Below you will find more extracts from my collections of poetry, available on Kindle (just click on the Author Central link to go to a list of all my books).
These poems are taken from Dead Bird Song, Gazing into the Abyss, Fragments of Arcana, New Songs for Old Ears, Other Voices, Ditto the Nothing, Necrologue, and Words Were Weeds.
Roughly speaking, the poems are presented here in the order in which they were completed. I apologise if a couple – like Mirror Deep – are a little depressing, but I find that writing poetry is a way of exorcising my personal demons. It is better to have such thoughts bled onto the page rather than rambling around inside my head.
Mirror Deep (from Dead Bird Song)
I want to go to the other place,
There must be a better world than this,
Into the cold black silent water,
The mirror image ripples and breaks.
I hear your call
From the nether world,
I shall come soon,
No time to waste.
I want to go into the cold, the deep;
I just want to sleep.
There must be a better world.
I heed your call,
No time to wait,
I follow the ghosts of souls
Into the mirror deep.
The Walled Garden (From Gazing into the Abyss)
The garden walls have tumbled down,
The stones are lost among the weeds,
This garden has now gone to seed,
Pretty flowers have withered brown,
The fountains blocked by fallen leaves;
No hand remains to cut the grass,
Or clear the weeds from unwalked paths,
Or pick fresh fruit from off the trees,
Or drink the water of the streams.
This realm that’s steeped in age and myth,
Two trees it keeps; though old, they live.
One hand could pick the fruit they give,
But no one reaches for their gift;
For they have gone, the birds have flown,
The animals no longer play,
No one tends the garden today,
Its first stewards have been disowned,
So long has passed since they were there,
So long a garden without care.
A C G T (From Fragments of Arcana)
The doors of your perception
Need a different key,
To unlock the mysteries,
To allow you to see,
A double serpent spiral,
Dancing around the tree,
Ancient wisdom to regain,
Yin and yang duality,
The god text in your soul,
Still waiting to be free.
Another Day (Blue Sky) (From New Songs for Old Ears)
Vapour trails write across the blue sky;
Two jets up there, somewhere, invisible to the eye.
You crane your neck to see the white lines.
Birds sing in the hubbub of desire, and territorial claims.
You scent the life-green grass, still damp from the recent rains;
Somewhere, behind some house, you hear the children play.
A thump, a bump and joy turns to a kiss-and-make-better cry;
It is another day.
My Blue Sky (From Other Voices)
My blue sky is inside my mind,
I put the sun up with a pin,
And blow away the clouds of rain,
My breath becomes the wind.
I knit the shine into sunny days
And breathe the frost into heat haze.
No vapour trails, only birds
Cut from nature magazines.
I put inside all I can find,
In my blue sky, inside my mind.
Green Ink (From Ditto The Nothing)
Writing in green ink,
They’ll never think
Me mad now.
I’ll write to the letters page
Of the Daily Hate
And have a rant or two:
Disgusted of Milton Keynes strikes again.
I’ll use a pseudonym
Change the letters of my name
So that there’ll be no blame
Not that I have anything to hide.
They have no respect
Towards their elders and betters
The people who write green ink letters;
These children know no shame,
With their crop tops and their video games.
Writing in green ink
It makes you think
It makes me proud
To stand out from the crowd,
And I intend to have my shout
Until my green ink runs out.
Homesick Welsh Blues (From Necrologue)
I want to go to the grey slate quarries
The grey sleet skies
And the grey-wooled sheep
On mountains steep
With dew-flecked grass and blue-grey rocks.
I want to see the see at dusk
The sun setting over Cardigan Bay
The rivers full of snow-melt flow
Grey currents churning towards the sea
I want to see the Menai Straits
Cross the bridge to Anglesey
I want to stand on Ynys Mon
Return to the land of peoples past
Return to Wales, at last.
Book Buying (From Words Were Weeds)
Holding the dusty tome, you blow motes from the cover –
They are caught in the rays of the sun,
Sparkling like magic; you turn the book over
Handling it with as much care as some nervous lover –
This book was extant before your grandmother was born
And she’s been dead for years now.
You can smell its musty scent, dust and damp and time,
The binding is in good condition, only slightly torn
Along one small part of its spine;
You don’t recognise the title, or its author;
You open the book, gazing on pages only slightly yellowed –
You are surprised that it’s so fine.
The words you read tell of a long lost age,
The language seems quaint, and somewhat verbose,
Sentences crafted like Gothic architecture:
Time rolls back while you read the page
There is a cough – the owner of the shop
Inquires as to whether you’d like to buy the book,
Rather than merely look. He names the price –
Too high – you shake your head and drop
The old volume on his desk, and go,
False nonchalance exuded manfully,
For you would have loved to have paid,
But your anorexic wallet said no.