Formative decision

I’ve started writing poems that are a bit longer than previously. I’ve stopped trying to create something that fits into 9 or 12 lines, and just let my thoughts run through. So, I hope you like this latest offering. It’s about a decision I made, when I was a youngster, to take an opportunity. I understand why I made this decision.   Formative Decision School isn’t the way to spend


I read this poem out at the latest Seahaven Poets open mic session in Seaford. We had a really lovely evening. Here it is:     Drumbeats Bang, to the beat of a drum, a cycle, a rhythm, driving life forward, creating a pace in life’s repetition, providing us reference to time’s frightening passage, marking the difference between now and tomorrow – time marked in birthdays, mournings, and love. Bang,


I attended an excellent poetry event last week, run by the Needlewriters group, based in Lewes.   Their event has inspired me; I haven’t written a poem for several weeks, perhaps a couple of months, and I managed to write this today.   So, here you go – a poem about my mug.     Mug Comfort-satisfaction steam-feathers my mind; my mug has this aura, a soul – a presence

Sussex Lamb

A slight departure from the poems of recent times. Based on a phrase that has been going round in my head for years, I finally realised I could make something from it. So, this is today’s offering.       When it’s over working.  When our brains’re hurting.  We head through our dour-damp lanes, in evening gloom, heads down, feet pumping, guarded against the bitter cold, with thick coats and


Folk Cut, folk thrust, folk fight for a slice of life, for peace and quiet, for their health, status, safety.   And folk cut you, slice you, dice you and fry you to gain relative wealth, advantage, their own ego.   So where you might be prone to help, support and nurture, advantage is taken and you get shafted.   Trust destroyed, isolate, life’s lonely – alone against your world,

Spring Tea

Tea steam – I risk daze-distraction.  Pot-brewed, warm. Loose leaf.  Pottery pot, hand made, wood fired.  Warm in my hands.  Earthen mug.  Tactile. Warm in my throat. Warm.  In me.  My plants’re waking up.  Spring April day. My berries growing shoots, little leaves – greengage blossom, damson flowers.  My grass is long. Doesn’t matter – beetles love long grass.  Guests who’re good for the garden.  Apple buds, tufty, white –

WP2FB Auto Publish Powered By :