Monthly Archives: June 2021

Bees Wax

Bees wax lyrical

about all manner of things;

for every bee is a poet

a beeBard with wings;

and the humblest of subjects…

dedicates to the Queen,

all manner of poems,

on the flora they’ve seen.


Home is Leeds,

Home is Rome,

Home is where you tend to needs,

Home is a four-letter word,

Home isn’t Frome,

Home is where the heart is,

Home is where you make it,

Home is 40% of homeopathy

(two fifths in old money)

and Home is derived from the Old English hām.

Blurry Gull

Blurry Gull

up in your blurry sky,

I watch your progress,

as, blurrily, you fly by.

Worker Bees

Could a worker bee

be a key worker?


Not a locksmith type;

but an essential employee,

Not a shirker,

but an industrious soul;

who, on the whole,

plants their feet

and gets down to the beat

working to the rhythm of the buzz-saw heat;

with a band of brothers;

and, amongst so many others.


“Fingers on buzzers…

for a bonus of five:

‘Can a bee be said to be,

or not to be?’ “

as they sing,

whilst upon the wing,

‘I will survive

the thrive of the hive!’


Maybe, in all probability,

a bee ‘can’ be

a worker bee –

now do you see?

Murder on Monday

Not the best of starts;

but, the week had to improve –

for those left alive.


Everywhere I go,

my little black dog goes, too.

It might seem invisible,

or you might see through

the little black shape

that’s by my side;

I don’t intentionally

try to hide

my coal-cellar chum;

but, if I go for a walk,

along it’ll come.


I’ve had the bête noir

for such a long time,

and, on occasion,

it gets put into my rhyme.


Everywhere I go,

I know,

my little black dog

is sure to go.

‘If Monday never came’

If every day

was a Saturday

or a Sunday,

and there was no imminent Monday –

how would that work?


Would we Groundhog Day

the weekend?

Rewind and repeat

until the very end of time?


How would ‘that’ work?


Would we learn the piano,

foreign languages,

how to ski,

actually be?


Would we make a difference?

To only have it reset,

before a Monday morning’s wet dawning

ever dampened our dreams?


Groundhog Weekend?

06:00 comes yet again;

reality numbs

(and though there is rain),

“At least we’ve still got the weekend, Babe.”



Love is Life

Love is Life

Life is Love

Is Love Life?

Is Life Love?

? Love Life is

Life Love ? is

And then I jumble up the letters…

¿voLe fiLe sì?


Could our lives diverge?

Can our love deplete?

Voices, everywhere reveal years,

Validify every rash yearning,

Contaminating our lasting days.


Cold, cold, very very cold.

Re: Claim

I staked my claim

back in ‘62,

was given a name

by ‘you-know-who’,

grew up bad

or good

depending on the situation,

and here I am,

under evaluation.


‘21, where I am now,

got myself here,

don’t quite know how;

and here I am,

all covered in mud,

with a hint of Turmeric

running through my blood.


Yes, I know,

that I write bad verse;

but, if anybody read it,

it could be much worse,

‘Worse than what?’

I hear nobody ask.

Ask me another,

increase my task;

and maybe one day,

when the weather is right,

I’ll write a ‘proper’ poem –

I might, I just might.


So, on and on

the words they go,

is there no log-jam

to the endless flow?

I’ll stop when I think you’ve had enough;

when times are good,

and rhymes are rough,

I’ll be the Bard

with quill and ruff.