Monthly Archives: October 2019

I Needed Warmth


I needed warmth,

so I burnt the words

that you wrote for me.

Upon a fire,

a funeral Pyre,

your memory.

A waft of smoke

that joined the sky

of echoes

slowing passing by.


His Last Duchess

His Last Duchess

Hugh stepped back from the microphone,

his lingering refrain hanging around

like a transfixed cloud in a cobalt sky;

Cases packed, farewells grudgingly given

he walked away from the crowds.

The last song singing itself quietly

inside the mind that was moving on,

an ear-worm to an era ending;

for the past is never gone.

‘’And the Rodneys are queuing up,

God forbid…’



One raucous crow

sat up a tree;

he was looking down

his nose at me,

‘Cautious be.”

he cautioned me;

the rest of the day

I trod cautiously.

The Arnold Trophy

The Arnold Trophy

The fact that Mathew Arnold, the poet, wasn’t the inspiration for the Arnold Trophy for Bodybuilding came as something of a shock to me.

I mean, Matthew Arnold, the poet, was surely one of the twentieth century’s foremost exponents of the dumbell – even though he died in eighteen eighty-eight.

‘The Diminishment of Truth’ – a Sequence #NationalPoetryDay, #NPD

This sequence of poems I have called, ‘The Diminishment of TRUTH’

“TRUTH Poem”


is wasted on the youth;

“Where is your proof?”

you ask.

“How uncouth!”

I respond,

“My truth

may not be your truth –

for I am long in the tooth

and you…

are young…

and inexperienced…

and have limbs that don’t creak.


of which I speak,

is for the older person,

the bolder person,

the ‘the days are getting colder’ person.


Or her.

Or them.

Or it.


Not sure about that bit –

I may have to edit

a lit-

A little bird once told me

that I was worth two bushes…

that was handy advice

at the time;

though I never wrote about it

in a rhyme.

I may have misremembered that…

it could have been a cat.

As T. S. Eliot once said:

‘A book is like the colour red’

or maybe it was something else

that he said.

Truth be told,

I’m growing old.

Older by the second,

and my truth is not

all that it shaped up to be…

am I fecund?


I hadn’t the foggiest what that word meant…

until I looked it up.

Does that make me a mug?

Or a cup?


“TRUTH Limerick”

There once was an abstract concept called TRUTH,

that was given to all in their youth

but, the the truth of it is

TRUTH is all bubbles and fizz,

and LIES are the gin and vermouth.


“TRUTH Haiku”

TRUTh is just a word…

National Poetry Day

proposed as a prompt.


“TRUTH Couplet”

A couplet were walking their dogma one day,

TRUtH be told, they never did, but they may.


“TRUTH in a Single-Line”

TRUTH is the luxury of youth.

And a ‘Parting Shot Across The Bows’:



and yet,

nothing at all.

“Murder in the Bookshop”

“Murder in the Bookshop.

(aka “Murder!” she cried.)

It was Eleven fifty-five

on a cold, wet Monday;

when brollies did thrive.

It wasn’t a Sun day

when I walked through the door,

and headed for an aisle;

tripped over the body of work

that Catherine Cookson did while

away her hours in writing the text;

and, upon altering direction,

I arrived at the scene of the crime-fiction section.

“Next!” I proclaimed as I took up a book,

an Agatha Christie? “No!”

By hook or by crook

who has taken the fiction

of Hercule and Jane?

I took a Sci-fi novel instead,

and will have to return

to the scene of the crime-fiction section

once more, once again.