My Published Work
The Peace of War
On a cold, snowing morn,
Two soldiers met at war.
As they faced each other weapons in hand,
Their footprints showed in the fresh strewn sleet.
One thought to himself
“I cannot kill him, he is my brother”.
This man believed in peace.
The other thought
“I must kill you, it is my duty”.
This man was true to his country.
They glared at each other through the snow,
Not knowing when and what to do.
Not knowing who was going to strike first.
The sharp edged air hung heavy
Like a steel blade before its fall.
The peaceful man lay down his gun, with baited breath.
In that brief moment the other struck,
His bayonet pierced the kindly heart.
The blade strove deep and true,
A perfection of the craftsman’s art.
On his last breath the man sighed,
He fell uncertain to the awaiting snow,
His blood stained the virginal whiteness.
The other man dropped to his knees,
By his side.
The snow fell gently around,
Resting on the other man’s wound,
And on the other man’s live skin.
For all the sorrows done by man to man,
For shame lodged deep within his heart,
He wept.
And the snow mingled with his tears.
1976
PUBLISHED in the first issue of Northern Line January 1978 p4
PUBLISHED in Love is in the Air Vol II by Forward Poetry (Ed. Jenni Bannister) 2015 p52
Pantomime
In the castle of my heart,
You are the keep.
In the doorways of my mind,
You hold the key.
In the shadows of my memory,
You are the light.
In the temple of my soul,
You are the pillars.
In the pantomime of my life,
You are the finale.
Yes you are.
No I’m not.
Yes you are.
Yes you are!
1996
Broken Lies
Too well I slaked my thirst
On truth untold.
(Alas) Too well.
A bitter potion, (of) salt and fire and acid,
That staked, then raked my heart,
Like dry leaves in wet grass.
Reverberating.
Ricocheting.
Pinball in a machine without lights
To guide it from the then, to the now and beyond.
That truth untold,
has told on me.
And quenched,
I cannot now be unquenched.
And, if our past defines us,
What now for me
with past undone?
Crumbling, tumbling, crashing around me.
(Deep dark) muddied waters of uncertainty,
Uprooting family trees,
Diluting blood lines,
Dragging me to my knees.
Taunting, taunted.
Haunting, haunted.
The mocking mockery of genes that bore me this far,
Truth untold, which
Separates.
Isolates.
Desolates.
And now knowing, I cannot now unknow,
This knowledge that
Implodes and implores me.
Unknows and unhinges me.
Undone.
2008
PUBLISHED on Impspired.com Dec 22: Issue 20. Online December 1st 2022. Volume Ten print edition January 2023
PUBLISHED in Animal Antics 2015 by Forward Poetry collection 2016 (Ed. Allie Jones) p43
Our Tess
We had a dog that came free with a lead,
A young black puppy – a mix of a breed.
We called her Tess, and it seemed to suit her well –
For chasing sheep o’er hill and fell.
Though Grandma never got that he was a she,
And him was a her not a boy dog you see.
Our Tess was faithful, clever and loyal,
Worth so much more than the carpets she’d spoil.
She loved to play with us out in the sun,
Cricket and frisbee, oh we had fun.
She’d run with us, walk with us,
Even go biking.
A fast black streak,
With eyes that were striking.
But best of all, Tess loved the water,
Swimming and paddling wherever she could.
She understood all that we taught her,
Even if she did get covered in mud.
She hated a bath and all workmen too
Protecting our home, and barking at all
The postman in blue –
He knew not to call.
For fifteen happy years,
Tess was our friend.
A true companion,
Right to the end.
Tess Sleeps forever now,
Her spirit to roam,
But she’ll always be with us,
She’s part of our home.
Sleep well in the garden Tess,
A well-deserved rest,
Sleep well our Tessy,
The best of the best.
2008
Green is for Remembrance
So now green is for remembrance,
And yellow roses too.
And the slippers in the hall
That lie and wait here still, for you.
You’re everywhere in my home,
And in my garden too.
And yet nowhere in my life,
And I don’t know what to do.
From, the pegs on the washing line,
To your special china cup,
From pictures on the walls,
To London in a book.
And what will I do now on Sundays
When it gets to our 8 o’clock call?
Who shall I phone to wish goodnight
Now that you’re no place I can call.
Oh I’ve cried a river alright,
And all of its tributaries too.
Because it’s hard not think of what might have been,
When memories can’t yet pull me through.
Because everywhere there is you,
And yet nowhere is there you.
2013
PUBLISHED in Light Up the Dark A collection of Poetry Forward Poetry 2014 (Ed. Shobhna Patel) p214
PUBLISHED in Mind Matters Part II by Forward Poetry 2017 (Ed. Sarah Washer) p54
Work In Progress
And the noise, the noise,
It’s all white in my head.
And all I want,
Is to go back to bed.
Endless lists within lists of things I must do,
The priorities of others, rising like a tide,
Wave after wave of them locked in a queue.
And I’m drowning, not waving.
And the noise, the noise,
It’s all white in my head.
And all I want,
Is my big cosy bed.
Emails bounce in, a chiming jamboree,
Pinging on my desk like an alarm,
With the knoll of a bell that is tolling for me.
And I’m grinning not bearing.
And the noise, the noise,
It’s all white in my head.
And all I want,
Is to go back to bed.
Meetings after meetings every day,
Agendas and actions that must be obeyed.
All to be done in time that’s waylaid.
And there’s madness not method.
And the noise, the noise,
It’s all white in my head.
And all I want,
Is my big cosy bed.
My work-life balance has flown out the door,
An angel with wings that have been charred,
From the milieu of tasks that are a chore,
And I’m working not living.
And the noise, the noise,
It’s all white in my head.
And all I want,
Is to stay in my bed.
2016
Competing Religion: From the window of a train
All across the flat lands,
The scattered stoic stone spires of English churches,
reach towards the sky,
in tribute to their god,
Crying to be heard,
A testament to the toil of their beliefs.
And in the fields of gold,
The withered wooden limbs of lightening trees,
reach towards it too,
in honour of their gods.
Dying to be seen,
A testament to the toil of the believed.
And all the while, the black-backed crows
Sit silently stretched along the wires.
Straining to see whose god answers first.
2017
PUBLISHED on Impspired.com Dec 22: Issue 20 Online December 2022. Volume Ten print edition January 2023
PUBLISHED on The Causley Trust October 2023
A RAGE Of Cancer
I am RAGE!
And rage is ME.
Blinding, bubbling,
Burning, broiling,
RAGE.
Erupts from me,
like lava from some
vehement, vengeful, violent volcano,
bent on disruption.
I am FEAR (too).
FEAR, festers inside me,
A savage scar,
and I can’t see past the C
Word
Now.
FEAR has blinded me,
lives with me.
An unwanted house guest,
that follows you everywhere,
an invasion.
Like an army of ants
with a mission to destroy.
Carer not lover,
Nurse not wife,
always friend.
2017
The Corona Quiet
So quiet the land –
the lanes, the paths
the leafy glades.
Where in the air
viral shadow evades
surgeon scalpel blades.
Corona cripples cursed confused countries,
Crying out for medicine and medicals.
Rage against a parasite
That Earth itself has sent.
Covid 19 coursing, carousing, carelessly carefree
through the blood of this us –
This dominant species.
Powerless to prevent
As we carelessly collectively collect on corners.
Will we die of ignorance?
Or heedlessness ?
And as smoke rises from the ashes
of what is left of us
like a
mad mocking double helix
of the virus
that claimed
us…
How we will move on?
2020
PUBLISHED at the Festival For Poetry June 2020
PUBLISHED online for an AHRC funded project run by the University of Plymouth and Nottingham Trent University
To Derek
I miss
The early morning kitchen cups of tea
Catching up on the news and gossip
I miss
Those conversations across the desk tops
Pretty much doing the same
I miss
Being summoned from afar
And taking my reading glasses – just in case
I miss
Being texted or called in boring meetings
Just to embarrass me and make me laugh
I miss
Those cheeky glances across a room
That tell me you’ve had enough
I miss
Teaching in class with you
And the way we run it like a double act
I miss
You jumping out at me
Or throwing things at me
I miss
The way you know just when to give me a hug
And ‘lend’ me my one tissue
I miss
My line manager
(zoom just isn’t the same)
But more than that
I miss my friend.
2020
Berries in the snow
Hidden in barren boughs
iced berries, like frosted rubies,
await the raw sunshine warmth of the day.
They spatter the monochromatic blandscape
of a winter in post viral modernity,
dancing and laughing in the breeze.
The gathering sun articulates their inevitable doom
as it arcs across a pale cerulean sky,
cut glass crystal crowns trembling in sweet anticipation.
Ah, but they go out in a blaze of scarlet glory
long leaving remnants on our jaded retinas,
a bright red smile to get us through to spring.
Crimson silent expectation of hope.
2021
PUBLISHED on Impspired.com Dec 22: Issue 20 Online December 2022. Volume Ten print edition January 2023
PUBLISHED in New Contexts: 4 by Cover Story Books (Ed. Ian Gouge) December 2022 Also PUBLISHED in a blog for the Sheffield Institute of Education December 2022
Post Covid: Special Needs Kids
What happens to…
the ‘rear’ kids?
the ones with the silent voices
(that) go unheard.
Their sound not travelling
from the back
of the class.
Who listens out for them?
Are we so deaf now?
So immune?
Or the ‘fear’ kids?
the ones with the hidden bruises
(that) go unseen.
Their marks not travelling
from beneath
their low sleeves.
Who watches out for them?
Are we so blind now?
So immune?
Or the ‘beer’ kids
the ones with the slurry excuses
(that) go unbound.
Their gaze not travelling
from the front
of their face.
Who dares ask much of them?
Are we so scared now?
So immune?
Or the ‘tear’ kids?
the ones with the cover stories
(that) go untold.
Their chairs not travelling
from the door
of the room.
Who sits and talks with them?
Are we so numb now?
So immune?
Or the ‘peer’ kids?
the ones with the fewer friends
(that) go alone.
Their appeal not travelling
from the screens
of their phones.
Who inspires heart in them?
Are we so cold now?
So immune?
What happens now?
now that they’ve missed
so much.
Who will pick up the pieces?
Will you?
Will I?
2021
The Boy Who Grew a Mane
When Ben was ten,
he thought, for a while,
I’ll grow my hair long,
have a different style.
So Ben grew his hair, and nothing could stop him,
not wind, nor sun nor rain.
And it grew in big locks, right down his back,
just like he had grown a real mane.
Unlike his friends,
whose hair was cut short.
Ben kept his growing,
almost like it was a sport.
The other kids laughed,
at all of his curls.
They teased and they pointed,
both the boys and the girls.
Except for one boy,
who knew just how Ben felt.
For he too had been mocked,
for having hair like a pelt.
He stuck up for Ben,
as best friends will do.
And they learned how together,
They were stronger as two.
Two boys with a mane
different from others,
Two boys with a mane,
together like brothers.
2022
PUBLISHED at Dirigible Balloon 2024
PUBLISHED IN New Contexts: 6 by Cover Story Books (Ed. Ian Gouge) February 2024
On a night so deep you can taste it
On a night so deep you can taste it,
I read your letter, aloud.
Quietly.
Uneasily.
But I can’t make sense of the words.
As if somewhere,
between the page and my eyes,
they gave up the ghost.
Lost all meaning –
jettisoned any sense they might once have had,
on the journey to my brain.
The implausibility of your logic marooned on the way.
I hurt.
But is that you hurting me?
Or me hurting you?
Nerves stand naked and restless,
quivering outside my body,
anticipating the last line.
The final word.
Over.
2023
Rainbow
If you can
Look, see the children play.
Build sunshine from rain
Casting rainbows and rubies,
Find stairways to heaven
And back again.
If you can
Listen, hear their voices,
Bring music from sound
Raising castles and kings,
Find highways to freedom
Begin on the ground.
If you can
Learn, with their teaching.
Turn quickly from pain
Weaving dreams for a future,
Then you can run to heaven
And back again.
1981
PUBLISHED in 100 Poems of Hope by the Macclesfield Samaritans August 2024
PUBLISHED in an anthology for hearing dogs for the blind 2024/25
A Dog for All Seasons
This is my dog,
My Tess.
My true companion.
A dog for all seasons,
My all weather friend.
My big black dog,
With a big brave heart,
Who came home to say goodbye.
Thank you Tessy, Pookie, Sweepie, Tessywoo,
My Tess.
Sleep well in the garden that you loved,
May your spirit chase Frisbees forever.
Precious love.
My ever friend.
Loyal and faithful and sweet.
The best of the best.
Ah, Tess,
Walk with me forever Tess,
Be always at my side.
2008
Diluting Family Trees
part 1 – Breaking up
So, we finally let go
you and I –
to be free.
The grey shades of singular
await us.
Someone put my heart
in an icebox.
(I thought it was supposed to mend).
It’s funny, there’s no wound,
yet somehow, I feel raw.
Perhaps my freedom
is getting over you?
part 2 – Moving on
And now it’s just a question
of chlorophyll.
We got the shade we wanted, but…
How green is the grass
on the other side?
It could be an effect
of the sunlight –
does diffracted independence
seem greener than the
pigments of stability?
Perhaps emptiness
will elute it in time.
2024
I adapted it for a Consilience Field Notes: Family Trees edition, so this published version is slightly different from the original. Consilience is a group of poets who are scientists that I am part of, and for who I edit and review – and write.
PUBLISHED in Consilience Field Notes Volume 2 – Family Trees 2024
I’m not sure this is poetry. It’s about my dad and he was poetry to me.
PUBLISHED at Northern Life Magazine 2024
My dad was poetry to me
I’m not sure this is poetry. It’s about my dad and he was poetry to me.
The man who taught me to ride a bike,
(by pretending he was still holding on) is gone.
The man who taught me how to drive his car,
(even though I crashed it, and we didn’t get far) is gone.
This man fed the birds every day,
and made bread so right, but fudge you had to weigh.
His Yorkshire puddings were the best in the land,
made in big bread tins, always by hand.
(Not like mine which are always too small,
and which rise in the oven, only to fall).
That same man who was so down to earth,
listened to opera late on Christmas day,
lying flat out on his back after all was cleared away.
Resting by the radiator, head melting but content,
listening to Aida, happy but spent. He’s gone.
The man who bought me my first posh perfume. Miss Dior.
warmed beans in a tin in the woods, (and called it camping)
– we were home by four.
Who took me fishing in the North Sea off Brid,
and never complained when all I caught was a dead plaice,
having puked the whole time when the boat left the bay.
Who taught me to light coal fires and chop wood
and loved me as his own, tho’ I was not of his blood.
Who never let go, never stopped being my dad.
Being a dad to the lad he never had.
The one to whom he gave the middle name, Jane.
Who called me AJ, whose love never waned. He’s gone.
Gone but 25 long short years ago.
A generation past.
But he’s still alive. Inside.
So, while this may not look like poetry to some, it is
because my dad was poetry to me.
2024