding the promise
(as you are)
of brighter days.

On and On

The workout begins,
constant regurgitation to sift, locate
what went wrong, when did the last chance
pass? When did the promise dissipate?
Separate the bile from the content
in order to see what was taken
from the exchange,
what has been retained

attempts at reality flicker,
the illusory floor, moving at angles, tilting
the truth, labouring progress
with heavy breaths;

more of a meal was made
than was necessary,
nonchalant pain of a type
only the un-initiated could inflict,
offered as a resting place.

The maximum rate was noted
and naively pushed through,

limbs continue to move
in mechanic motion

equivocal recollection
chasing at heels,
feeding momentum
as the beads
of effort form
a maudlin salute
to the ruefulness
of long parting

continue the rhythm,

shadowing the
sound of
adolescent wanting,

progress is
made under
the piqued
light of

supposition and
miles tread,
ploughed withthe vestments
of maturity
lapping at

which unceasingly move

without thought,
with less care;


Empty Silence

made when
can’t fill
remain untimely
embarrassing, call
when you should
call to me, talk
when you should
talk of something
here, now, between
the pint glasses,
you, me,
the lights,
cast umbra
long enough to project
and disband.

Tiny Decibels

First tiny scream
we can’t remember,
gurgles made to whoever
and everyone; sense to us
dexterity of vocalisation
removes instinct;
we fight, to regain,
the innate knowledge of
our core –
seeking validation in those
who surround
yet always we are apart;
the centrifugal in our knowing
filter and projector,
we glide and focus
the tiny decibels of life
as they impact, resonate
and sing
of who we are.

Down at the bottom

Hold your breath,
it’s like rising
through the branches at sunset
the rush, the sprinkles
of tight, watery chandeliers
illuminating your powerful lungs

fill your hollows
with oxygen, descend
to where the pressure
collapses your ribs, pushes
the gases from you;
they’re superfluous here
as your sink, past your own image,
into the depths

reach for me, my love
as the balloon, vain in attempts
to inflate, to bring you
to my arms
and the history books.
Call to me, my love
as the blue fills your irises
grasps at your life
taking your last and leaving
bubbles, memories
as empty as the tank
that would have secured your

Go to, my only,
in sleep, I remember
the spread of your mane
in the cobalt forever,
stay with me always
in the moments I keep
within the air that I breath
synonymous now with the deep.

Shady Places

There are words
that flow from lips
without thought
freedom oozing
from every syllable
like the voice of those
who have grown
in the darkness, against themselves.

There are sentiments
that sit within the brain
flowing from the eyes
past mouths
rocked shut
like clams, as the feeling
drifts to the heart
and crouches
waiting for a moment to become
all it was conceived to be
these words exist, because they must.

In this copse
these words form now
I will miss you
and through a clearing
I shall shout them
in your absence
knowing that you will hear them, still.


Directed frustration saps
oxygen from the proximity
sucks the windows and inhales

the world outside until
the debris rises, the pyre created
from the decimated first point of contact

Shared aggression is raked over
comments re-discovered
to feed the energy of the furnace,
drawing in past grievances
through exposure they breathe and


immediately with rekindled vitriol, burning derogation
spewing onto clothes, licking at the trappings of shared space
warping meaning, charring flesh, leaving the indelible mark
perfidy from which billows indignation
A final screech signals the backdraft, air reverberating with the mighty whoomp
of heat, frames evolve through disproportion
the internal smouldering festered by attempted
repression, wafts the accusation – the final
assault of the respiration, hitting the chest
fist, gulping for breath
lead only to renewed asphyxiation
as the intensity gathers the strength
mutating, the flaying, a renewed engulfing
of logic

the rippled pattern of the exchange
renders blackened residue ,
marks on every surface
the impression of rage
the reduction to ash of all broken remnants
the domestic scene, the kindling of pride
a flash point,


We stand
on planks
of ornately dappled
wood – striking the


Like capoeira fighters
we dance, in passive
time, reacting
judging smoothly
the atmosphere
between us.

Yet, always,
there is a point
when moves
too far
the other responds
in negative
and the equilibrium
is lost
the safety becomes
until one is left
clinging to the edge,
scrabbling to return,

to restart
the reflection

nail marks
divide the surface
like nylon ladders
down over-stretched legs
the energy
is lost
dissipated through over exertion
all that is left is
to hang,
to hang
and to fall.

The Magic Pot

Jar rose as far as eyes could
roam, but the eyes were the only
things left to search

and sometimes
the jar would be shook,
the sky would become the earth
and the atmosphere rattled

sometimes things would be added;
a twig, some water,
fire or another – sometimes
the jar would be empty
save for one…

everything looked curved
and unreal, smeared
by the hand prints and emphatic
staring, sometimes seeming vast
yet other times appearing hardly
big enough
to draw breath

and the eyes would swivel
as the weaving took place
and Anansi would wait
patiently for the days
when the sky became the earth
and the jar was shook

sometimes he was allowed to run
across the palm of the holy
and other times, left to sit and watch
as the world was created,
but could not be influenced:
outside of the process.
God’s plaything.

Sitting in a jar
on God’s desk
watching the world
washed out and magic-less.

In Var

The past is an unreal place
to be viewed
as it really was
too painful
too far
too revised
for us
to know
any certainty

You and I
over shared moments
in a former time
a place now moving
into unfamiliar
all things
must change and your mouth
to show you did
not just the previous
of you
like landed gentry
me unabashed nymph
but of the after
those heated times
which we no longer speak
or even recognise
in the space between

yet you remembered
all that came
before as we sat
in high-ceilinged brisk night
(of all you are now)
and I like
to think
your words spoke
of a sorrow
an apology
an acknowledgment
that it hurt
and allow the blame
(just a little, just a little)
to belong
at whichever door
is now yours

indeed the past
is an unreal place
because it has a funny way
of sitting opposite
sipping cider
opening the potential
for more memories
to drift into
what has gone before.

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