Latest Poetry

Equinox at Frank Seago’s

Equinox at Frank Seago’s

Equinox at Frank Seago’s   Christmas Eve 2016 shivering in a freezing kitchen bobble hat to beat the cold surfing late-night radio stations, swerving drunkards singing carols  and jingles praising senna pods –   out of the blue I caught a snatch of Coltrane’s sublime Equinox.   my mind zipped back to ‘66, an Essex council-house front-room; cat-scratched armchairs, vinyl couches,  sundry drop-outs smoking ganja.   the rule? three quick drags - pass it left.  I inhaled ...
Cold Spell

Cold Spell

Winter is coming! My tiny feet are frozen The wind chill nips my nose I’ve chilblains on my fingers And frostbite in my toes The frigid winds of winter Come howling round my door To send their ankle-freezing draughts Across the bedroom floor. The days of wine and roses And sunbathing are past All that awaits are hours of gloom The tempest’s icy blast. The time of coughs and sneezes Is on us once again ...
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FRITUUR

FRITUUR

Chips are welcome wherever you are I escape the frozen street into, Het Tip Zak, greeted by the smell of frying lard and laughter wrapped in humid heat. I join the ragged queue surveying raw and processed meats displayed under spotless fridged glass. My turn is noted. Recognition-- a look over his glasses, unsmiling but not unfriendly. I ask, a kleintje en a saté. As he collects the skewered meat ready for the boiling fat, ...
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Fall (out of favour)

Fall (out of favour)

Who doesn't love a clerihew?  ...
THE DAY MEN WALKED UPON THE MOON

THE DAY MEN WALKED UPON THE MOON

  The day men walked upon the moon                                                   my father died,             attended kindly by an unloved wife             who, for charity in the face of death,                               briefly suspended                                          the bitterness brewed of life.             Dry-eyed we watched the television;             flickering pictures from outer space                                                             made history.           But behind my eyes on a white pillow            was only my ...
pilgrimage

pilgrimage
Picked

pilgrimage   in September as days shorten children hunt conkers unpicked fruit rots on the trees leaves turn brown   and me? I take my bike onto the Hull to Scarborough train   I get off at Flamborough pedal to the Head, pick fist-sized chalk stones at North Landing and pebbles right for skimming   then ride to an unmarked track, only hares might run - it leads to a path that leads to a ...
stick around

stick around
Picked

stick around   Sadie, in a lavender nightie, parked her bum on the arm of the sofa rolling a cig from ashtray butts to smoke while watching a Ground Control re-run on daytime telly   she had a crush on Monty Don - always watched when he was on Walter, her partner, lolled beside her   Sadie lit her rollie - smoke clouds wreathed the head of the ageing, fading one-time Tiller Girl   her countenance shone ...
Hunting for Crocodiles

Hunting for Crocodiles
Picked

intro updated at TheRecluse's suggestion to clarify the event in the poem ...
sleeping with penguins

sleeping with penguins

sleeping with penguins   a hypnotic track on Radio 3, music for a found harmonium fills the room... and birdsong   I stand at the door, gazing at Effie   a satin sheet half-covers her, our new-born snuffles against her breast drops of milk trickle his chin - both are sleeping   I climb beside them, and brush with my lips the babe-free breast   Effie does not stir   the pasture scent of baby's ...
Art Deco Child

Art Deco Child
Picked

Musing over re-incarnation ...
lost in a Durham landscape

lost in a Durham landscape

lost in a Durham landscape   I kicked my heels in her living room while Aoife mulled wine in the kitchen   above the mantelpiece, a painting (where a mirror ought to be) drew me in.   a watchman is walking through a gate pushing a rusted bike   behind him tumble-down allotments ahead a row of miners' cottages   the sky has darkled hazy moonlight drips across ice-moss grey-green slate roofs the village is ...
my Pimlico girl (a 1973 romance)

my Pimlico girl (a 1973 romance)

my Pimlico girl (a 1973 romance)   we met beside the Regent’s Canal, she was reading La Peste in the original French   I straightened a Gauloise - and in a cloud of smoke and rive-gauche insouciance risked a gambit, ‘j’adore Camus, ‘Sisyphe’ surtout’   she did not look up but asked, ‘would you imagine Sisyphus happy?’   wracking an impressive response, I stalled, she broke the tumbleweed silence, ‘smoke?’   I lit a cigarette, ...