Wednesday, 20 December 2017



Who ever liked perfect rhymes
Nether melted at belle’s charm
Tethers on the edge of jigsaws
Preponderous perfidious 

Could not leave a vacuum
At the centre of his game 
Would never put an orange  
Where it might feel strange 

Slither mouth’d
His words are worms 
Simply there to aerate 
Whilst for some, they-line-them-up, as bait. 

Like goblets made of silver 
Housed in the strong-room of Lady Cadiver
Just waiting to get out
Stumbling together like trash sounds 

Like at the start of London’s marathon
Heaps of sheep, askance, chased by python
A hungry chappy
Set there to fill-a-gap. 

Is it not the forked tongue that whispers idiocies 
Then paints them all up by powers to indices. 
Powdering over those fine cracks 
As eatable as soft white flour’d baps. 

But I prefer the imperfect tones
Slim of volume, though heavily bound 
Charming better than many a hocus pocus
But in the meantime this will never be my opus. 

20th December 2017, South London

Thursday, 14 December 2017

A million fingers of ....

A Million Fingers Of... ❄️ 

Snow of course can offer a slight,
To one who looks heavenly, 
To the white sky.  

Tobogganing in his minds eye. 
Whilst the flakes drift on
But not settle at all 

The worst of them are those that come at night. 
But by the morning’s rain 
Only disappointments remain. 

The deep desire to see all four climes
Without venturing to the tops of mountains 
 As distant as those North of London

And to not want to be bypassed
By the year’s savagery 
To feel that sting of a well thrown

Soft and slushy 
Wet and sticky 
Well you know what I mean 

That want to grind us to a halt
Our old country that in our novels
Immortalised the white Yule. 

A Dickensian time of happy poverty 
When now our cars sputter 
And struggle to climb.
When now our newspapers headline,
The frozen homeless,
Our elderly neighbours all alone. 

And when we can safely
Disdain from our work. 

But snow too, is great in a fight. 
It tends to blanche all misdemeanours 
And for one day, make us forget

The everyday drudge that is, this life.