‘Wonky Words’

Just to let you know that ‘Wonky Words’ is now available on Kindle and as a paperback from Amazon.

My latest (mainly poetry) poetry book, is raising funds for @TheSanctuaryAngels who provide Angel grants to sanctuaries, animal shelters (and the like) all around the world.

Almost 90 pieces of hand-crafted work are within. Some of my photographs, and a few of my drawings accompanying the words – but don’t let my artwork put you off.

Please check it out at Amazon, download a free sample, write me a letter of complaint, go for a walk, be your own best friend, hug a toy hippo (real ones are a bit large for hugging).

Here is the link: https://amzn.eu/d/gfAes71

Take care; but, most of all… take care.

The Podyn Wakes

I was just about to eat it,

a ‘Podyn’ you can’t beat it –

even if you never ate your mains.


I was gearing up to try it,

and I ‘can’ forget the diet,

for just desserts are always worth the pains.


Then, it opened up an eye…

it focussed in on me…

and before I could ask why…

it ate me for its tea.

PS ‘Podyn’ is ‘Pudding’ in Cornish.

P.I.G.S. Acrostics

Perhaps I, Graeme Sandford,

Identify with all creatures,

Great and small;

Sows, gilts, boars, piglets, all,

PS a gilt is a female pig before she has a litter .

Waiting (once again) in the Waiting Room – a Stream of Consciousness write

My name is The Lone Ranger,

although I do not have a horse,

and am not really a cowboy.

Still, I wait.

It’s a waiting game.

Roll the dice.

Move three paces nowhere,

in a stationary direction.

Turn around three times.

Then repeat in reverse.

Busy going nowhere,

seeking absolute absolution,

or any old solution will do.

Wait a while.

Bide your time.

Bring it on – but not just yet.


“Waiter. There’s a fly-past in my soup!”


“I’m sorry, I may be waiting,

but I’m not waiting for you.”


“Well, just leave me be, then – and now.”


“I shall await further orders.”

“Good luck with that.”


And still I wait.


A dove lands

next to another dove:

the harmony is complete.

Is it only Tuesday?

Is it only Tuesday?

I thought it was later

in the week

than that.

Thursday, or Friday

at the least.

I was ready for a feast of weekend

on the horizon, or on my doorstep,

and yet… it’s just Tuesday,

raining, my spirits dampened,

my enthusiasm wet,

and, yet,

at least it’s not Monday any more.

Yma glaw (there is rain)

There is rain,


After two days with none,

when the brave Sun shone,

we are back to the old routine.


Looking out of the window

to confirm that the sound of rainfall

is actually rain, falling.


I know rain has a calling,

only has the one job to do;

but, why fall on me,

I’m sure it would be

far happier falling upon you.


No, I don’t wish to dampen your spirits

by the fall of the life-giving rain,

but here, now,

it’s being something of a pain.


It reminds me of that old nursery rhyme:


‘Jack and Jill went up the hill-‘


No, not that one!


‘Rain, rain, go away – and stay away until you are called.’


Or something like that.

Never say…

Never say, ‘tiny little rabbit’

in a tiny little boat,

or the rabbit might go overboard,

followed by the dog,

and the tiny little boat

Just might forget to float.

Worse things than this

can happen at sea,

according to me;

but I would take that

with a tiny pinch of fault.

My scheduled post

My scheduled post

is coming out today,

I scheduled it back in May,

twenty thirteen,

I remember the day,

a Tuesday it was,

or a Saturday.


Was it worth the wait?


Time’s moved on,

nearly a decade has gone,

does it retain anything

that makes you want to sing?


And I hope you’ve been singing along.


For the above is a song,

goes on too long,

and isn’t very good;

I never said it was;

why, because,

this song was made of Norwegian would.

We used to have a church

We used to have a church,

but it’s left us in the lurch,

and we haven’t got a church

in which to pray.

The people wish to pray

that they’ll see another day

but we haven’t got a church in which to pray in.

Bag for Melons

Bag for Melons

My bag for melons

was stolen, by felons,

(this kind of thing

happens a lot

when you’re a poet).