Yoga pose no.1
Yoga pose no.2
Yoga pose no.3
Yoga pose no.4
Yoga pose no.5
Yoga pose no.6
Yoga pose no.7
Yoga pose no.8
Yoga pose no.9
Yoga pose no.10
Yoga pose no.11
Yoga pose no.12
Southwark Cathedral 1.
The constant and the static.
Southwark Cathedral 2.
The constant and the static.
Missing person.
I want to report a missing person.
Tall.
Handsome.
18 years old.
Thick rimmed glasses.
White.
No fixed religion.
Answers to the name of Victor.
There’s more.
He was never the sort of boy
who would rush to the door
when I returned home from work
and grab me around the leg
screaming Daddy’s home
Daddy’s home.
And me picking him up
and swinging him around
and around
until he was nearly sick with love.
We didn’t have any of those
Hallmark card moments.
That wasn’t his style
but I knew he loved me
the only way he could
and I miss him.
I once wrote him a poem.
It went -
My heart has a tap
and if you turn it on
you will drown in love.
Now I’m the one drowning in love
clutching to a handful of memories.
When he was 5
he insisted on being taken
to a football match.
You’re too young I said
but he was determined.
Ok I said but football fans are rowdy
and when the home team score
the crowd will go off like a volcano.
He didn’t care
but when the stadium
eventually erupted
with a deafening tribal roar.
he was terrified.
I held him tight.
Really tight.
So he felt safe.
My big Dad’s arms
are still holding him tight
even though he’s 200 miles away.
I find myself wanting
to go to the door
to see if he’s returned
like you do when your cat
has gone missing.
You see -
for 18 years I’ve loved him.
Cared for him.
Held teaspoons
of food to his lips.
Kissed it better when
he grazed his knee.
Taught him how to walk and swim
and be a decent human being.
But I turned around
and he had simply walked away.
Off on a great adventure.
I want to be by his side
but I can’t.
This time he’s on his own.
Yes
I have the memories
but the adventure is all his
and I miss him.
Did I mention that he loves tennis?
He’s good at it too.
Somebody once told me
the love for your children is
profound.
More profound than the love
between man and wife.
You and your mother
father
sister or
brother.
A profound love.
It comes with being a Dad.
The silver bells that rang in my head
the first time I held him
are still ringing.
Oh and did I mention
he won the business prize
twice in a row at school?
I was there bursting with pride
but now I’m left with this
strange feeling inside.
It’s not pain but it’s close to it.
I can’t quite pin it down
but it’s there
in between the small rituals of the day.
The pain of missing him
like an aching elbow.
Tall.
Handsome.
18 years old.
Thick rimmed glasses.
White.
No fixed religion.
Answers to the name of Victor.
If you spot this missing person
please tell him –
I miss him.
The world’s greatest man.
I am not famous.
Somebody once said
I looked a bit like Alexi Sayle
but that’s it.
I have never been papped
by the paparazzi
or asked for my autograph
in the street.
I wish people would.
I’d like that
but they don’t.
To boost my self esteem
I sometimes imagine
I’m the world’s greatest man
but I’m not.
I am more like a flower
that has never bloomed.
A flower the sun gave up on
a long time ago.
But there has been
the occasional brush with fame.
Once in the early 80’s
while pissing
in a urinal
at Charing Cross Station
I felt a pair of eyes
burning into the side of my face.
As I glanced sideways
the man standing next to me
shouted…
Bloody hell.
It’s Alexi Sayle…
and started singing
‘ullo John got a new motor.
His favourite song.
20 years on
and I’m in Los Angeles
having dinner with
Muhammad Ali.
An event as unlikely to happen
as Tony Blair admitting
he was wrong about the Iraq war -
but it did happen.
I had written a commercial
about Muhammad Ali for Adidas.
It told the true childhood story
of how Cassius Clay
as he was then
got his brother
Rahman
to throw rocks at him.
Floating like a butterfly
Rahman never hit him once.
We spent 2 weeks
filming this story with Rahman
but as it turned out
acting wasn’t his thing
and his whole contribution
hit the cutting room floor.
Rahman didn’t seem to mind
happy living in the world’s
greatest shadow.
In between takes
Rahman told me his brother
was a prophet.
I had my doubts
but he insisted his brother
was not mortal.
His logic was simple.
When people meet my brother
they either burst into tears
or become so overwhelmed
with happiness
they beam with joy.
He can’t possibly be human.
When Muhammad Ali
finally turned up on set
Rahman was right.
The crew
made up of hairy arsed
lamp operators
grips and gaffers
not usually given
to emotional outpourings
either burst into tears
or were overcome with joy.
I was one of the beamers
grinning from ear to ear
at the world’s greatest man.
Gifted.
Precocious.
Quick on his feet.
From day one he was it.
Kissed by all the Gods.
An object lesson
in all that exists.
A role model.
Anatomy’s golden boy.
I bet Darwin wasn’t thinking of him
when he wrote down his theory.
A humanitarian.
A global citizen.
A Poet.
A man who has touched
countless lives
with his unwavering spirit.
A voice for those without a voice.
A man true to himself.
I am not like that.
It was said that
If you cut Muhammad Ali
he would shine light.
If you cut me
I would bleed.
He put the crew at ease
with a trick
levitating himself off the ground.
I wasn’t so sure that it was a trick
especially after what Rahman
had said.
I was told to introduce myself.
No I said.
Why not they said.
The whole idea makes me feel
like I’m coming down
with something very bad
I said.
I got nervous.
What if I introduced myself
and he wasn’t the world’s
greatest man?
What if he had the cold eyes
of a fake?
What if he turned out to be
like somebody I once knew
who said they were my friend
and then
when they thought
I wasn’t looking
stole all the biscuits
from my biscuit tin?
I was eventually thrust
towards Muhammad.
A mountain of a man.
I needn’t have worried.
He simply looked down at me
took my hand and said…
Bloody hell, it’s Alexi Sayle...
and started singing
‘ullo John got a new motor.
His favourite song…
It might have happened
but didn’t.
As he towered over me
I looked in to his eyes.
Eyes bigger than his fists.
Fists that stung like a bee
and said the first thing
that came into my head.
Do you fancy a spot of dinner?
I then I realised how gauche
that must have sounded.
Me
a mere soap bubble that vaguely
resembled Alexi Sayle
floating aimlessly in the air
inviting the world’s greatest man
out to dinner.
I wanted the ground
to swallow me up.
He thought about it.
Sure
he said.
I’d love to.
Devon ladybird 2017.
Devon Apples 2017.
Selfie 2016.
Devon beach 2016.
Devon garden 2016.
Autumn
I got into my magnificent
new
cream leather seated car
turned on the radio
and drove off
listening to Beethoven
or somebody
feeling good inside.
Good
from the tips
of my fingers
to my foot
on the accelerator.
I drove past the friendly
black doors of neighbours
20
21
22
23
24
25
feeling good.
So good
I even tooted at a stranger-
who gave me the finger.
I like this feeling of
feeling good.
It’s the feeling I had
when I was a child
but somewhere along
the way
somebody must have
mugged me
and stole my good feelings.
Recently though
slowly and cautiously
these feelings have returned
and I’m embracing them
holding them
loving them
like I would
if a large pair of fulsome breasts
had been thrust upon me.
When I was a young man
I wanted two things.
Girls and success.
They both proved
impossible to get.
The harder I tried to get the girls
the faster they ran away.
The more I wanted success
the more it kicked me in the teeth.
It was around this time
that feeling good
turned into feeling angry.
I became dissatisfied.
Impatient.
I disagreed with everyone.
I wanted to change everything
because everything was wrong.
I was angry.
I wanted success.
It consumed me.
There just wasn’t enough space
to feel good anymore.
With the girls
I tried to be cool
but I was about as cool
as a plastic laundry basket.
I began to hate myself.
I began to hate everything.
I hated people.
Dogs.
Babies.
Newspapers.
Museums.
Shakespeare.
American accents.
The colour mauve.
The countryside.
Essex.
Fried eggs.
Opera
The Beatles
and punk music.
Punk music should have been
an outlet for my anger
but punk
just made me more angry.
But it wasn’t all anger and hate.
There were a few good things
that had slipped under the barrier.
like
boozing
brooding
and work.
I worked hard
for success
and as I went on
with this pathetic pursuit
I realised I wasn’t alone.
We were all at it
busting our balls
for success.
Nudging
inching
cheating
to get an advantage.
Trying to avoid the rat poison
in the Knickerbocker Glory
we were all gobbling down.
Some of us were better at it
than others
and got success.
It felt good.
It was glamorous
and well paid
but then something changed.
I don’t quite know where
it happened on my time line -
when I had my stroke
perhaps
or maybe this life
had simply wore me out
but I started to relax.
I smoothed out.
The things I’d been so angry
about
didn’t seem to matter
any more.
I no longer felt the need
to be better
than the next person.
It was less important
to win.
I started to see more
and feel more.
The things I had
blocked out
and deemed superfluous
were now walking
through an open door.
I now find empty spaces
in my life.
A pure
soft space
to do nothing in
but watch a vapour trail
from a plane
gradually melt into the sky.
Yes
I lapse sometimes
but I’ve mentally shut down
my body and rebooted.
Even if things turn bad
I won’t feel any angry
just good.
If my boss calls me in
to fire me
I will thank him
for setting me free
and feel sorry for him
that he is still trapped.
It seems a new concept
has entered my life.
Something approaching peace
and it feels good -
like this morning
when I was lying in bed
with my wife.
She was asleep with her head
on my shoulder
and her arms wrapped around me.
It felt warm and safe.
It felt like love.
I listened to her breathing
in and out
like gentle waves
of cotton wool
and just being there with her
under the covers
felt good.
Really good.
I used to think
that if I gave in
to these good feelings
then somehow
the things
I felt good about
would disappear.
A disaster would happen
and I would end up
destitute on skid row
a broken man.
It’s dark now
and I catch my reflection
in the window.
A big shape of a face
sipping a glass of wine
and I like what I see.
Yes
it’s an odd face
but I don’t care.
I think I’m almost handsome
interesting even
and glad I’m not a young man
any more.
I smile
and he smiles back.
I like him
and I can tell
he likes me.
We raise our glass to each other.
Cheers.
Stanley never asks why.
Stanley is autistic and
Why doesn’t exist.
Most children are sponges
they need to know why.
Stanley never asks why.
Is it because the world
is difficult enough
already?
More likely
he simply doesn’t know
how to ask questions.
Stanley is not curious.
Stanley never points like
an excited child would point
Shouting look Daddy look.
Stanley only points at
things that are familiar
a passing ice-cream van
a B&Q warehouse
the McDonalds sign.
Look Daddy look
the chip M.
The M for McDonalds
made out of chips.
Stanley never asks why.
If you never ask why
things will stay the same.
A strategy Stanley
seems to understand.
Stanley lives in a world
of DVDs, videos
and picture books.
He knows every
inch of dialogue,
every full stop
and comma
which he repeats over
and over and over
in his head.
When Stanley was younger
we read stories together.
We still do.
Stanley is now 15.
Each Peach Pear Plum is still
one of his favourites.
Ironically
it’s a story
about I Spy,
a game he has no interest
in playing.
Stanley never asks why.
So I will ask why instead.
Why him?
Why does he have to
struggle so much?
Why won’t the fog lift
so he can see more clearly?
Why?
Stanley has no interest in why.
He has no interest in money.
He has no interest in winning.
He doesn’t know how to lie.
Stanley never asks why
but he’s found the answer
to a better way
of being.
20th June 2014.
Today I saw
or Burmese
but I’m no expert
sitting on the grass in St James park
dressed in saffron
silent
with only the sound of me
staring.
With heads
free from the clanking of anxiety
and self doubt
they seemed to be floating
in their own private bubble of peace.
When I was a young man
I thought peace and happiness
was for whimps and the weak
or for people who had simply given up.
I was restless
I wanted success.
I had a steam train inside of me.
I was unstoppable.
And then
while sitting in a garden in Devon
listening to a bird singing
the only song it knew
my steam train
finally ran out of steam
and I came to a shuddering
stop.
I stopped worrying
about trying to gain the advantage
and the man
who will eventually fire me.
When I am called into his office
to be given the bad news
I will say
that’s fantastic news
and enthusiastically shake him by the hand.
I was caught
and now I am free.
I will walk out into the sunshine
and the whole day will be mine.
I’ll look at the world
full of angry people
despondent
cheated
disillusioned people
and I will sit quietly
like the two monks in their bubble
and watch -
because now
at last
I finally have the advantage.
Peace.
Of course the two monks in their bubble
already know about this stuff.
but they don’t go shouting about it from the roof tops-
you’ve got to find it out for yourself.
I found it for an egg timer full of time
in a garden in Devon.
The monks live it
every moment of the day.
Eventually
they got up and walked away
and as they passed by
one turned his head
towards me
and silently
smiled.
Now
I don’t want to make a big thing of this
but let’s just say that the smile
was as warm as the sunrise
from a Turner painting
and as peaceful as Pablo Cassals playing
Song for the birds on his cello
and leave it at that.
7th July 2014.
I was sitting in St James Park
in a deck chair.
£1.60 an hour.
It’s a good place to stop
and do nothing for a while
and at £1.60
very affordable.
A man was sitting next to me
on the grass with his laptop
watching a film
too tight to pay the £1.60.
He was well manicured
with silver grey hair
tie and jacket
and probably a civil servant
who worked in Whitehall.
His phone rang.
I’m here by the deck chairs
watching Julia Roberts
he said.
I wondered who might turn up.
A work colleague perhaps?
The woman
he was having an affair with?
I was wrong on both counts.
It was his gay lover.
Younger
more good looking
but less manicured.
They kissed.
Just a quick peck
in case they were seen
and then his lover
spread out a picnic.
The grey man took out
a punnet of strawberries
and chose one.
He held it gently between his fingers
and looked at it
with wide
doting eyes
as if the strawberry was
a living breathing hunking
Adonis.
There was real sexual tension
between the grey man and the strawberry
and I wondered if it was really possible
to have a crush
on a piece of fruit.
Could a sensuous looking banana
turn you on?
or a particularly fleshy peach?
Would it be wrong to whisper
Je t’aime
Je t’aime
into the ear of a cute looking raspberry?
The more I thought about it
the more an innocent strawberry
became a metaphor
for gay sex
and if a strawberry
was a metaphor for gay sex
what was the metaphor for
straight sex?
Rhubarb and custard?
The grey man carried on
swooning over the strawberry
and then suddenly
inexplicably
placed it back in to the carton
as if Adonis had unexpectedly
farted.
With the magic gone
the grey man turned his attentions
to a packet of
cheese and onion crisps
and started to munch.
19th July 2014.
I live in
a quiet
leafy
middle class
polite
square.
But not today.
Parked outside my house
was a drunk
slumped on a mobility scooter
drinking a can of Special Brew.
He was in his late 50’s
spoke with a slurred
Mancunian accent
and was about
as out of place
as a Nun in a brothel.
As I unchained my bike
from the railings
he started a conversation.
That’s the best way
to get around London
he slurred.
You don’t seem to be doing
too badly yourself
I said
but then I noticed
he had crashed his vehicle
into the kerb
and had one wheel up on
the pavement.
What are you doing here?
I said
spoiling our square
except I didn’t add that bit.
I fell from
Dog Star Cirrhosis
he said -
noting that it’s quite hard
to say Cirrhosis
when you are drunk.
I got on my bike and cycled off.
He belched and wished me
a good day.
As I travelled to work
I though about the man
who fell from
Dog Star Cirrhosis
and into a
quiet
leafy
middle class
polite
square
and wondered why
I was so prejudiced
against him
getting drunk in my square
and not in some dark alley way
that stank of piss and no hope.
But that’s the trouble with living
in a middle class neighbourhood -
you start thinking
middle class bullshit.
8th August 2014.
I ordered sea bass
and the waiter delivered it.
The sea bass lay in it’s juices
on a white plate
and I
with my juices still inside of me
sat on a comfy green velvet chair.
We both stared at each other.
Me with two eyes
and the fish with one.
But even with his one beady eye
I could tell he pitied me
sitting in this restaurant
privileged
surrounded by richness and success
and not even that hungry.
It’s the sort of restaurant
that’s hard to book a table in
unless you’re a somebody.
I’m a nobody
but my guest is a somebody
so here I am
sitting at the table
being pitied by a sea bass.
We carried on staring at each other
and I started to pity the fish in return
for being plucked from the sea
and put on this plate
with a sprig of watercress
for company.
I told a story
about the time I took my Mum and Dad
to the Savoy for dinner.
They hated it
felt uncomfortable
worried about the price of the starter
and how my Mum refused to take her coat off
in case somebody stole it.
My lunch date laughed
but the fish remained unimpressed.
It just lay there
a rack of bones
head still intact
and his one beady eye still looking at me
feeling sorry for me
sitting in this restaurant
eating expensive food
while millions
were starving in the world.
The waiter brought the bill.
I checked to see if retribution had been added.
20th September 2014.
A bricklayer lays bricks.
A plumber fixes plumbing.
A poet stares out of the window
and writes down what he sees.
I saw a conker.
A shiny new conker
the colour of deep mahogany.
I wrote it down
and that was that.
What more was there to say
about the conker
other than - it was a conker
shiny and new
and the colour of mahogany.
The end.
Another poem going nowhere -
but suddenly
like Concorde breaking the sound barrier
I was catapulted back to boyhood
throwing sticks at a tree
trying to knock down conkers
and hoping upon hope
that I would find a champion conker
that would beat all other conkers
in a hard fought conker duels.
And then I remembered
how much I hated playing conkers.
Conkers hurt knuckles.
Some cheats even
pickled their conkers in vinegar
to make them harder.
The battles were bruising
knuckles were sore
and after one particularly
painful bout with a sixer
I went home
and gave my champion conker
to my Mum as a gift.
She gave me the gift of life
and showed me light.
I gave her a conker.
She gave me love
hot dinners
knitted jumpers to keep me warm
and a chocolate cake
in the shape of a fort for my birthday.
I gave her a conker.
She gave me a beating heart
Strong legs arms bones teeth
and a nose to smell the sweet things in life
and eyes to breathe in the world.
I gave her a conker.
She nursed me when I was sick
and kissed it better when I fell over.
I gave her a conker.
What price is a Mothers love?
For me it was a conker.
She didn’t complain
and was gracious enough not to mention
that a conker on a piece of string
was scant recompense
for her labour of love.
She simply carried on
Loving and giving.
Loving and giving.
Loving and giving.
MIDDLECLASS
I splashed my face
with cold water
and looked at my
middle class mug
in my middle class mirror
in my middle class bathroom.
I looked exhausted.
Not from life
or work
but from being middle class.
Being middle class is so exhausting.
I was from working class stock
with working class roots.
There’s so much less to worry about.
We didn’t worry about education.
We didn’t bother with lessons.
We dicked around.
We didn’t want to be a teachers pet.
I regret this bit
the not bothering to learn bit
but that’s how education worked
for the working class.
We didn’t worry about careers.
The career advisor
advised me to work on the production line
at Fords in Dagenham.
Anything else
was way above my station.
I was working class.
I knew my place
and my place was on the production line
at Fords in Dagenham.
My parents never worried
about negative equity.
We lived in a Council house
on a council estate
with other working class families.
We were comfotable.
Conversation was kept to a minimum.
Topics were always small.
We were working class
we didn’t need to express ourselves.
We read the small newspapers
not the big ones.
The big papers were full of world issues.
It’s not that world issues were above us
we just prefered them to be smaller.
We didn’t worry about art
the theatre
opera
Radio 3
Radio 4
Wimbledon.
We didn’t worry about socialising.
We never had dinner parties
or BBQ’s.
We never even spoke to the neighbours.
We kept ourselves to ourselves.
We were working class.
We worked hard.
We never went to restaurants.
We didn’t know a Cabernet Sauvignon
from our working class elbow.
When I was a teenager
out on a Friday night
I just pulled a bird
and birds liked to be pulled.
It never occurred to me
that beyond birds
there were women
with independent minds.
We didn’t worry about foreign holidays
we went to Pontins
and it was brilliant.
They were the happiest days of my life.
Then somebody said
holiday camps are naff
and I began to question it.
I began to question everything about
being working class.
My working class roots withered and died.
The middle class scene shifters arrived
and changed the setting.
I now needed to consume culture.
Go to art galleries
the theatre
the opera.
I now like poetry for Christ sake.
I go to art house cinemas.
I buy a big paper at the weekend
and spend all week reading it
have conversations about
the Eurozone
spend fortunes in restaurants
and I am not fazed by Sauvignon blanc.
I have travelled the world beyond Dagenham.
I have an ISA.
I own Le Creuset pots and pans
and haven’t pulled a bird in years.
Being middle class
I visited a museum
to see an exhibition about
Himalayan cultural diversity.
it was crammed
with interesting Tibetan artefacts.
I wasn’t interested in any of them.
A bone crushing tiredness
fell over me
and I was left feeling like
a car with a flat battery.
This is what it’s like being middle class.
Maybe I should have worked
on the production line at Fords.
CRISP ENCOUNTER
Oh Tyrrell
I love you so much.
Oh Walker
I love you too
but we are so very different
I fear we are not destined
to be together.
But Tyrrell
what could possibly tear us apart?
We are from the same earth,
we are watered by the same rain,
we are nurtured by the same sun.
We are spuds.
Good,
honest
spuds.
Oh Walker.
Poor
dear Walker.
Let me explain.
You are found in Newsagents.
I am found in Waitrose.
You are devoured
by common people
who are obese.
I am served in bowls
at social gatherings
and nibbled on by
people of discernment.
You are cheese and onion.
I am marinated anchoive
and Swiss cheese fondue flavour.
Your friends are
Monster Munch
Cheesey Wotsits
and Quavers.
My friends are
root vegetable chips
beetroot chips
and parsnip chips.
You live in a grab bag.
I live in seductive
see through packaging…
I could go on.
No please don’t
Tyrrell.
I can see it’s hopeless.
Shall we just say goodbye then?
Yes
it’s for the best.
Goodbye snob.
Goodbye slob.
SMART ARSE
I went to an art class
And drew a conclusion
That most people there
Had no imagination
They simply drew
What they knew
I drew a blank
And when the teacher
Pointed out
The starkness
Of my markless
Piece of paper
I said
I was drawing breath
A Week in the Life of Victor
You were dancing
in Mum’s tum.
I saw your kicks
both of us not sure
what to expect
as we headed for the unknown.
Today is Wednesday
and you are 14
and like your breakfast egg
you are sunny side up.
Yesterday was Tuesday
and you were 9
standing on the doorstep
in your new school uniform
with room to grow.
On Monday
you were 5
and 30,000 fans erupted
with ear splitting appreciation
as West Ham scored a goal.
I held you tight.
On Sunday
you were 2
catching balls
and dancing around the kitchen
like Billy Elliot.
You are still dancing -
racket in hand.
On Saturday
14 years ago
the midwife said
that’s lucky
and I panicked
that you had nearly died.
He’s still in his sac
she said
the waters haven’t broken
that’s rare that is -
he’s been born lucky.
he’s got me as his Dad
of course he’s lucky.
So from Mum
to midwife
to me
I held you
for the first time.
A rare orchid
as white as winter
and I looked into your
beautiful eyes
as big as the sky
and counted your toes
and wished you all the
music in the world
for you to dance
your own dance.
Tomorrow is Thursday.
You will shine brightly
and I will say
stop
slow down
slow
slow
slow
so I can catch my breath
hug every new memory
and say how much
I love you.
This Jerusalem.
We crawled out of the ooze
And crept like shadows
through mists and time
to a green and pleasant land
and built this Jerusalem.
Lampposts pose like dark bones
light up corridors of concrete
where red sharks swim
swallowing people asleep
with their eyes wide open.
In the sweat down below
it’s as busy as ant hills
with wriggling one eyed worms
and people throw themselves off bridges.
Men go to the back streets of Soho
and wait in line to be whipped
upstairs in the boom boom room.
Down piss alley
a man with an imitation gun
intimidates a pregnant woman
just for fun.
Early morning sun
spills gold across the city
casting a rich glow
across the faces of financiers
sitting in their glass castles
making money
out of greed and folly.
Neon signs flash.
Cash registers bleep
to the beat of desire.
Greed and folly.
An abandoned mattress
with it’s springs spewing out
like rusty guts
rots on the corner of Park Lane.
There is no nightingale
singing in Berkley Square.
There never was.
And you.
You are the one who plants trees.
You are the one who sees
rainbows.
On a hot August night
smeared with mud from the past
they came in their dozens
with burning bows
and gold trainers
shifting destruction
through broken windows
and setting chariots on fire.
Moonlit pirates
hang like earrings made of skulls.
The night time frenzy
is stirred with a large spoon
and the siren cacophony
cuts into your head.
In burnt out buildings
all sense of purpose drifts
like smoke into thin air.
I write these words
because they are true.
And you.
You are the one who plants trees.
You are the one who sees
rainbows.
Small talk
Small walk
Small scale
Small world
Itzy bitzy
Teeny weeny
Smalls
From M&S
Which stands for
Micro and scopic
Small print
Small wonder
Small pox
Smallbone kitchen
Small fries
Small beer
And small cans
Of 2 up
From the mini bar
If a car
is a penis extention
Make mine a mini
Minimum
Minidad
Mini chedders
Mini mouse
Mini house
Mini roudabout
Mini golf is the only golf
I’m tall enough for
Mini ha ha
Mini break
Minneapolis
Martini weenies
Stirred with a short straw
Short cake
Short bread
Short changed
Short tempered
Short sighted
Short comings
Even my short and curlies are shorter than most
In short
I’ve been taken short
I’m a short story
A short measure
God has given me a short back and sides
Climb every molehill
Still
There is a small consolation
For the small man
BIG
Is a very small word
Saucepan head.
Teapot head
Sock head.
4X2 head.
Jug head.
Shuttlecock head.
Fruit head.
Shoe head.
Carrot head.
Colander head.
Toothbrush head.
I WISH.
I wish I had a Sylvia Plath 4-wheel drive.
I would drive it across rugged wordscapes
surrounded by the exploding seas of my mind
to find the most dramatic words
to describe how much I love you.
I wish I had a John Hegley 2.3 hatchback.
I’d fill it to the hilt
with laughter and madness
and drive to the country with you by my side
and picnic on the sweet fruits of your mind.
I wish I had a John Cooper Clark convertible.
It would make me more flashy and dashy
and the music would be loud and pulsating
as it was in my head
on the first day I saw you.
I wish I had a William Wordsworth transit van.
I would load it up with daffodils to bring colour
and the heady smell of promise
to my life
just as they do to a dormant garden.
I wish I could choose the car I drive
but life handed me a Ford Mondeo.
So - I filled it up with a tank full of love
and parked it outside your life
and hoped I would never get towed away.
MANTLEPIECE.
I could have played for England
if I’d had the talent.
I was hell bent
on success-
any success.
I thought it might please you
Dad-
but you loved me just the same.
I’d write a poem for you
instead
but it’s not your cup of tea.
You prefer the news
and Robin Day’s bowtie.
Teenage obesity
is on the front page
we could talk about that.
Did you know
that the Police have given up
on knives
and now stop and search
for crisps and cakes….
It’s good to see you laughing
Dad.
Why did you leave?
Was your heart on the blink?
because mine is now.
Devon is just how you like it
soft thatched and leafy
I’d drop you a post card
but it’s hard
to know where to send it
now we are worlds apart.
Do you still watch television
turned up loud?
Are there clouds?
Is the boiler broken
just the same?
Oh - and by the way
my broken heart needs mending too.
I miss you
Dad
I really do.
I’ve been listening to Ella, Louis
and Burt Bacharach.
Every track
reminds me of you.
Would you like some Louis now
Dad?
I knew you would.
His
is the only poetry that makes sense
to you.
When he sang what a wonderful world
he was right -
but not now.
And I know how Adrian Mitchell
must have felt
when he wrote about his Dad
because I’m feeling that way too.
I miss you
Dad
I really do.
What are you doing now?
I’d like to know
Are you lonely?
or are you laughing
like you’re laughing
in the photo
looking down at me
from the mantelpiece.
It’s good having this chat.
I miss you.
Dad.
I really do
miss you.
Dead tree. Richmond Park.
Richmond Park.
Stick hut. Richmond Park.
I saw an ancient man riding a horse.
A better life.
The sea and me.
Another life.
The tick and the tock
The hole digger.
Fart in a paper cup.
Out of body experience.
Greta Thunberg is right.
The rattle bag.
Elephant gun.
Home 1.
Home 2.
Home 3.
Home 4.
Home 5.
Home 6.
Home 7.
Home 8.
Give me an hour.
Thirteen.
Father Christmas.
Great Dover Street SE1.
Rockingham Estate. SE1.
Borough High Street SE1.
Crucifix Lane SE1.
Harper Road SE1.
Trinity Street SE1.
The wall.
Instagram food.
Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.
Instagram food.
Lamb chops.
Instagram food.
Bacon sandwich.
Instagram food.
Roast chicken.
The journey.
The photographer and the women's photography group.
The photographer and her walking companion.
The photographer and the horse.
The photographer and the duck.
The photographer and the autistic woman 2
The photographer and the artist 2.
The photographer and the duck 2.
The photographer and the taxidermist 2.