Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Build on the Sand – mid week poem

January 16, 2013

To build on the sand, a wise man once said, is to risk it all

But build your enterprise on the rock of certainty, decency and truth

Indeed in the faith of the goodness and ability of men

And you will prevail

You will win the day and the war

Your name, like the greats of the ancient world, will live on

shifting sands2


Look not to the sands

They shift and play with you

Shape change and shimmer in the brightest sun

They cannot withstand the winds that rush through everything

Changing the rules, shifting the goalposts

Prolonging the journey, with the final destination always obscured,

Always out of reach

Doomed to failure

desert sands


The ark was built of wood to float on a violent sea

No-one builds an airplane while flying it

The house build on sand is washed away by the flood

Destroyed in the storm.

An enterprise build in trust, in truth may be shaken,

May incur casualties but it will endure

It will carry its passengers in safety and surety

and all who travel in it will arrive at their destination as intended

Better, stronger, wiser

Ready to embrace the new day, the new world, the new order.



(Images courtesy Google Images)

Not enough time… A short poem

September 30, 2012

There are not enough hours in my day

Too much work, never enough play

Weekends roll around too fast

Snooze and nod and they’ve run on past

I need some space

Some free play from the constancy of the rat race

To write erudite chapters, up-date fan fiction, write my blog

Without it all feeling like a never-ending slog

A life less frantic

Spent somewhere coastal, perhaps the Atlantic

Would suffice this person longing to be an ex-teacher

So I could write and be, adrift amongst dreams, lazing on beaches

If Time is an illusion

That would explain my confusion, my constant delusion

That I can do it all, if I just worked a bit harder, smarter

Before I succumb to endless darkness: sacrificed: Art & Work’s martyr.

(Images courtesy Google Images)

Mid week Poem – Advice to a Young Poet from a Cynical Has-Been

June 6, 2012

Poetry’s just like Art

I know what I like and I can do it myself

But I can’t discern the difference between good and great,

mediocre and marvellous

Yet, I do know awful.

I know the Tay Bridge Disaster is a disaster of a poem

and not just because I was told so.

I know Shakespeare’s sonnets are things of beauty.

But be blown if I can tell why some of this modern shit gets published.

What defines it all now?

Where is the importance of structure and rhythm,

let alone a sophisticated turn of rhyme?

In the plethora of  e–publishing

have we lost the sense of what is good,

what is worthy

in that most obscure and least financially rewarding art form?

I guess my dog could paint something as fine as Picasso

and my rooster could pen a poem that was eagerly published

then go onto win a prize.

I can tell you why a short story is rubbish,

why your novel in progress will always be that

I know why your article won’t be accepted for publication

But please don’t ask me about your poetry.

Never ask me about that.

You see, more than any other form,

the personal, not the objective or rational, rules the roost.

Find an editor who loves your style

Then you’ll be fine, lauded and loved – the darling of the festival circuit

But you’ll never make a living


So if you want to eat and drink

write porn instead

self publish your poetry or save it for dark drunken nights

and selected sycophants who’ll say the right thing in your sensitive poet’s ear

Keeping your poetic dreams alive

(Images courtesy Google Images and Andrews UK for cover of Infidelities by Kat Quickly)

Homage to Pallas-Athena – goddess of Wisdom, Warfare & Art

May 3, 2012

For you Athena

I named my baby, my beloved

My Pallas Athena Ailsa

To be strong and brave and great

To be like you.

I have been yours for years now

honouring you through my child

through my Art, my Writing, my Sewing – I have been Constant.

I  look for the Owl

Seek her wisdom and beauty

Her stillness and stealth

Find her in our oak trees

The Shee-oaks that line the cliffs down to our bay

When I sew new clothes at my table of Creativity

Of Art and Writing

I honour you

As I sew and make beautiful clothes for my family

I am with you, as a part of you

Your wisdom and grace and courage are mine as I create.

Now, I ask you

To help me in my quest, my Art.

To find a home for my work amongst the wider world

For my words to reach the stars

To be free to Write, to Create and live in my world of wonder and imagination. (Images courtesy Google Images)

Mid Week Poem – Jack Lowe

March 14, 2012

Jack Lowe






I ever knew.

Viking Blond hair

Glacial blue eyes

China Doll face

Honey skin

Long athletic limbs.

Some years ago now

a story went around

that he was asked, on a train in the middle of Europe,

to model for German Vogue.

He smiled, of course – amused, bemused –

and graciously declined.

No Armani suits, or Calvin Klein poses for him.

Did he regret that?

Miss his fifteen minutes, his chance to have his beauty

Immortalized forever.

Does he look in the mirror now and see

grey hair, fleshy jowls and sagging belly, a lengthening of that perfect nose?

Does it matter to him?

I bet it doesn’t.

My not-quite-forgotten Summer-time Beach-boy beauty.

Too beautiful for us then

Too beautiful for the rest of the world now. (Images courtesy Google Images)

Dreams of a Mechanical Man

October 22, 2011

Something a bit different, dear readers, a poem for you. Published many years ago in Cordite and Red on Red, NT anthology of stories and poetry. Enjoy!

Dreams of a Mechanical Man

And on the seventh day

Deano plays with his own cars

his fleet of BMWs

and the yellow Porsche.

Cars are his passion

his life.

There is no wife

to cause trouble

be jealous

resent the time

the money

the effort

that goes into the business

into exotic machinery

(and their owners).

On his way to sleep

his subconscious briefly


wonders about some clients

Some female clients

Some married female clients.

He idles for a moment

on female bodies

female parts

and considers

that there must be time

should be time

for other pleasures of the flesh.

Thus Deano’s dreams

become a rambling mess

of Jaguar bonnets

and heaving breasts,

naked flesh

and Mercedes upholstery,

pouting lips

and Carrerra Porsches:

throbbing engines

turbo engines

V12 engines

blonde hair

and ice blue eyes