Welcome to my poem page

Snow pillows support my weary head,

and ice sheets cover my frozen bed.

Just an ice block away is our local store, but I’m finding it hard to step out of the door.

There’s no central heating, and no flushing loos, just white frosted windows with cold arctic views.

The footprints outside won’t last very long, one minute there, the next minute gone.

There’s nothing built here that’s designed to stay, that’s why this hotel will soon melt away.

But when that day comes and new hopes arise, I hope I'm sitting under sunnier skies.

THE END

In my little town, great ships were built.
In a yard by the river where blood and sweat spilt. 

Great toil and labour was needed back then when most of the staff were made up of men.
The large metal sheds rose high in the sky,
down to the river where completed ships lie.
Expert labourers, all striving to live, thousands of work hours, all willing to give.
But later in life, large numbers would die. Until modern times, no one knew why.
The dreaded asbestos played with like snow. Appearing on X-rays as a darkened shadow.
Our high street was lined with all kinds of  shops. There was no social housing or ugly tower blocks.
From grocers to bakers and a Woolworths I believe, none of them empty from what I perceive.
Life seemed much happier, despite lack of money. My nan baking cakes using eggs, milk and honey.
She made the best shortbread in all of the town. It tasted like heaven when cooked golden brown.
Every week she'd make freshly boiled jam,
with each glass jar filled, no waste, not one dram.
Monday was wash day when the twin tub was used, and from under the lid, white bubbles would ooze.
When you opened that lid, the temperature would rise, as the steam and the vapour stung everyone's eyes.
As hot as a kettle beginning to spout, so we'd use wooden tongs to pull the clothes out.
Then into the spinner, the washing would go, for a five-minute cycle to finish the show.
With a run through the mangle, as tight as can be, then out on the line for all neighbours to see.
The milkman's glass bottles were delivered each day. 

Gold top or silver, depending on pay. The birds loved this service. They thought it a dream, as they pecked off the tops to get to the cream.
Coal was delivered on a horse-drawn cart,
from the coal pit to the grate, a fire we would start.
With no central heating in those wintry lands, we toasted our bread and warmed up our hands.
Frost on the windows, bathroom downstairs,
a toilet outside where we did our affairs!
Steam trains still ran on white metal rails.
Fish and chip Fridays with beers they called ales.
Cars were a luxury, bikes were the rage, dependent on income from your fortnightly wage.
Most houses were rented, that was for sure,
with no bricks and mortar for us to secure.
But we all had great fun then. The stress seemed much less.
Playing Cowboys and Indians or just football, I guess.
Computers weren't thought of for children back then. We would go to the parks where we would build a new den.
Trees would be climbed, and rope swings were free. I could never forget those moments of glee.
Some might have said it was old and run down, but nothing could replace my little town.
THE END

I'd like a packet of monster munch, my wife had said to me, and beef is the only flavour that I really fancy.
They come in a purple packet, you'll see them on the shelf,  make sure you get the right ones though or I'll have to go myself.
So off to the shop, I did go, with what she said in mind, and asked the shop assistant if she could be so kind.
I didn't bring my glasses you see, it's monster munch she wants, they're in a purple packet and I'm buying them for her lunch.
She walked with me down the aisle and pointed to the shelf. Look there they are on the second row down, feel free to help yourself.
I grabbed two bags of the purple ones and took them to the till, they cost me two pounds thirty as they were on an offer still.
Having paid for them I left the shop, my mission now complete.  I took them back to where we sat so she could begin to eat.
But these are pickled onion ones, I wanted beef, she said, but darling you said purple bags you must have been misled.
I can't eat pickled onions, they'll make me very ill, so I took them back and asked the girl who was standing behind the till.
Could I swap these pickled onion ones for the flavour beef instead?
That shouldn't be a problem, sir. Have you got your receipt she said.
I don't think I was given one. I paid and left the shop.
Then sorry sir but with no receipt, I can't allow the swap. So I paid for two more packets, after checking they were beef,  The only two remaining, much to my relief.
The moral of this story is to know your Monster Munch. They come in different coloured bags when choosing them for your lunch.
Roast beef is in a yellow bag, the hot ones come in red. Pickled onions come in purple bags, as I think we've already said.
Don't make the same mistake as me by listening to a hunch.
Make sure you read the packet well before choosing Monster Munch.
THE END

My meeting is at Waterloo, I hope that I’m not late.

As the clock struck one, I began to run towards the closing gate.

You’ll miss this train, if your not quick, the sniggering guard had said

So I ran towards the awaiting train, then fell and banged my head.

The guard looked down and began to frown and then he waved his flag.

I must admit, right there and then, I nearly lost my rag.

The driver who had seen the flag had put the train in gear,

and as I looked up at the guard I’m sure I saw him sneer.

The train doors slammed, the whistle blew and the train got on its way.

I missed that one and the next one too, it was clearly not my day.

I cancelled my appointment, and got my money back

but no thanks to that sneering guard who deserves to get the sack.

Some two weeks later I tried again but this time the strikes were on,

so I knew right then, that any chance of my rendezvous had gone.

I will never travel by train again, nor meet at Waterloo

In fact I've torn my railcard up, a thing I shall never renew.

THE END

A single star shone in the sky,
as a flock of starlings caught my eye.
With dusk descending upon my day,
I looked up and began to pray.
I thank you, Lord, for your gift of life
And for helping me find my wonderful wife.
For caring for us both each day,
and preventing us from going astray.
THE END
(Written on the last night of our Surrey break at Edgeley Holiday Park January 2023)

Decaying leaves upon a tree, few in number, hanging free.
Sentenced to a timely death, part of autumn's final breath.
There is no reason for them to stay, just one of nature's ways, they say.
A carousel of forgotten times, hanging there for unknown crimes.
THE END
(Written at Edgeley Holiday Park as I sat on the outside decking with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other, January 2023)

Once it was a most powerful force encircling our planet as a natural resource.
From the smallest of beginnings to a raging sea, that is the rain that now falls upon me.
THE END

I wandered through the empty streets, the night sky up above.
No signs of busy trading now, just the silence that I love.
The street lights guide me on my way, through lanes and alleyways.
Past the bars I frequented on those long hot summer days.
And then the river beckoned me, the sound as it flowed by, and then I sat upon its bank and soon began to cry.
My tears fell heavily upon the ground, and flowed like falling rain.
Never again will I enjoy such times in that wonderful place in Spain.
THE END

Bright lights and loud music attract the crowds to a field I remember was once always ploughed.
Where crops were grown to feed the poor,
now full of merriment and open grandeur.
How times have changed from then till now,
back then we relied on sheep and a cow.
We had no money of which we could share,
yet now it flows readily at this travelling fair.
The swings and roundabouts of joy and sorrow. Here one day and gone tomorrow.
THE END
Written 5th December 2023 at The Curve Workshop, East Cowes

 We'll build you a nice new road bridge, the architect had said.
No money upfront, just a small toll charge instead.
When all the costs are covered, the toll, of course, will cease.
Instead, we're all still paying, and those charges have increased.
Look here, we made no promises, the local council say, blame previous administrators, from way back in the day.
I'm sure that now the bridge is up, everyone will agree that it saves on longer journeys and is worth it for the fee.

A featureless cloud passed me by,
drifting through a featureless sky.
Humanity ignores its wondrous looks,
Assessing each feature from featureless books.
Yet as I stared upon that cloud,
I saw a shape in a darkened shroud.
Is that the figure of a ghost up above,
or simply a vision of God's heavenly love?
THE END
(Written October 2023 at The Curve workshop, East Cowes)