Tag Archives: words



is just an anagram

of sp*ne

and p*nes,

sn*pe and sep*n –

and if sep*n

isn’t a word

then it d*rn well ought to be.

They are just w*rds,

l*tters on a p*ge,

so what are you all that worr*ed about?

A Pup in a Mug

A pup in a mug

or a hug in a cup?

What’s up?

Who’s down?

Smile or frown?

Tragedian or clown?

Country or town?

War or peace?

Let war cease!

Tension release



Three Silent Cyclists

Three cycling cyclists,

six spinning wheels,

no one spoke.

“I’m in the garden playing with words!”

I’m in the garden

playing with words;

long fat juicy ones,

short thin skinny ones,

adding on a prefix,

abbreviating puns;

as I pop them in my mouth,

I wonder if they hurt,

pulling out the big guns

polysyllabic dirt.

Wigan Pier and other works

I’m piering at Wigan from a distance;

unlike Southend it’s got me bemused,

I think I’m on the road to nowhere;

because I’m so easily confused.

Up and in,

down and out,

in unhappy Londres

and gay Paree ,

I am beholden

only to me.

A visit to Binary Room 5,

where my elder sibling looms over me,

like a jackboot above a face.

Now, throwing snowballs at Napoleon,

the animals went in two by four,

some moreso than others.

Potatoes and Poets

Poets like potatoes,

and potatoes like poets;

what is more,

a poet can be found in potatoes,

but not in a potato;

a potato, it should be said,

cannot be found in a poet.

It’s all just letters and words,

don’t you think?

A Poem from when writing a poem is not what my brain wants to do.

It’s hard, sometimes,

to craft the rhymes,

that make the words sing;

and, often, if I do write,

what I write is poor,

and lame, and not the same,

as what I write when I’m in the zone.

But, still, I will put my words together,

untether the process of creation,

and, perhaps, by writing,

I might start inviting inspiration.

Or, I can always wait,

for the seminal state

to return.

I may earn nothing

from what I do,

but worth is in the eye

of the beholder:

that is something you learn,

as you grow older.

There is always worth in words.


The word ‘Poetry’

has three syllables;

the word ‘Syllables’

also, has three syllables.

What any of that means

is open to debate;

but, not here, not now,

as I am the one syllable,


Dec 2nd – Starting and Finishing Words

When, is the word

with which I started this poem;

there are many others that I use

in its construction,

some short, some considerably longer,

but, the word that I have chosen

to end this poem

is unknown.

Tuesday is the new Monday, (or should that be Wednesday?)

Tuesday is here,

until it’s gone

(see Lynyrd Skynyrd’s ‘Tuesday’s Gone’ for more on that last part),

and it followed closely on the heels of Monday

(see Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’ for more on that),

precursoring Wednesday

(precursoring is a made-up word)

and claiming to be ‘Hump Day’

(see a camel for details about ‘humps’).

So, should we worry about what the day is called,

or where it lays in the ‘seven’?

(or ‘eight’ – see The Beatles about ‘eight’).

Well, I may have a lot of questions;

but, answers?

What do you think?