I’m not friends with you on Facebook

This means you have me as I am now and not via the tracks I have taken and

The dust that’s fallen on former versions of myself, hanging up in

The gallery that is my life , is me,
My curation

My soul’s memories of myself and others and

I envy myself, the places I have been and the fun I have known – never alone, never unhappy,

Never a crooked smile, unless I request my deleted items be undeleted

Epitaph for Grandpa Pete

Peter Merer,
Architect, sailor, spitfire

Zoom up –
SWERVE, the tropics
And dales, war to peace:
Air to sea.

He ruled
New colours and     
Shapes that could tame breezing light
Like the best
Sails and wings.          

Grandparents, Reunited.

She had bright
Red papier mâché,
He, a thick oak.  

Between funerals,
The years, brittle,
Wan, now mingled
With the best ones –  

Dusty joy,
Shared; striding, touching,
Swimming through the wind.

Ballad of Will Killingsworth

He used to hoard his poems in a plastic bag –

They were heavy but the burglars threw them on their

Backs with the rest of his life – fill the cracks in theirs

With more crack.


Later, he came home and found it

Gone and worse, his poems taken, and he knew that

Somewhere, soon, they would decompose in the stink

Of rotting  food.


Nothing was left, he had no insurance, he had

No chip that housed anything good he’d ever said

With dread the sink dripped and he thought how stupid

He had been to put his poems in a plastic bag that felt like money.


[To be continued]

Hive Cycle

I was stung one

Summer, I was pushed

About the hive, a drone

Who flew too high, my

Wings were snapped in

Two and I was left

For dead, stuck to the

Honey I’d help produce.


But never mind, many

Summers have passed

That honey is long

Gone and I am

Born to another life,

A new queen, a new

Day and a world of pollen

To seize.


Bacterial Thinking

Magic rolling tune

Song strung behind

Mine mind mule

Dashed out after

Dark and deeper

Thinking moulding

Round the days gone

By in a thick haze

Green enough to

Grow algae’s virulent spores

To touch the Future

Tinge its raw with

Green flecks where flesh

Taints on thoughts

That writhe alive

Between what is red

And fresh and clean.

“Hey, sister, can you tell me where a man might find a bed?”

Those times when we would

Walk across plains  to see

A place whose face was home

For a time; a nose and mouth

In addition to our own,

A pulse whose tick was echoed

Through the day, however far.


Our wrists are severed now but

The rhythm still goes on even though

No tie but nostalgia links our veins,

Our roots are intertwined by

The strengths we shared and

Weaknesses we endured together.

Day by day, getting here

I have been ill

I have been fat

I have been thin

I have been blind

I have been unhappy

I have been ugly

I have been beautiful

I have been clever

I have been slow

I have been switched off

I have been switched on

I have sufffered

I have enjoyed suffering

I have gloried in my struggle.

I have benighted my pain

Have I  triumphed through adversity?

No, I have been Adversity itself.

There is no triumph through it,

Only change in direction.

I have seen my


my path, travelled

along it some then

made a new one,

In search of better scenery.

Have I found it?

Yes. Now the road

is long and I am

it and it is me

and the view is

what I allow myself

to be.

To treat and illness

Will you treat

me to tea

and cake or

champagne or an

icecream sundae?

When I was ill treats

came bitter, through

a needle to the bum

or the radiographer’s


New Year’s Eve, now and then

Drinking sweet

Liquor rum

In my brain

Thinking of

Cuba and you,

Together. Why,

When you are

Here and now

And that was

There and then,

But somehow

Intertwined round

The same bend

Of year, this

February time

That should be

Winter and isn’t

Spring. This

Fuzzy hiatus

Before the year

Begins in earnest.

The Chinese got it

Right, ours was premature,

Christmas merriment

Still mulling

Recognition through

Old Lang Sine,

Sung too soon.

Febbraio en Cuba,

February in London;

Two thousand and nine,

Two thousand and ten.

Alone abroad,

At home, with men,

With you, maybe.

More at sea than

When the Malecon wall

Fenced me off from

Them, males with

Bright, tall sails

Bobbing, skidding, winking

Through the sun-hot sheen.

Now the year’s

Stacked up its freight.

Destined where?

No ship’s docked

Yet, while me,

A girl, a rum girl,