Muted moan

Feeling unexceptional

Today, the dumb weight

Of myself heaves the

Time forward in uneven

Lumps. A half hour’s

Sweet distraction becomes

Bitter with vacant repetition.

The books, their wisdom

Sits and sits, going stale,

Like a bunch of flowers

Bought from a florist that

Closed many weeks ago.

Gratitude goes off like a

Smoke alarm, the same

Urgent sense of guilt

And shame at leaving

The toast unattended ..

The same rainbow’s end

People were walking down

The brick filled street of

Bricky maisonettes, walking

With the gait of woodland

Strolling, nowhere stepping

Just moving for the feeling

The view, and maybe a pub lunch.

Not today, some took a path

Straight down the tarmac, just

To add variety, for a different feel,

Like dried out lava, on island beaches.

Occassionally, they move aside,

To let a car or JustEat bike pass,

Calcuttans swerving for a holy cow.

Another, on my side of the pavement

He has two small kids in tow, so

I cross over, give up my sunnier

Track, they have the right of way.

Another now on the shady side,

Coast is clear, I move back to the

Sunny side after a brief going

Down the middle of the road, over

The white line, thinking how it looks

Like a food voucher – “Cut here along

The dotted line”.

Winds blow off the Wanstead Flats,

Three bald guys add a touch of frying

Fat to the gust. Their open barbeque is

Borderline criminal, but I smile across

From my side. The air is otherwise

Free, I spot a lone rainbow arching

Over the word “Hope” written

Carefully by a child.

Hope + Soap

It’s now that a household God

Or two comes in handy,

Preferably one for each room

Or corner of the home, to

Bless and cherish every blemish

In the paintwork, the little,

Hard to reach crevice behind

The fridge or sofa or Xbox.

Should some uninvited guest

Arrive, the god’s will welcome

With open love, provide it

Rest and warm and nourishing

Laughs, so much that it will

Forget the weapon in its hands.

Fine weather

The light becomes taunting

Sun after sun after sun

Is it warm out there? I’ll

Walk through the bright

Yellow grin of it all just

To get some . The people

Upstairs, thud thud thud

I must get away, get my

Sun touch for the the day.

Then wash my hands clean

The clapping

The sound of horses running

Up the street in thudding

Glory behind the sofa

People sitting on round

Stocks of teabags and chips.

The world is a war zone

Imagine everyone outside the

House can kill you with one

Breath, the neighbour Julie

Who brought you shortbread

Yesterday, the cash ‘n carry guy

Who sold you those cheaper-

Than-Tescos lemons, the little

Toddler running past you to

Her mother, smiling sweet

And young, they are the enemy

And you are their target.

My First Krispy Kreme 

It was better than

I thought. Much 

Better, so good I 

Think I’ll remember 

It forever. Soft brown

Silk cracking like warm

Ice as I sink  

Down, surrounded by

The softest sweetest cushion

What could be more comforting than

This? Another Krispy Kreme,


He has risen

The hawk flies higher 

And higher until the

Stars become neighbours,

He weaves around them

And leaves a trail for


From our cages on Earth

We look up and see

Him twinkling

The mouse

A little package of furry hunger

Scratching at the hidden

Corners of our lives, dashing

Between a fallen rice crispy 

Here, a popped pumpkin seed

There, a forgotten pod of arborio

Or basmati, no longer safe behind the stove.

The little patter of complacency,

A little token from the underworld,

The wide world outside, the

World of keen smells and  bendy

Eyes, scanning Nature for

Morsels of respite between the

Springs of my trap

Sorry little one, quick one

I am sorry and I hope 

You find another place

To call your own, you

Are not welcome here

Sink back into Nature’s

Raw Peace 

London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…

So many of us have

Noone but the people

We love. And everyone

Else, they, they are not

Loved. Loved ones are

Warm. Everyone Else is

Out there, there in the

Night, every day, night

In, night out, night

Owls without feathers

To flap over their empty

Guts as they spew spit

And cough phlegm into the 

Ruts on their palms

Long lines cutting round

Their thumbs, cut off 

Too soon, so the tealeaves

Would say, if they had

Tea, hot water and a cup and

 A spoon full of sugar to

Sweeten them into something

Warmer than blood