The Postcard Poet

I recently started a little side project using my travel and hiking photos. You can find them on Facebook and Twitter and occasionally here. Links below. Hope you like:


Twitter: @ThePostcardPoet



wild thing

I miss dragging on a cigarette
drinking until my head is wrecked

dancing until my legs are dead
not hearing what the hell you said

inside the music’s cranked up loud
our hearts are pumping to the sound

of disco, punk and reggae beats
the laser lights and strobes compete

with dodgy drugs and taking risks
swigging back cold cans of Schlitz

we’re just clowning not frowning
this morning’s young in a seaside town

now it’s 5 a.m. and we’re on the beach
the moon and stars are out of reach

our hearts and souls are on the wing
it’s time to leave my wild thing


Lorraine Motel

I stood outside
the Lorraine Motel
it was worth the drive
all that way downtown
through Memphis blues
and torrential hell
you see the roads
in South Louisiana
were mostly underwater
and the weight of traffic
was re-routing north
in endless convoys
of eighteen wheelers
queuing to be weighed
at each state border
but anyways
that’s kinda by the by
I’m glad I came here
on this rainy Tuesday
the museum was closed
no need to pay
just insignificant me
and a few curious others
wandering about outside for free
standing, looking
this landmark location
in a nation’s history
the murder scene
that’s little altered
since April 1968
when that fatal shot of hate
was fired
from a boarding house window
across the yard
a moment captured
for us future generations
in black and white
a testimony for the world to see
on that famous motel balcony
and right outside room 306
now hangs a wreath
a reminder of the weight
he likely carried
the knowledge that
his days were numbered
and I am truly humbled
not knowing what to think
or feel
but some kind of sadness
I turn to leave
maybe one more witness
to this black guy
a taxi driver
who offers to take my picture
under the motel sign
with a cheery smile
and have a nice day
I’m humbled
once again.


Written on 17th August 2016 after visiting the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King was assassinated 50 years ago today on 4th April 1968. It was one of the most moving experiences I had on my two month US road trip.  My poem was chosen by Write Out Loud as their Poem of the Week and here is a link to the interview I did with them:



Look! Look!
Can you see the image developing?
Move the paper back and forth in the tray

(torrential rain lashed blacked-out windows)

They just appeared out of nowhere running
But as quick as they came they were gone
Heads bent and leather clad arms flailing
Strange apparitions from some ancient dawn

always running, thorns scratching, taking cover
pursued, wet to shivering skin, ice cold to bone

Look! Look!
There, can you not see them?
Lean in closer to view the image more clearly

(loose glass rattled in wooden framed windows)

Perhaps they were fleeing to a safer morrow
Or moving from one dimension to the next
Stealthy warriors with quivers of arrows
More wraith-like ghosts than static objects

hurry now, more haste, the chase is quickening
the past is catching up with us, keep running

Look! Look!
Is the image now fading?
Peg up the photograph to hasten its drying

(the wind bickered outside of closed windows)

primitive to the eye, viewed through a lens
flesh gashed, captured in a blurred moment
persecuted ancestors branded as heathens
for crimes never committed, sadly lamented

quick, through here, a gap in the line of trees
a hole into the future, an escape route in time

Look! Look!
Have they all but disappeared?
The paper crumbles to dust on the floorboards

(thunderclaps rolled across rickety windows)

the past came to haunt us, the dead to remind
guilt for our misdeeds, taunts for our souls
those left in limbo spend their lives misaligned
swallowed by torment, down pitch-black holes

that was close, let’s rest here in this dark tunnel
but just for a moment, until we catch breath

January 31st (I Think!)

wouldn’t you think
in this day and age
with all our technology
knowledge and monery
that we could make
each and every month
the exact same length?

and don’t quote me that
days of the month hath
this and that whatnottery
it’s no use to a brain
that’s a veritable sieve
and can’t remember one day
from anothery



minute by minute

I paint brushstrokes on a grey sky
and sit and wait for a while
you never know what might fly by
minute by minute by avian mile

believe me, they do not deceive my eyes
these airborne birdies so versatile
in flight so gracious up on high
minute by minute my widening smile







for RSPB Big Garden Birdwatch 27th – 29th January 2018


all the while
back on Earth
people starve
poachers poach
the planet dies
and all for what?
to send Trump’s goons
to the moon?
or on to Mars?
we neglect our home
seek solutions out in space
but the grass will not be greener
in another
more remoter
otherworldly place