I've never been one for publishing my poetry. I show a few people, but for me, it's about getting a moment onto paper, much like picking up a camera and taking a snapshot. It so often loses something when the moment has passed. A lot of my verse is insipred by something I've watched or read and empathised with, sometimes by people in my life. I'm not going to explain which is which or why. That would spoil the moment here and now. So here are a few of the poems I think might transfer well:

Lone Wolf
Some Day
Empty Pages

Every Time



When you smile you become
Alive. Your face, illuminated,
The cares erased and the years.
A spark ignites and yes
You are still there.
When you laugh, against frailty
You free yourself,
Young once more for a moment
and strong. Playfulness restored
and for that moment
You are the man that we all know.
The man that would invent
and fix, and teach
and inspire. Enquiring minds
encouraged by your skill.
Analysis and insight are your gifts
To us and are the source
Of your grief.
Knowing, both a blessing and a curse,
for it all seems gone,
Stolen away by time,
the cruel nemesis of us all.
You retreat, creating visions
of the past and of things that never were.
Gone away, closed, not for good,
only until you smile.















Lone Wolf

Am I feral or am I tame?
Am I willing to play your game?
Are you safe while I'm around?
What is it that you think you've found?
Give me a name, offer your hand
What makes you think this isn't planned?
Do you know me? Perhaps in part.
Don't get too close, I'll have your heart.







Some Day

Some day I might even tell you.
Tell you how you own my heart.
Some day when my time's past due.
When we can only be apart.

Some day you'll get a letter.
A letter that bares my soul.
Some day when things are better.
When we no longer need control.

Some day you will know for sure.
No more silly little games.
Some day far from premature.
When I'm beyond loss in the flames.

Some day there will be an ending.
This dance of ours will be through.
Some day we can stop pretending.
When you learn what you always knew.












He's pissing in the corner of the station
His friend declares they haven't got a home
I hurt for them and yet I am afraid
It's a modern day passer-by syndrome
I hurry by and hope they won't engage me
But really, which is the greater shame
To be seen with the forgotten unseen people?
Or to forget I like to think I am humane?

They board the train with all the other people
The revulsion like a wave moves down the car
I want to tell the people don't abhor them
Don't move away, stay right where you are
But I don't because I'm just like all the others
When all is said and done I'm just the same
The altruistic heart I hoped I had
Doesn't have the courage that it claims

I leave the train to make my next connection
Ashamed of myself for being so cold
How much would it have cost me just to smile?
How hard is it really to break the mold?
I chide myself and yet again tomorrow
If they're there I know I'll do it all again
The empathy is there but I can't show it
Perhaps some day I'll act on examen.
















Pebbles from the beach where my father flew away
In my hand they look small and grey
In my heart they are purest white
Fragments of the stars that night

Pebble on a necklace my grandmother gave to me
In my hand it whispers to me
In my heart I remember well
Days before the family fell

Pebble on a keychain, a fairground souvenir
In my hand it appears so queer
In my heart it was quite a prize
I was but a half pint size

Pebbles in a box at the back of my mind
In my hand I'm amazed to find
In my heart I'm starting to see
Pictures of who I used to be

Pebbles bearing memories since time began
In my hand with it's brief life span
In my heart I know they'll go on
Long after you and I have gone














Empty Pages

Empty pages, let us talk a moment here.
You see, you fill me with a most irrational fear.
You scare me half to death with pristine white.
This isn't writer's block, it's writer's fright!
I've tried to work with you in pastel dress
But find the end results are still a mess.
So what am I to do, oh pages clean?
To scratch my pen upon you feels just mean.
It is your purpose, yes I know, to take the word
And let it live to be re-read, even heard
But I look at you, your pefect paper face
And to sully you with ink seems a disgrace.
Have I the right to write upon such beauty?
There are far less dainty forms to fill that duty.
The electronic page can take your place
And then my foolish marks I can erase
But no, those pages cannot be as good
And leaving you for them is simply rude.
There has to be an answer, pages dear.
Perhaps we ought to wait for an idea
That we can share, that flows from my pen.
Yes that's the way and maybe... maybe then
We'll work together gladly my old friend
Your surface alive with words up to The End.
No doubt we'll start again with something new
And there'll be this chat again some time with you.
Until then I'll place you back upon the shelf
To be your unblemished, uncorrupted self
And when my words have the power to compare
To your perfection we'll say at last fair's fair.
For now my ache to write must be complete
Upon the knowledge I can always press Delete!


















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