My Parents made me what I am today.

My mother was a Poodle,

my dad a Labrador…

My grandfather a Seagull,

his mum an Albatross…

Just how I turned out as I am,

has left me at a loss.

Fathers’ Day

On Fathers’ Day

I’d rather stay

out of the limelight.

I’ll admit to being a bit

naff as one, and my own

was surely hard done

by my being the type of son

he never always wanted.

Sky, The.

The sky

goes by

at an alarming rate of knots –

or it barely moves.

It seems to be running with flame-clad hooves,

or hooves of lead encased in clay.

The sky might be in a hurry one blowy day,

then loitering upon a corner the next.

It leaves me vexed to see it changeable so:

should it stay?

or should it go?

The sky is full of many things:

clouds, and the Sun, birds and planes

that spread their wings

and fly away;

midges that cluster around me,

for an anytime feast.

And the sky is all around,

in every single direction, to say the least,

wrapping us in its frail cocoon.

And best of all, up in the sky,

is the character of our own sweet Moon.

Crime Scene Seen

A crime scene

once seen

can never be unscene,

or unseen.

“Where have all the butterflies gone?”

Where have all the butterflies gone?

“Where are ya? Where are ya?

Have you gone off for a nap or a scone?”


‘That seems unlikely;

but, when thought upon,

is as likely as not.’

said a lone Oxford don.


This is an old children’s rhyme –

written by some old children back in the day.

And it goes something or nothing like this:


‘Nobody loves me,

everybody hates me,

Just because…

I am a poet.’


Those were such simple times then;

when a poet could be stoned to silence

for the purveying of their awful rhymes.

Scone loan

I asked a friend

for the loan of a scone,

I said he could have it back

when I had done;

he refused my request,

and not even my behest and assurances that I would replace it with a familiar or similar,

it it were damaged beyond repair,

would make him change his mind;

he did not care.

They do say Scone Love is blind.


He looked at me, then,

as a wise man looks at a stopped clock

trying to pinpoint exactly

when is Pimm’s O’Clock.

“The Interrobang?!”

I’d never heard

of this strange, strange word;

until I had –

and then it blew my mind.


“Blew your mind?!” you ask,

as you unscrewed your flask

of cold, cold tea.


“Yes!” I replied,

as I considered the tide –

coming in? Or going out?

“Is it coming in?!”

I shout.


Your tea imbibed,

upon a piece of parchment you scribed

the word, ‘Idiot’.


At least I tried.


“Big plonk,

Little plonk,

Cardboard box

Looks like a goose,

And smells like a fox.”




What is a Huarizo?

What indeed?

Is it a Tapas dish?

Maybe it’s a make of car.

Maybe not.

Anyway, before we stretch our imaginations too far,

let me take out of your misery,

it is the cross between a Llama and an Alpaca.

Who’d have thought it?